Sunday, July 15, 2018

THIS Good Deed Did Not Go Unpunished

With Farmer H away for four days, I volunteered to feed his animals. Yes. They're HIS. I think they would benefit from being given to people who are inclined to spend more time with them. But Farmer H likes his critters. In fact, he took in the goat as a favor, after I (and Mother Nature) [and perhaps a well-intentioned not-angel of not-life] succeeded in getting rid of the other 11 of them at various intervals in various manners.

Anyhoo...we normally have HOS (Farmer H's Oldest Son) feed the animals when we're gone. Since it was only those two critters, and they wouldn't require me to carry buckets of water as in the past, I volunteered. Farmer H has a big water tub for them now, and keeps a hose down in it, hooked up to the outside water spigot. All I had to do was turn it on as I walked past, and off when I went back to the Mansion. The dogs' food and water are on the back porch, right outside the laundry room door, so they were easy enough. And the cats' pan is by the garage door. It was really not a problem to dump two scoops of sweet feed for a goat and mini-pony once a day.

Or so you would think.


He's a cutie, that mini-pony.

I would show you a picture of the goat, but he's not as cute. He's bigger than the mini-pony. And I couldn't get a shot of his rectangular pupils for blog buddy Sioux. I know how she enjoys her goats. However...I WILL show you a picture of their food container.


Yes. That's a metal garbage can. It keeps the food dry and pest-free. However, Farmer H had to attach a bungee cord to each handle, to keep the food squirrel-free. They're scheming wizards, those squirrels, and can get the lid off. They used to do so regularly to the chicken feed can, so Farmer H kept a heavy metal auto tire rim on top of it. Uh huh. He's a scheming wizard at re-purposing items that other people might consider trash.

Anyhoo...on Wednesday, as I bent down to reach the dregs of the sweet feed with the scoop...I felt a twinge in my butt-back. The part of my back above the right butt cheek, but not quite over to my spine. YOWSA! That little twinge progressed throughout the day, turning into a sharp, shooting stab of agony.

I guess that part of my body is involved in just about every move I make. It hurts to breathe deeply. It hurts to cough and sneeze. It hurts to walk up steps. It especially hurts when sitting down and sliding behind T-Hoe's steering wheel. It hurts to get on and off the toilet. It hurts to sit in my OPC (Old People Chair), and arise from same, even though it has that remote lifty thing to tilt me up partway. Oh, and it hurts to lie on my left side to sleep, and to lie on my back to sleep, and to get into and out of the bed. The pain is not lessened in the least by aspirin, acetaminophen, or ibuprofen.

I told Farmer H about my debilitating injury on the phone while he was in Iowa, and he brushed me off with, "Eh. It'll be better in a couple of days." So sayeth the man who drove himself to the emergency room with a sore throat, and again with an earache.

No, I don't have any intention of going to the ER, or a doctor nurse practitioner. I'll wait it out. But that butt-back pain sure does smart. If I try to massage it, I hit a spot that sends an electric shock through my body. I guess I've irritated a nerve.

Welcome to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's Unofficial Club of Irritated Entities, nerve.

Saturday, July 14, 2018

Sold Rage!

Yes, Mrs. HM is complaining again. Today you get two for the price of one. Even though the price is always FREE.

Yesterday, I was on my way to mail the weekly letters for Genius and The Pony. I was planning to stop by two places to get scratchers for Genius's letter. I send him two tickets a week, you know. Just because I can. The Pony gets cash, because he's in the middle of Oklahoma, unable to cash in winners if he got one.

Anyhoo...the first stop was Casey's. I bought four tickets, and selected one to put in Genius's envelope. Off to my second stop, Waterside Mart. Or not. Because once I turned onto the side street and parking lot, I saw that an entire little league team was standing out front in their uniforms, around a table that's usually not there.

No, thank you.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom will not be coerced nor shamed into donating. Especially not to a sports team. Pay your own way, boys! It's a privilege, not a right. I'm pretty sure you can come up with a couple hundred bucks for your special top-of-the-line baseball glove. And brand-name shoes. And stylish socks, and t-shirts that wick away moisture. So I'm pretty sure you can afford to stay four-to-a-room at the playoffs, if it's even more than a comfortable driving distance away.

I went on through the parking lot, and out the other side. Too bad for Genius. He was getting both tickets from the same store today.

After more errands, I stopped by the Original Waterside Mart for scratchers. Those winners were burning a hole in my purse! Once parked, I saw more players from that team staking out this store as well! Let me give you some advice, boys. Even though I had no intention of giving you anything...it would behoove you to at least speak up and ask for spare change. Because from what I saw, you were wasting your day standing in the heat, holding the door open for old ladies like me, not even requesting a donation for your trouble.

But that's not my main complaint!

I stood in line while other players bought themselves treats. Then I handed over my scratchers, telling the clerk I was trading them in for more tickets. There was a man behind me who stepped to the next open register. No big deal. I gave my clerk the numbers of the tickets I wanted. He was kneeling behind the counter, tearing them off, when the clerk waiting on that formerly behind-me man walked over. "I need a number 11."

MY CLERK HANDED HIM THE #11 HE HAD ALREADY TORN OFF!

Yeah. The ticket meant for ME! Already in hand, with a #10, waiting on #12 and #13. How is that even permitted? It was clearly MY ticket! I asked for it first. My clerk had it in hand, already torn off. But no. He gave it to that fomerly behind-me man!

You know what happened, right? The #11 ticket that I got was a LOSER! I'm going to be really, really mad if I read about that kind of ticket from that store winning a big jackpot.

Friday, July 13, 2018

The Saddest Sack Who Ever Sacked

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has been bumbling around for two days, deep in a biorhythm valley. You know about biorhythms, don't you? Some days, you're firing on all cylinders, at the summit of all three (physical, emotional, intellectual) cycles. Then you enter a slow decline, where they're not aligned, until eventually, you're in the trough of all three. I'm pretty sure if I was reading my current biorhythm, I would find that it had dropped off the bottom of the page. Not a trough, but an abyss. If that's possible.

With Farmer H gone, I've been on my own. I thought I'd make a salad for myself, even though I was out of mushrooms. And the little grape tomatoes were getting wrinkly. But still, I had romaine, and cheese, and sunflower seeds, and boiled eggs. Except when I cracked the first boiled egg, it was pretty apparent that I wasn't going to be using eggs in my salad.

I stopped to get the mail before heading into town, but somebody not the Speedy McSpeedster lawyer's wife pulled up behind me, flapping her arms and no doubt cursing me. Even though I had T-Hoe parked with his right flank up against the leafy tree limbs, far enough back from the county road, and turned off. Any other fool would have been able to tell that I was PARKED, and not just sitting there before pulling out. There was at least a car length and a half in front of me. I guess it's too much trouble to pull around a parked car these days. So I started up, signaled, and went to town against my will, the mail waiting for me to return.

I picked up some fried chicken at The Devil's Playground, just because it was easier getting it there, rather than waiting for it to be boxed up and juggled with my 44 oz Diet Coke at the Gas Station Chicken Store. Sadly, when I sat down to eat it, I discovered that I had mistakenly picked up a container of SPICY HOT chicken.

I cashed in the $40 scratcher winner, and have not won a single thing in three days. The new clerk at the Gas Station Chicken Store, rather than giving me back four $5 scratchers and a twenty, counted out $18.31, because she did not take my proffered exact change of $1.69 for my magical elixir.

On the second night of eating my SPICY HOT chicken, I forgot my ear of corn in the microwave, all wrapped up in cling wrap, ready for nuking. It wasn't worth climbing 13 steps on my creaky old knees, so I went cornless.

At 1:20 a.m., I exited my lair to watch the DVR of Wednesday night's Big Brother episode. I was recording two other shows at the time. I turned on both TV and DISH, clicked on my recordings, selected Big Brother, pressed START, and turned to set down the remote as a commercial was playing. THE SCREEN WENT BLACK! I hadn't even tried to zap those commercials yet! It was 1:20 a.m., and I had a blank TV screen. I worked 45 minutes trying to revive my RCA. But no. None of my life support measures worked! I pressed a plethora of buttons, but nothing would come up on that TV. Not even with the TV remote, going through the set-up stuff. It just kept telling me NO SIGNAL, then going black. Even though I was on the correct HDMI 1 thingy.

After 2:00 a.m., those shows should have stopped recording, but the red lights were still on, indicating that was not so. I was at wit's end. I got my mini flashlight to search behind the table the TV sits on, amongst the web of wires and dust bunnies, until I found the power supply cord for the DISH receiver. I unplugged it for one minute, then plugged it back in. A message came up on the TV that DISH was loading its information to restart. Within 5 minutes, I had TV again!!! Yay, me!

Thursday morning, I turned on my Shiba, and got the white screen of death. It's different from the black screen of death. And not just the color. It looked like I was opening a window, but it never loaded. It said it was loaded, down at the bottom, but all I had was a white screen with the task bar up top. On every page I tried to load. Heady with my success from the night before, and ignoring the little voice in my head nagging about the box on the screen that keeps nagging me every time I turn it on, that Windows Vista is no longer supported...I did a restart. YAY ME! That made it work.

The ice in FRIG II's freezer was only one layer of cubes thick in the ice collector. Only days ago, I had a plethora of ice, almost piled over the top. Yet now, FRIG II had gone on an ice strike.

When I ran water in my yellow bubba cup in the NASCAR bathroom, a spray from the spout went up and over the hand-painted countertop, due to lime buildup around the spigot.

Oh, yeah. And when I fed the goat and mini-pony for the second day, I hurt my back putting the lid back on the feed can.

Maybe my malaise is just because Farmer H is away, and I'm pining for him...

NAH! That's definitely not it!

Thursday, July 12, 2018

The Old Goat Is Missing

No, I'm not talking about the disappearance of Farmer H. I know where he is. At least I know his whereabouts, give or take 500 miles. He's visiting a friend in Iowa.

Farmer H always gets the wanderlust in July. Specifically, the first two weeks of July. That's because during his work career (as opposed to his laying around at home career), that's when he got vacation. He actually had to work during one of those weeks, depending on when the rest of the management personnel were in the office. He got other vacation time, which he liked to take around Thanksgiving, and Christmas.

While the rat's away Farmer H is traveling, I take on the chore of feeding the animals. We don't have many left these days. No herd of 11 goats, 36 chickens, three guineas, and a turkey. Nope. They've all gone to live on the big farm that is NOT-HERE. What we have left are a goat and a mini-pony, who are frenemies trapped within the same pasture.

I've fed them before. The goat, Billy (Farmer H's creative naming), has always been very forward. He'll stand up with his hooves on the top of the fence, looking you in the eye with his rectangular pupils, butting his head at your arm while you pour the scoop of sweet feed into his trough. Barry the mini-pony (already named when we got him), is more well-mannered, acting all aloof, but not afraid to kick up his heels if Billy invades his corner of the feeding area. Of course Barry has his own little trough, wired to the fence.

Farmer H usually feeds them in the morning, but they were lucky to eat at 11:40 on Wednesday, before I got ready to leave for town. No one was in sight when I stepped up to the pen, having survived Jack torpedoing my upper thigh as I walked across the yard. I hollered, "Doesn't anybody want to eat?" And Barry trotted up from the shady area behind the shed they have for shelter.

Barry made little horsie noises while I scooped his feed. That's because he's a little horse. I didn't see Billy, so I banged on the lid of the feed can with the scoop. No sign of him. He could have been anywhere in that pen. It goes way over behind the BARn, and partway down to the creek. It's not like you can see all corners of the pen, because over half of it is woods. I banged on the lid of the feed can again with the scoop. No sign of Billy.

I called Farmer H, who said to bang on the lid of the feed can with the scoop. "I did that. I'll try again. But what if he doesn't show up? If I leave his feed in his trough, won't Barry eat it? I don't want him to founder." That's what happens to horses if they eat too much all at once. Their hooves grow out like elf-shoe-feet, and they can hardly walk. I'm pretty sure other bad things happen to them, too, but I've only seen one foundered horse, and it's his feet I remember.

I wasn't so much worried about Barry eating Billy's scoop of food...as I was about Billy being not-there. I didn't want to think that he had died of old age on my watch. And I most certainly wasn't going to dig him a grave, or build a funeral pyre. I didn't say as much to Farmer H, who couldn't be of any help, all the way across the state.

"He'll turn up. Barry probably won't bother Billy's trough. They fight over them, that's why I've got Barry's around the corner from Billy's. Put the food in there. It'll be okay."

So I banged on the lid of the food can with the scoop, and here came Billy barreling across the dusty dirt from the wooded area behind the BARn. I sent Farmer H a text so he wouldn't worry, and dumped Billy's scoop of food in his trough.

Crisis narrowly avoided.

Wednesday, July 11, 2018

Slicey And Dicey

No, I haven't severed any digits in a kitchen chopping frenzy. I'm referring to my trip to town yesterday, which was both slicey and dicey.

After my weekly Devil's Playground adventure, I cruised over to Waterside Mart for some scratchers. Glad I did, because I discovered later that I had a $40 winner on a $5 ticket! However...I was nearly maimed for life on the way out of the store.

Of course I kept to the right side of the double glass doors. I pushed it open, ignoring the sign taped on the glass. Nobody reads those, do they? The homemade signs, sometimes on bright pink paper like this one. I guess it might have been advertising the daily special in their deli. Anyhoo...I pushed open the door, stepped through, and

THAT PAPER FLAPPED UP IN THE WIND AND NEARLY SLICED MY RIGHT CORNEA!

I know they can do cornea transplants now. But I don't want a cadaver's cornea! Nor do I want to wait for somebody to die, just to harvest their cornea. I prefer to leave my cornea intact, and not sliced by a paper cut from a sign taped to a convenience store door by the top two corners.

Seriously! OSHA needs to have some kind of regulation for door signs!

Whew! Having narrowly avoided having my cornea sliced, either by my ninja-like blinking reflex, or Even Steven controlling the wind gust or my stride to keep me a fraction away from disaster...I hopped in T-Hoe, adrenaline pumping, and headed back towards the Mansion.

As I rounded the curve by where the old Casey's sits, across from my mom's former bank...I saw an orange diamond-shaped road sign. The canvas fold-up kind. It said UTILITY WORK AHEAD. Let the record show that this sign was just past the police station, before the old Casey's, kind of across from the quick oil change place.

I did NOT want to run into any delays. Since that warning was put there to clearly warn people there might be delays, due to UTILITY WORK...I got in the left turn lane to take the old road that runs past the lake. I was not going to continue on past the Devil's Playground and through the lights. There's all kinds of utilities that might be worked on up that way.

About a half mile up the lake road, over a little hill and around a curve, I saw TWO ELECTRIC TRUCKS parked halfway on the road. Dang it!

That's dicey, my friends! Dirty pool. Pulling the wool over drivers' eyes. Bait and switch. Putting a sign out on the main road, with nothing at all indicating that the work was occurring on a side road. I call shenanigans!

Lucky for me, the big truck headed for the quarry, and another car in front of me, swung over the center line to go around, so I followed along behind them. The line of cars waiting while we used their partial lane was about 5 deep.

At least I had full vision in my eye, what with my cornea intact.

Tuesday, July 10, 2018

You're Not Scammin' ME, Baby!

Monday morning, right after logging onto Shiba, I got a text from an unknown number. It said someone with a name I didn't recognize had shared an album with me, and gave a link for a Google app.

Well. NOBODY is going to trick Mrs. Hillbilly Mom into clicking on an unknown link, by cracky! Sometimes I get those weird texts or calls right after logging onto Shiba. I guess the scammer network knows I'm up, and ready for scamming. That's even when the house phone starts ringing with unknown numbers made to look like local calls.

I did a search on that unknown guy's name, and it didn't give me scammer/spammer results. I typed that long chain of letters and numbers into Shiba's search bar. Better to infect 10-year-old Shiba with a fatal virus than my five-year-old Nexus hand-me-down from Genius.

Once I got into that app, I saw two pictures. I must admit that I was very apprehensive, having no idea what might be on there. What if it was a link to PR0N? And when I become famous (hopefully for GOOD, not for BAD) somebody digs around and sees it and says I'm a skeevy perv? Which could happen, people, because those two pictures were of a newborn baby boy, getting his footprints inked, naked as the day he was born, because it WAS the day he was born! Oh, and the pictures were from the neck down.

I did what any skeevy perv not-wanna-be would do, and fired off a text to Farmer H.

"Did HOS send me pictures of his new baby?"

Because, you see, HOS's wife checked into the hospital Sunday night to have her labor induced.

Farmer H said he would check on it, and shortly texted back that it was indeed HOS's new baby. Farmer H was at an eye appointment, and said he was running over to the hospital afterward to see the baby. He took a much better picture, of that sweet baby wrapped in a blanket, wearing his newborn sock cap. Let me tell you, I'm not much of a baby person, but

THAT BOY WAS BEAUTIFUL!

I won't share the picture, because even though Farmer H said he sent it to me, it never came through. And I wouldn't show it anyway, because I don't put recognizable pictures of my family on the innernets.

You'd think, though, that HOS could have included the baby's face in his picture. And put a message that it was his baby. Or at least sent it from his own phone. That's number four for HOS. Two girls of high school age, and two boys.

Welcome, Baby HOS.

Monday, July 9, 2018

The Bizarro Hillmomba

I never thought it would happen. Or at least I never thought I would admit it.

I am growing jealous of Farmer H!

Farmer H might become a Future Junkyillionaire before I can even dream of becoming a Future Pennyillionaire! It's like we're living in the Bizarro Hillmomba. Now HE is a money magnet, and all I can attract is weirdos.

Sunday afternoon, Farmer H revealed that he'd taken in $348 at his Storage Unit Store over Friday/Saturday/Sunday. Sure, he had some money invested in his inventory, since he bought some of it at auctions. And sure, it was the first real weekend of the month, so people had money in their pockets.

"Wow. If you made that EVERY weekend, you could almost pay for one month of our health insurance premiums."

Not that I wanted to rain on his income parade. Just point out the outrageous money we are spending on health insurance for him, me, and The Pony. I would never expect Farmer H to use HIS money to pay for any necessities for US. Because HIS money is for him. And OUR money is for things like building him a junk-holding Freight Container Garage, complete with car lift thingy.

Anyhoo...Farmer H also saved us over a $1000 this week. No, it's not from NOT-BUYING shoe inserts from The Good Feet Store. Though technically, he did that as well. But I'm not ready to say he saved us $2000 this week.

The savings came in the form of auto insurance premiums. We have quite a few cars, you know. And two 4-wheelers, and two Gators. Insurance for them, and T-Hoe/A-Cad/ Trailblazer/Toronado/Ford F250/Rogue doesn't come cheap. Especially the 2013 Rogue, driven by The 1998 Pony. We were supposedly getting the multi-car discount, along with another for having our homeowner's insurance with the same company.

Funny how having all the bills come due on the same date can save you $1000 over a 6-month period. And I don't mean funny ha-ha.

Yes, since the beginning, we've paid our auto insurance every six months. As we started to amass more and more vehicles, I told Farmer H that I was tired of getting bills for them almost every month, which defeated the purpose of knowing when one was due, and how much to put aside. So, supposedly, he got them all to come at the same time. Almost.

But THEN he went in to pay in person for the 4-wheelers, since he had the coverage lessened, now that they're older, and if they get stolen, too bad so sad. The office gal told Farmer H that he could save almost a $1000 by getting all the cars due at the same date. Which we thought we had.

Anyhoo...this might be some new policy, and they weren't really holding out on us like my suspicious mind suspects...because the office gal told Farmer H that she'd just done that with her OWN insurance a couple months ago. True. She didn't have to point that out to him at all. But now we're getting a savings of about $2000 a year on auto insurance.

Which would pay slightly over the cost of one month's health insurance premium.

Sunday, July 8, 2018

Oops! He Did It Again

But I'm sure you already knew that.

I have droned on in great detail spoken in writing of how Farmer H always intrudes into my 2-hour window of time that I like to keep for myself. And how I explained to him that I'd prefer to have just those two measly hours a day without interruption. I might as well have explained to our old dog Grizzly how to fly a 747. And he's been dead for years.

There was even advance warning to our oblivious Farmer H. When I passed his Storage Unit Store on the way home with my precious elixir and just-as-precious scratchers...I saw that the parking lot of the flea market was plumb full of cars of customers. Once at home in the garage around 1:15, I sent him a text:

"Wow. You have a crowd."

"I done ok"

"Does that mean you've closed up already?"

"No. I'm staying until 2:00."

Well. By the time I gave the dogs a delicious treat of pork-steak bones, and bread swiped through the grease in the container that held the potatoes and carrots cooked with bacon, and changed clothes, and got my lunch ready, and got settled in my dark basement lair...I'd have about 10 minutes before Farmer H showed up. Right in the middle of prime music-listening and scratcher-scratching time.

It's not that I'm doing anything secretive down there. Not like I'm trying to take over the world. Or plotting to overthrow Farmer H. I just have my routine. From filling up my yellow bubba cup with water, to putting part of my lunch in the mini fridge until I'm ready for it, to setting up my song list, to arranging my scratchers in the order I wish to scratch them. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a creature of habit, and she does not appreciate the intrusion of other creatures during her routine.

By the time I had everything ready, it was 1:45. So I called Farmer H. To see what he wanted for supper (only got two choices!) and whether he was going to the auction. Also, to let him know that I'd gotten a text from The Pony. Just general stuff. The purpose being, you see, to give him no reason that he would need to contact me during the two golden hours.

"So you're leaving at 2:00? Because if you're planning to chat, I'll just sit here and watch some of this ER marathon until you get home, and take my lunch down afterwards."

"Well, I'm closing at 2:00, but I might hang around. So I can't really say how long it's going to be before I'm home."

"That's okay. I don't really have anything to say. We can talk when I come up to make your supper at 5:00."

"Yeah. That's fine."

You see what I did there, right? I let Farmer H know that if he was planning to talk about his day, I'd be waiting right there in front of the TV until he got home. No need to interrupt my special ME-TIME. And then I let him know that IF he had something to tell me later, that he hadn't thought of on the phone just then...that we could chat before he left for the auction. And he seemed to be pickin' up what I was layin' down.

So deceptive, that Farmer H. I went about my business. Had my water and 44 oz Diet Coke at the ready, had listened to my music and scratched my tickets. It was a little after 3:00, and I was on my 3rd of 4 Chicken Bacon Ranch Pinwheels, watching a YouTube video about Trump allegedly being a conspiracy theorist, when I heard Farmer H's tread on the stairs. Crap! What did HE want?

Wait a minute! Maybe I'd be spared in my lair. I heard the door to Farmer H's workshop open. I knew he was going to the safe to stash his take. Or part of it, because he'd obviously need to make change for his customers the next day. So I exhaled, and picked up the last of my pinwheels, and had just taken a bite...

"I don't know how them people can say they don't make money up there! I've made $268 in two days."

Uh huh. So we had to talk about it RIGHT THEN.

I swear, Farmer H couldn't take a hint if he really wanted to buy one, and I gave him a bargain price at the auction.

Saturday, July 7, 2018

Farmer H Is Going Squirrelly

Farmer H has a problem. I'm pretty sure I mentioned that one day he flung open the kitchen door to bark at a squirrel. He's curtailed his barking, but those squirrels are still getting his goat. He's worried that they're going to get into the attic. I don't know why. They'd be stupid, since their buffet of dog and cat food is on the porch. Not in the attic.

The squirrels used to hang out over by the chicken pen. Not because they liked the chickens, but because they liked the corn mix that Farmer H threw out for the chickens. Now that we don't have any chickens, I'm not sure he even throws it out.

The dogs are always tearing around the porch, or jumping off the back of the concrete carport to chase the squirrels. Who kind of taunt them, I guess, because...well...they're SQUIRRELS! No dog is going to catch one as long as there's a porch rail or tree nearby.

Farmer H was debating on what to do about the squirrels, and I had to point this out to him. "Them dogs don't never catch the squirrels. They get the rabbits, but not the squirrels." Uh huh. Rabbits can't climb.

"I guess I could set some traps, but more squirrels would just take their place."

"You could sit on the porch and shoot them, I guess."

Let the record show that the last thing I want is an armed Farmer H on my porch. But I figured that coming from me, such a suggestion would be automatically rejected.

I don't think Farmer H has come up with a solution yet. What's he going to do, trap them and let them go? They'll come right back. I don't know what would work, other than not having the pet food out so the animals can eat when they want. Feeding the dogs in the morning and evening, then removing the food, would work. They'd learn to eat up, or go hungry for the next 12 hours. The cats don't exactly come when they hear the food pour into the pan.

Right now, I just consider it a victory that Farmer H has stopped barking.

Friday, July 6, 2018

(the possibility of) Love Hurts

Perhaps I have mentioned that The Pony is not the most conscientious of housekeepers. So you can imagine my surprise when I got a text from him that said,

"You'll be sad to know I hurt myself while cleaning today! I was on the ground sorting my laundry when I bashed my hip on the bed frame corner. Sending two pictures. The injury, and the perpetrator. It was bleeding in three distinct spots earlier, but not much. It's my belly flab, right above the hip."

"NOO O O! I don't have the pictures yet, but I'm sorry you were injured. Hard to believe you were cleaning, though. Be careful, you don't have the new insurance card yet."


"YOW! That's a maiming contraption! The only thing worse would be if it was out in the sun, and seared a brand on you as well. Was this your Once-a-Two-Year Cleaning, Whether My Apartment Needs it Or Not."

"It was "I might have a date coming up next week" cleaning, but you shan't get any more details."

"Well, it seems a bit PRESUMPTUOUS to be cleaning the BEDROOM..."

"It's better than cleaning my CAR, which you once implied."

"Mayhap it is, mayhap it ain't..."

Let the record show that I am not trying to embarrass The Pony. He DID say he was folding laundry when the injury happened. And I did not show you the picture of his soft underbelly with three puncture wounds. He emphasized that he has no formal plans, just a possibility of a get-together.

What's going to become of our little Pony, in a world so fraught with danger?

Thursday, July 5, 2018

I Hear That Train A-Comin'

Poor ol' Farmer H can't get off the bashin' train.

Yesterday, he grilled pork steaks and sausages for the two of us, as he had planned. He made enough to last us 3 or 4 days. For my part, I got some potato salad and SLAW from The Devil's Playground. Not gonna lie...I wasn't going all out for this one.

I told Farmer H to go ahead and fill his plate, while I went to the bathroom. He was planning to leave to see some fireworks, and I knew I wanted to put up the leftovers before getting my own plate ready. Imagine my surprise when I walked back through the living room, and Farmer H was missing from the La-Z-Boy. There he was, sitting at the kitchen table! It's not like he'd cleared it off for me to join him. He'd just shoved the soda and bottled water over to my side, to make room for himself. No big deal. I wasn't planning a formal meal.

Even though Farmer H does not put away leftovers when I cook, I do take care of the extra food when HE cooks. As I got out the old-style Tupperware rectangular container with the blue lid, Farmer H spoke up to mark his territory.

"I'll probably have another sausage."

"Okay. I'll leave one out. Which kind do you like, the regular, or the charred ones?" I was pretty sure not the charred ones, because those are my preference, and he usually makes a couple of them just for me.

"Medium."

I left one sausage on the foil-covered pizza pan he'd used as a tray to bring in the meat, and put the rest in beside the two leftover pork steaks in the Tupperware. I let that container sit, without the lid, right next to the tray, until I filled my plate. Just so the meat could cool down a bit before I stashed it in FRIG II.

While I was still getting my slaw, here came Farmer H to the counter. He grabbed his bun and sausage (heh, heh) and went back to the table. I turned to get some potato salad.

"Those big containers of slaw expired on July 5th! So I got two of the small ones. They're good until July 25th. I can't believe you're not having slaw! But it looks like I should have gotten two of the potato salads!"

"That's okay. I got all I wanted."

Indeed he did! That potato salad container was half empty! So much for having a few more meals from this bounty.

I turned to put the lid on the Tupperware leftovers, and saw a single sausage laying on the foiled tray.

"I thought you were getting another sausage."

"I did."

"From where?"

"From the container."

"Oh. That explains why the one I left out for you is still laying there."

"It doesn't matter."

"No. But that's why I asked which one you liked. Because I was setting it aside, and not putting it away. Looks like you took the charred one."

"Here. I didn't eat it yet. I'll put it back." ["Thanks Mr. Grant," says Veal Prince Orloff at Mary Richards' dinner party.] He put that sausage back in the container, and took the one I left out. "They look about the same to me."

"Except now you have all the sauce from this one on your bun."

Yeah, I think Farmer H has a long distance ticket on that bashin' train. One way.

Wednesday, July 4, 2018

Fireworks Came To The Mansion One Day Early

Leave it to Farmer H to set off fireworks one day early. I'm not talking about actual fireworks. He's had his era of setting the neighbor's field on fire, and a narrow miss at blowing up my mom's car from a tipped-over roman candle lighting the grass. That's back when the boys were both still at home, and we made a big deal of picking out fireworks, and inviting the grandmas to come watch.

No, this time, I'm talking about TEMPER TANTRUM fireworks. I'm sure you're feigning surprise.

It all started with my trip to The Devil's Playground. Farmer H has a way of disappearing on shopping days, and turning up just after I've carried everything in and put it away. I've broached the subject with him and he has various excuses. Either he's over at his Freight Container Garage, and doesn't know I'm home, but just happens to drive over when it's all done. OR he was asleep in the La-Z-Boy, and didn't see me come up the driveway. OR he saw me come back, but didn't know I needed help because by the time I said anything, it was all carried in.

Yeah. Right.

Tuesday, as T-Hoe turned into the driveway, I saw all three dogs come running across Shackytown Boulevard. The Trailblazer was under the carport, but the Gator was not. As I got closer to the garage, I paused to fold in the side mirrors, and jab the garage door opener several times. Mine never seems to work right.

While paused there in the driveway, just before the concrete, I looked to the right, and saw the John Deere green tractor at the beginning of Shackytown Boulevard, with the Gator parked behind it, and FARMER H squatting in front of one of the themed sheds. I could not tell if it was The Pony's Sword Shack, or The Fishing Lair. I knew it wasn't the Little Barbershop of Horrors, because that one is on the end.

Anyhoo, I could see Farmer H squatting there, plain as day, his face fully turned toward the driveway and T-Hoe. "Oh," I thought to myself, "he'll be over here on the Gator, and help me." There's no way he didn't see me.

It was SO HOT! My face was the color of a tomato, and my hair stood up like a troll doll. That was from the sweat, and the hot air from T-Hoe's not-quite-working air conditioner blowing at full blast. I really have a problem with the heat. I only have a scrap of my thyroid left, you know. And the thyroid helps you regulate body temperature. Besides, I've been telling Farmer H since May that T-Hoe's air conditioner must need more of that Freon kind of fluid they use now. With no action on his part.

Anyhoo...I parked in the garage, and listened. I could hear big ol' hot Copper Jack panting behind T-Hoe, just outside the garage. But no Gator. I got out and opened the back hatch, and carried the first batch of bags to the side porch. This was BULLARKY! That's BULLcrap and malARKY! Where was Farmer H?

I went down the brick sidewalk and looked over at Shackytown Boulevard. There went Farmer H, a railroad tie on his shoulder, walking to the far end of the gravel boulevard. As he turned to come back after dropping that tie, he looked right at me. "WHAT?" he hollered.

Let the record show that I made no movement. I was just standing still, looking through the columns of the front porch, past the steps, past the tractor and Gator, my lower half blocked from his view by the porch itself, and the almost-white picket fence. Funny how Farmer H noticed half of me standing silently, and didn't notice great big T-Hoe with his engine running in the driveway a few minutes earlier, and the pack of dogs rushing over, barking their fool heads off.

"Wondering why you're not coming to help."

I went back for the rest of the bags. I'd left the two 4-packs of Strawberry Water, the 6-pack of Diet Mountain Dew, and the 6-pack of Diet Coke sitting it T-Hoe, along with the 12-roll pack of Charmin (they were out of the 6- and 9-packs), and the box of trash bags. They were the heavier and more awkward items that I was hoping Farmer H would arrive to carry. As I stepped out of the garage people-door with my bags, there was Farmer H, starting to pick up the lighter bags that I'd already put down.

"The heavy stuff is in the car."

Of course he huffed and had a fit. I got the toilet paper and trash bags and my purse and 44 oz Diet Coke, as he was storming into the garage. I unlocked the kitchen door. Then here came Farmer H, bellowing, with the beverages. I went back for more bags from the porch, and Farmer H stormed past me to grab a bunch of them, which he took to the cutting block and plopped down, making a bag of pork steaks and another bag of my precious Chicken Bacon Ranch Pinwheels slam to the floor.

"You didn't even shut the back of T-Hoe after the soda. Or close either of the garage doors! I guess I need to go back down the steps to do that, too? I can't believe you watched me come up the driveway, and weren't going to help."

Farmer H exploded like a truckload of Park Department fireworks after an errant spark. "I DIDN'T KNOW YOU WERE HOME!" I'm surprised the windows didn't pop out from the reverberations of the slamming door.

Happy 3rd of July.
__________________________________________________________________

You know it's not the act of helping that set him off, right? It was being caught in the act of PRETENDING he didn't know I was home.

Tuesday, July 3, 2018

In A Mood

Let the record show that Mrs. HM is in a mood today. Not to be confused with In THE Mood, the classic Glenn Miller tune. Nope. Much less pleasant. Not pleasant at all. In fact, I used to warn the boys when they were young 'uns. "Don't even think about it right now. I am IN A MOOD! Just leave me alone." And when they were smart, they did. Which helped that mood to pass.

Here's the deal. On July 1st, our insurance coverage changed, because Newmentia, where I pay for my health insurance now, switched providers. For the first time in forever, I actually had the new insurance cards a week before coverage changed. I made sure to send one to The Pony, so he would have it in time. Or so I thought.

I mailed that card at the main post office, on Monday, June 25th, before the mail went out. I had mailed The Pony's regular letter on Friday, June 22nd, as usual, since I didn't get those insurance cards until Saturday. Normally, The Pony gets his letter by Thursday, sometimes Wednesday. So I was hoping he'd have the new insurance card by at least Saturday, June 30th. (There. Are you confused yet? If not, I'm not doing my unpaid job.)

Nope. He still doesn't have it. Nor does he have the letter preceding it. So that's 11 days, and his mail hasn't arrived. Seven business days. I could have chopped down a tree, wood-burned that letter onto a rough-hewn plank, and hand-delivered it, riding to Oklahoma on a stubborn mule, in that time. How hard is it to toss a bag of mail on a truck, and drive across the very flat state of Oklahoma on a turnpike?

AND ANOTHER THING, as long as I'm IN A MOOD...

Don't invite yourself to a barbecue. It's not polite. It's especially wrong if you invite yourself to my Mansion for the 4th of July, and I'm IN A MOOD.

You see, an invitation is something other people extend to YOU. Not that you suggest to THEM. So even if you think you're doing me a favor by offering to come out and barbecue and swim in Poolio...there's really not that much in it for me. Even assuming that you buy the meat you intend to barbecue. Because there are still side dishes to be made or shopped-for, and plates and plasticware (don't even get me started on my special fork!) to be obtained, and surely a dessert is expected.

Then there's the business of Poolio, who is not in tip-top shape, due to Farmer H neglecting him, and mossy spots on his bottom. Besides, I don't swim in Poolio, nor wear shorts, and the temperature has been in the mid-90s, with the heat index around 107. So why would I want to sit outside in pants, sweating, watching other people swim, just to be sociable? Oh, yeah. Because if I don't, I'll be considered UNsociable.

Of course you'd be joining me inside the Mansion to eat the food you barbecued. Because we don't have a picnic table any more, our cute little hexagonal one loaned out and carried dangling from a tractor boom pole to its destination and back. Then rotted, due to neglect over in the pre-goat-pen area. And nobody wants to sit in a lawn chair and balance beverages and plates while trying to eat.

So the thing is...if you invite yourself, and your four and sometimes five family members, and most likely a couple of teenage friends as well...I'm only one person, who will have to check all the boxes that you have not, for what makes a good 4th of July barbecue. Which I'm sure would also include an expected fireworks show after 9:00 p.m. when it's dark. On my dollar.

Yeah, I'm definitely IN A MOOD. If I was a convenience store clerk, I would be referred to as That Hateful Old Lady Clerk. But at least I'd be clerking, and not making myself miserable hosting an unplanned barbecue, or declining your own invitation to one at my Mansion, making me just a Hateful Old Lady.

There. I'm feeling better already. That mood is lifting. The Pony can print out a temporary copy of the insurance card if I give him my online password. And my Sweet Baboo has put the kibosh on the barbecue, since we had already planned on him grilling, just for us, not throwing a party.

That's why we didn't invite anyone.

Monday, July 2, 2018

On The Front Of An Envelope (And Half The Back) At 5:20 A.M.

I know there's nothing as boring as listening to someone tell you about a dream...unless it's READING about someone's dream. But you're just going to have to bite the bullet on this one. Just keep telling yourself it could be worse...you could be a cowboy in the old west, needing his leg sawed off by the local barber, without even a shot of whisky, but only that bite-bullet. See? Doesn't it help to put things in perspective?

Anyhoo...if you can stick with it until the end (NO CHEATING! DON'T SCROLL DOWN!), you'll se that I DO have a purpose, even though it's a narcissistic one, tooting the horn for my valedictorian dream mind. Apparently, I dream with a sense of humor. Don't get your hopes up. Humor is highly subjective.

In this dream, I was in college. Seems like it was The Pony's campus, but he wasn't in the dream. It was the first day, and I was wandering around, looking for my next class. Somebody ran by, saying, "SHOOTER! He's shooting people in red!" My friend in the red vest didn't wait for me out front to go to our next class. I was wearing red leggings, with Santa faces on them. I went around the building, and into the next one, thinking my class was there.

Turns out that building was for college and Olympic athletes. I was up on an empty stage. I went all the way across, and down the steps. Athletes were sitting in the audience chairs, which all happened to be facing away from the stage. They were crying and praying for an athlete who had been shot. I went up an aisle to get out, thinking the athletes were staring at me because I didn't belong there. 

There was a cafe where I came out. A man sitting at a table offered to tell me how to get to my next class. I sat down with him. I didn't understand the diagrams he was drawing on his napkin. His wife sat down, and she said she would tell me, and started gesturing with her hands. I said, "Just tell me left of right. We're facing this way..." 

However, that lady didn't explain any more, but told me that she and her husband had a tiny house, with a spare room for little kids to stay over. They had two new beds to put together, in boxes. "We always just pray we'll get it right. We're not good with this."

I told her, "Oh, now you'll have Farmer H to help."

Next thing, we were in that tiny house, in the spare room, with two see-through boxes of bed parts, one box like a cube, and the other a rectangle. One was blue, and the other green. Farmer H was on his way. 

On the wall, I saw they had a long wooden plaque, country blue, with little flowers, and pegs for hanging coats or clothes. Painted on it, in a yellow-gold color: "Jesus the Carpenter, Not Needed."

Yeah. I have no idea what that means, but I thought the wording on that dream-plaque was kind of funny. You may not. I guess it's like when Seinfeld wrote down his dream about Flaming Globes of Sigmund.

Sunday, July 1, 2018

Don't Ignore Your Hunches, People!

I'm a big believer in hunches. The problem comes with second-guessing them. Just go with the flow. Don't overthink.

Wednesday, I had written out some bill payments, and balanced the checkbook. I went ahead and wrote the check for The Pony's monthly expense allowance. I don't do his mobile deposit until the first of the month. Since that would fall on a Sunday, I was going to do it Friday. The thought popped into my head to go ahead and get it over with. Right then.

But then I thought, "I've already done all this other stuff today. I don't need to mess with it now. Besides, I don't want The Pony getting used to his money early. In real life, you get your payday on schedule." So I set the check aside for Friday. I log into the remote banking app for The Pony's credit union, take a picture of the check's front and back, and submit it with my phone.

Thursday, I thought about making that mobile deposit. "I could just take it to town and get it over with. It's ALMOST Friday. But Friday is still two days before the first of the month. No need to make it a day earlier than that." So I didn't. Even though my phone app works way faster in town than in the Mansion.

Friday morning, I got up and went to my phone first thing. I always do, but my intention was to make that mobile deposit of The Pony's money for July. Huh. That was funny. As I checked my phone to see what shenanigans it had been up to overnight, I noticed a couple of emails, a couple of apps updated, and a separate thingy. Like the logo of The Pony's credit union app. Not an email. Not a text. Not an update. I clicked on it, but it just took me to the app like normal. Huh. What was THAT all about? Pretty weird. Usually, I just tap its icon on my phone screen to get started.

So I did that, and I got a message. "-1/nUnknown Error"

No way. I did a restart on my phone. Tried again. Same thing. Huh. I called the credit union, out in Norman, Oklahoma. The gal said they were having a problem with their app, and that it should be working Saturday. Well. I guessed I'd try it on Saturday, then. I'm pretty sure you can guess what happened. On Saturday morning at 10:45, the app STILL was not working. Crap.

I called again, and a dude was very polite, explaining that their vendor was working on the problem, and HOPED to have the app running BY THE END OF NEXT WEEK! "We're open until noon. You can bring your deposit to our nearest branch..." I explained that I was 9 hours away from their nearest branch, and didn't think I could make it by noon. He suggested that I do a bank to bank transfer. So I called my own bank, and asked about it, and that darn girl said they could NOT do something like that. They'd both said that I could mail in a deposit, but The Pony has not gotten the two letters I mailed him LAST FRIDAY. So...I'm not taking a chance on a check floating around for nine days.

That's like working all month for your paycheck, and then your boss says, "Sorry. You're not getting one." The Pony was not going to have his money on the first of the month.

If I'd KNOWN that this app was going down, I would have mobile-deposited on Wednesday, like my inkling tried to goad me. I'd checked the credit union website on Friday AND Saturday. Saturday, they had a banner at the top about new changes with their app. I'm guessing they had planned to roll this out all along, and there was a problem. Would it have been so hard to put up a banner about the PROBLEM on Friday? Because then I could have made other arrangements.

Now's where it gets complicated.Friday, I took cash out of The Pony's local credit union college money. I normally deposit it in our bank account, to cover the check I write for the mobile deposit. Since it was the exact same amount this time as the weekly cash allowance I take out for our household...I just kept that cash to use for household.

The only way I could think to get The Pony that money was to deposit cash into his local bank account, and have him transfer it through online banking to his credit union account that he pays everything out of. But I had already split up that cash into the various segments that we use it for. SO...I raided the Christmas fund (from its secret hiding place), and RUSHED the 30 minutes to my bank, to make that deposit in The Pony's bank account at 11:48 a.m. They close at noon, too.

Of course, THEN I went through the ATM and took out the cash to put back in the Christmas fund. So really, that money was on a merry-go-round, from college fund to household, then Christmas to The Pony's bank account, then our bank account back to Christmas fund.

ALL THIS COULD HAVE BEEN AVOIDED, had I only known on Friday, and I would have taken the college fund cash straight to the bank to put in The Pony's bank account for him to transfer later.

Seriously. This is what happens when we rely on electronic gewgaws too much. It might have been easier to trade hogs and chickens.

This could have been MORE EASILY avoided if I had only taken a picture of that check on Wednesday, when the app was working.

Dang me for not listening to that little voice in my head.

Saturday, June 30, 2018

The Hours I Cursed, So Peeved

You might think that Mrs. HM has the world by the tail, now that Farmer H is retired, spending his days prepping his Storage Unit Store, and his nights with a new drug delivery job. But you'd be wrong!

I don't expect much. Just time to myself each day, when I don't have to do anything other than what I want to do. TWO HOURS! That's all I need to be happy. Two hours, to sit down with my 44 oz Diet Coke, a lunch of Chicken Bacon Ranch Pinwheels from The Devil's Playground. A side of green olives. Some BBQ chips. Lottery tickets to scratch. Music and internet on my New Delly. No, not much to ask for at all.

I don't begrudge making Farmer H's supper. Not even making his dining decisions for him, and cleaning up his mess. I sit down to chat with him so he has companionship, even though he prefers to feed with his legs kicked up in his La-Z-Boy. And barely even grunts in response.

Farmer H never has time to chat. Whether it be about our new supplemental optical and dental insurance, or The Pony's random communiques, or which household fixtures need some fine-tuning. He'll pace through the kitchen, or stand with his hand on the doorknob, not really listening, but waiting for me to stop. Or he walks off to the bedroom or bathroom mid-sentence. And just two nights ago, I turned to gauge his response to a statement in my dark basement lair, and he was already halfway up the steps. He was the opposite of The Sidler. He didn't need Tic-Tacs in his pocket to warm me of his arrival, but so I'd know he abandoned me once again.

Yes, it's funny how Farmer H has absolutely nothing to say to me, nor nothing he wants to hear from me, for 22 hours a day.

However...

DURING MY TWO HOURS OF SOLITUDE, HE MUST SEEK ME OUT!!!

How does that even work? The only time Farmer H has for me is during the very two hours that I set aside for my lunch and relaxation. No matter how much I try to preserve my alone-time, there he is. I can call him beforehand, to see what he's doing. Where he is. When he expects to come in the house. What time he wants supper. Tell him everything pertinent to the immediate situation. And STILL, he turns up at the portal of my dark basement lair when I'm in the middle of sucking a pimento out of an olive, with Spotify on New Delly's screen, awaiting the day's choice of tunes, my tickets at my elbow, ready for a scratchin'.

Uh huh. He did that to me Thursday. And Wednesday. And Tuesday. And Monday, I even called him down to watch a DVR of Yellowstone that he'd asked for, on the big screen, with permission to sit in my OPC (Old People Chair) as long as he didn't have a snack in it. Yellowstone, the first episode of the new Kevin Costner series, which was two hours long. STILL, he showed up at my office door.

Seriously! On Thursday, I had come up the driveway, and due to the running of the dogs, noticed Farmer H over on Shackytown Boulevard, standing behind his Gator, with his cell phone to his ear. I waited for a moment, switching radio stations in T-Hoe in the garage. Getting the mail settled in my purse. Putting my 44 oz Diet Coke on the console for easy reach. Waited. Just in case, you know, Farmer H might be coming over to help me carry in groceries, having seen the dogs run to the garage, and T-Hoe in the driveway.

Can you believe that I did NOT hear the Gator approach? By the time I had carried six bags, and two 4-packs of Strawberry Water, and a 6-pack of Diet Mountain Dew, and a 6-pack of Diet Coke to the side porch...I heard a chainsaw start. I wasn't sure where it was coming from. At first, I thought it might be from behind me, from Copper Jack's human daddy next door. Even though I pass him going back to work in town after lunch every day.

I was dripping with sweat. This heat has been miserable. I took in my purse and magical elixir and the mail, got the door unlocked, and came back out to carry everything the rest of the way into the Mansion, and put it away. I was tired and sweaty, and sat down for a rest to cool off, before getting my lunch together. I called Farmer H.

"What are you doing?"

"Leveling the sheds."

"I thought you might help me carry in the stuff, but it's done now."

"Oh. Well. I didn't know. I was running the chainsaw. I'm coming in at 2:30 to take a shower before going to the auction. I'm meeting my buddy at 3:15."

"It's already 2:10. You won't have much time. I'm not waiting another 20 minutes to talk to you. I'm getting my lunch ready."

Really? Leveling the sheds? I kind of think that ship has sailed. I don't think there has been an issue with them sitting unleveled all this time. And Farmer H is notorious for showing up right after the groceries are put away.

Can you believe that with only 30 minutes to shower and leave for town...Farmer H found time to come down to my dark basement lair and chat with me?

"Huh. What did you win today?"

"I haven't even had time to scratch them yet! You're always down here during my ONLY TWO HOURS that I want for myself!"

"Okay then."

I'm pretty sure this life lesson for Farmer H will not be retained.

Friday, June 29, 2018

Salty And Steamed, But The Taste Is Poor

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is salty today, my blogfriends. Salty, and steamed. Part of our well-seasoned Hillmomba-dweller's saltiness and steaminess is due to the temperature as she writes this (Thursday). The other part is due to her general, all-around surliness.

Whew! When the Devil's playground feels chilly compared to outside temps, nothing good is going to happen for Mrs. HM. I took the dumpster up the driveway before leaving for town. That's because I was putting a bag of trash in it anyway. It's not like Farmer H is going to do something like that, even though I bag up the full garbage, tie a tight knot in the top, and put it in his path. I think I nearly lost consciousness at the end of the driveway. And that was when it was only 86 degrees. Right now, at 5:27 p.m., it's 93, and feels like 107.

The humidity must have been near 99% when I left home around 11:30. The front window was fogged over. The outside doorknob was covered with a layer of condensation. Indeed, my mini bubba cup of ice water immediately broke out in a sweat. My own sweat did not evaporate until I got down the road a bit in T-Hoe, with the air conditioning feeling cool for once. My face was crusted with salt like a Texas Roadhouse baked potato.

But I'm not here to give you yesterday's weather report! I'm here to cast aspersions on humanity! I think I've figured out one reason why we're all hurtling towards Not-Heaven in my proposed handbaskets. People need to be more butt-holey. There. I've said it.

I'm not talking about the people who are butt-wipes. No, there's no help for them. Once a butt-wipe, always a butt-wipe. I'm talking about people who go out of their way to be nice. NICE TO THE BUTT-WIPES! That has got to stop, people.

On my way to town, a truck appeared out of nowhere. I know my blacktop road. I know where there are driveways. I'm familiar with people's vehicles. I check T-Hoe's rearview mirror. There was nothing behind me almost the whole two miles to the county lettered highway. The first sight I got was in front of the house where my mom ran over a dog. Didn't hurt him, but the boys chided her for it forever. Anyhoo...I have no idea where this truck came from so fast.

It was white. A commercial truck of some kind. A pickup with a rack in the bed. It must have been going about 70 to come up on me like that. I, myself, go 50-55 on this road, even though (ha ha ha) the county put up a 35 mph sign years ago. It didn't last long.

Anyhoo...after I passed the prison, I slowed down from 55 (legal limit on the county lettered highway) to 45, the in-town speed limit. When I crested the hill by Farmer H's Storage Unit Store, I slowed to 30 as the posted limit decreased. I'm pretty sure the driver of that white truck was cursing my law-abidingness.

At the first stoplight, White Truck pulled up on my right, in the other lane. The one that runs out at the third light. It's pretty much a right-turn only, because that lane peters out a few yards past the intersection. If you're not turning into the corner liquor store, you're screwed. When the light went green, I figured White Truck would try to get ahead of me to set himself up for that third stoplight. Of course I wasn't asleep at the wheel. White Truck gunned it, but didn't try to cut over. He stayed in the right lane through the second light, then cruised past a line of 7 cars waiting at the third.

OF COURSE some do-goody in a little red sports car let White Truck veer in when that light turned green! WHYYYY! Nancy Kerrigan's whine cannot begin to do justice to the wails of Mrs. HM when White Truck got his way, having pretty much cut line ahead of us at the light.

Seriously. Just dessets need to be served on a heaping platter! So these butt-wipe people get a taste of vigilante justice.

Oh, yeah. When White Truck passed me on the right, I could see that it was an AUTO GLASS truck! Full of a rack of windshields in the back. Even if I could remember the company name, and look up the number, I wouldn't call to report that driver. Times are tough. I don't want to cost anyone a job, just for being a butt-wipe. But you can bet I had no qualms about putting the kibosh on an intended traffic merge.

I have a feeling that Karma and Even Steven might be in the market for glassware one of these days.

Thursday, June 28, 2018

Hillmomba Smackdown: Mrs. HM vs FRIG II

Sorry, it's too late to get your tickets. The event has already concluded. In fact, it was not even on the calendar. Just a random battle for supremacy of the Mansion kitchen. Let the record show that FRIG II kicked Mrs. HM's butt.

It all started with my evening cup of ice. I needed my yellow bubba cup full. That's because I put half in my ever-weakening 44 oz Diet Coke, along with part of a 20 oz bottle...and use the rest for my water when I leave the lair for my OPC (Old People Chair). I fill Yellow Bubba every night before going back downstairs with supper.

Farmer H was in his La-Z-Boy, chowing down on some bratwursts I'd baked in the oven. He had chosen Ruffles and French Onion Dip as his side, while I had constructed myself a not-big salad. Now all I needed was that ice, and I could go eat my own supper solitarily like Farmer H.

FRIG II had other ideas.

There was a clog in the ice dispenser. You know. When that round thingy grinds the blockage, and you get shaved ice. I didn't WANT shaved ice. I needed my ice in solid, crescent-shaped cubes, to hold up against hot soda and lukewarm water. So I moved Yellow Bubba way from the lever. Set him down on the cutting block. I opened FRIG II's freezer door, and smacked the ice receptacle on the bottom. That saucy little imp WOULD give me some cubes, by cracky!

But no. He wouldn't. He spewed out a couple of cubes onto the floor, and continued grinding. I tried to pull out the whole ice tray, but it was stuck on the metal thingy in the back, the part that turns the spiral thingy to move the ice forward. I yanked and yanked, with more and more cubes hitting the floor. Funny how they couldn't come out into my cup, but could fling themselves willy-nilly to the linoleum.

I set the whole ice tray on the cutting block, and set to chipping away at ice buildup along the inside. I'd just done that less than a week ago. Shouldn't have needed to do it now. Oh, and while doing so, that ice tray started emitting cubes from the front, and also from the back. Nothing was moving in there, save my butter-knife chopper. It was like FRIG II's ice tray had a case of Montezuma's revenge, and was losing his insides from both ends.

By the time I was done, and wrestling with FRIG II's freezer door to fit that ice tray back in on its metal runners while the door was slamming on my shoulder...there were 15 pieces of ice on the floor. Which I had to BEND OVER and pick up! The problem with bending over is that both knees make grindy noises. And hurt.

As soon as I'd tossed the last of the floor ice cubes into the sink, Farmer H walked into the kitchen. I KNOW he'd heard me rassen-frassen during the debacle. Yet he hadn't come to help. Hard to believe, I know...

It was as if he was the referee, coming it to hold FRIG II's lever high, pronouncing him the winner.

Wednesday, June 27, 2018

I Can't Even Believe This

Oh, dear. I'm pretty sure you all know that Mrs. HM has a problem with FEET. They repulse her. She doesn't want to see feet, she doesn't want to think about feet. Feet turn her stomach inside out.

You might also have ascertained that Mrs. HM is a conspiracy theory aficionado. Which doesn't mean she believes in (all) of them, only that she has a penchant for reading about them, and using her valedictorian mind to pick them apart, or find plausible evidence to provide shaky support.

Even the denizens of Hillmomba have voiced concerns that their phone is picking up their conversations. Putting in ads that sponsor products they've just been discussing. At least they don't have Alexa spying on them 24/7/365. I figure any time I do a Google search, my innernets dossier is being fattened. That's the price you pay for using free services like Google and GMail. It's not like I have anything to hide, though it's a bit embarrassing when you're showing your teenage son something online while he peeks over your shoulder, and an ad for granny panties pops up.

Anyhoo...I'm starting to believe that all of these spies are in cahoots. What one hears, he tells another, like an unending game of telephone. Or else he sells that eavesdropped evidence to line his virtual pockets. But now...I'm starting to believe that The Cloud has a dark sense of humor. Or is using this clandestine information for torture.

Monday morning, I was watching POP TV, some old episodes of ER. All at once, I gasped! Nearly turned over backwards in the La-Z-Boy, trying to get away.

THIS commercial came on!

SWEET GUMMI MARY!!! OM[effin]G!!! I can't even!

Let the record show that blog buddy Sioux has mentioned feet and toenails in my comments recently. I hold her responsible! As if this commercial isn't bad enough...when looking for a link so you all could share my experience...I found ANOTHER ONE!

I'm still shaking. Watch those links at your own risk.

Tuesday, June 26, 2018

The Absent-Minded Professor's-Helper

The Pony has been in talks with one of the professors about becoming a lab assistant. He helped clean out the lab that is being remodeled, and has been looking into some research topics. It's chemical stuff with nano particles that I don't know much about. The Pony seems to have a better handle on that information than on the tasks of daily living. Surprise.

"I made ramen earlier and had a bottle of glass root beer blow up because I thought it was fine to have them in the freezer, since Grandma D always did it."

"How long did you leave it in there? Are you okay? Wear goggles next time you drink a root beer!"

"I'm fine. I heard a bang in the fridge, thought it was biscuits since that happens, turned out it was root beer. I thought she just kept them in there! I had mine in for about an hour."

"No way can you keep glass bottles of soda in a freezer! You must have had an incompetent physics teacher..."

"I thought glass could handle it. I knew plastic couldn't! I didn't think Grandma D only put them in there when we came over!"

"I'm pretty sure they were in a fridge, not a freezer. Or else she DID put them in when you came over."

"They were in a freezer because it had that ice bulge on the sides! (The freezer, I mean) But they were usually deep in it, and cold enough to hurt your hands. So I thought they were always in there."

"Well, then, she did it just for you. Good thing she didn't have swampland to sell you. Or the London Bridge."

"Hmpf."

"Genius learned that an oven's heating element is hot..." [He sizzled a brand on his forearm while getting a tray of potato skins out of the oven.]


"Yes, yes, laugh it up."

"Like the great joy both of you took in my dead-bird-stepping-on faux pas?" [It was under the fallen leaves on the teacher parking lot. I don't have x-ray vision. Or a steel-trap memory for buried carcass location.]


"Hmmph"

"Is there something in your throat? Do the Heimlich over the back of a kitchen chair! Oh, wait. You don't have a kitchen chair. But at least you have dishes and silverware since January! Better late than never."

Here's the thing. You would expect a kid who got a perfect score on his ACT, and is majoring in chemical engineering at a major university on a National Merit scholarship, would know that you can't put glass bottles of liquid in a freezer and expect the liquid not to freeze and expand.

We used to visit my grandma every Sunday evening. She would tell the boys to go get a root beer out of the fridge on her back porch. I suppose The Pony is confused, because it was an old refrigerator, with the freezer compartment up top. Grandma didn't use that freezer. Only the fridge part, for sodas. So the freezer was frozen full of ice. I suppose The Pony imagined that the whole contraption was a freezer. Still, it's disturbing that he felt the PLASTIC bottles of soda would not survive, but a glass bottle of soda would.

I guess something stored in his brain had to go, to make room for that nano particle stuff.

Monday, June 25, 2018

This Is NOT Delta, Delta, Delta

Remember back in the olden days, on SNL, when Melanie Hutsell would say, "Delta, Delta, Delta, can we help ya, help ya, help ya?"

Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is NOT a sister at the Tri-Delt house.

I do not go around asking if I can help anyone. Most notably Farmer H, who is not shy about ASKING ME TO HELP HIM!

Fresh off the 45-minute search for an obscure western belt buckle made of German Silver, which contains no silver...Farmer H requested the very next night that I look up a very special shotgun for him. Of course he did not provide the actual shotgun, as he had the buckle. Nor did he provide a picture. He only provided the terms Ideal, single-shot, 12-gauge. Farmer H is not a very good provider.

As you might surmise, I did not have a lot of luck. I found ONE guy selling such a gun, for $150 or best offer. I printed it out, but Farmer H was quick to inform me the next day that the photo showed a gun NOTHING LIKE his. Imagine that.

I also found out the name of the gun company, which escapes me now, since it went through three ownerships with three different names. And the year they started classifying their guns in seven categories, the second one being IDEAL. Farmer H did not seem as impressed as I would have liked with this information.

So...after all that, which took ONE HOUR of my time and New Delly...Farmer H said, "I'll just take it down to the gun shop and see what they can tell me about it."

Indeed.

Oh, and now I'm probably on a watch list. But not as bad as The Pony.

"I'm probably on a new watch list now." [the old one being because when he was in elementary school, he asked for a computer CD on learning to speak Arabic] "My class had me doing research about something related to the Manhattan Project, and I chose to do the trigger mechanism. Apparently, most information about it is classified."

"Well, I will also be on a watch list, after researching shotguns for an hour last night for Junker Dad."

"Shotguns are normal redneck stuff. The detonation methods of atom bombs are not."

"Maybe you can swing a job with the feds, and use your academic powers for evil." [Because we all know he really doesn't care about helping people.]

"They employ chemical engineers to manage and develop chemical weapons."

I hope there isn't something The Pony is not telling me! But something he DID tell me was that he baked a deep dish Chef Boyardee Pizza, and when he took it out of the oven, he realized he had forgotten the cheese.

Let the record show that Chef Boyardee comes in a box, with powder to mix with water to make dough, a can of sauce, and a packet of cheese. THREE INGREDIENTS!

I'm pretty sure we don't have to worry about The Pony developing chemical weapons...

Sunday, June 24, 2018

Is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom An Unwitting Criminal?

Hey, now! I said UNWITTING.
Not anything that goes with -witted. Like half- or slow- or dim-.

There is the slightest possibility that I might be a criminal. I hope not. But signs point to a problem. At the very least, I might be an accomplice! I don't know. That's the thing. Mayhap I am, and mayhap I ain't. Genius likes to use that word. I think because he read or heard it in from old Mother Abigail, in the book or movie The Stand.

I didn't set out to become a criminal on Friday. That was just an unhappy accident. Maybe. I'm still not sure. We'll know by the time I get done writing this. I won't leave you hangin'.

Here's the deal. Friday afternoon, I grabbed my phone to scan my scratchers. I do that to make sure I don't miss a winner. There's an app for Missoui Lottery that will tell you how much your ticket wins, or it will say, "Sorry. Not a winner. Thanks for playing." Not in words, of course. You have to read it off your phone screen.

Anyhoo...I had a ticket like this:


That's a new one. Unscratched. Which turned out to be a loser, but the one I was checking on Friday had a dollar-bill symbol, which means AUTOMATIC WINNER, and under it was $5. So I was expecting the app to show me "Congratulations, you have won $5." Or maybe more, if I'd missed a number. Which never happens, but I'm OCD cautious like that.

However...that is NOT the message I got, but rather one that said, "This ticket can not be scanned. Check with a Missouri Lottery office." Or something pretty close to that. I didn't want to write it down, because it made me feel like a criminal. Okay. That wasn't my FIRST thought. At first, I thought maybe it was a problem with the app. So I restarted it. Nope. Same message. Then I thought maybe the ticket was too old now, and looked up that game, but it is still in play, not even the 6-month warning that it's ending.

Huh. Could it be a big winner? Nope. I scoured those 15 numbers, and none matched. Only my one little symbol that clearly showed a $5 win.

OH NO! What if MOLOTTERY thought I stole that ticket? I didn't! But maybe they have a safeguard in place in case people steal them in a robbery. Or clerks give them away without scanning. Like how those Devil's Playground gift cards are no good if you don't pay and have them activated. Sweet Gummi Mary! Was Mrs. HM headed for the Big House? For the hoosegow? For Crossbars Hilton?

I got to thinking about when I bought it. I put an initial on the back of all my scratchers, so I can remember where they came from. In case I get a good winner, I don't want to buy that same ticket at the same place until a new roll is put out. In this case, I had cashed in a $100 winner, plus a $10 and $5 winner. I knew the kid working the counter at Waterside Mart. He's a former student. Flaming red hair. No mistaking who he is. I'd told him, "I'm going to take $100 back, and give you a five-dollar bill, and get four tickets." So, you see, I was applying the $10 and $5 winners to my purchase of $20, and giving him a five-dollar bill to complete it. He nodded. He was always good at math.

WHAT IF...Red had forgotten to scan in that fourth ticket? He had checked the winners in the winner-scanner, and printed the ticket that they need to give the winnings back. I know he scanned my new tickets into the register. But he might have forgotten that one. He'd taken the five-dollar bill and put it in the register. Oh, no! I didn't want HIM to get in trouble!

I told Farmer H, and we couldn't figure out any reason other than the ticket didn't get rung up at the register. The bar code looked fine. Not ripped or scratched. I had already decided that if a store wouldn't cash it for me, I was just going to forget it. It was $5. Not worth a drive to the city to the lottery office. Not worth a college kid losing his job over. Not worth ME being accused of stealing it!!!

*********************************************************************
Saturday, I took that ticket to The Gas Station Chicken Store. My favorite clerk was working. The little Asian dude. That made me feel like I was in good hands. He knows his lottery. He's been there the second-longest of all the clerks.

"I have a mystery for you! I don't know if this ticket is good. It clearly shows a $5 winner, but when I scan it on my phone app, it tells me to take it to a lottery office, that it can't be scanned."

"Huh. Let's see..."

He scanned it on their machine. I saw a box with words come up, but I couldn't see that far to read it.

"If it's not good, I'll just take it back and forget it..."

"Oh...it's good. But it didn't come from here."

"I know. It came from Waterside Mart." I started explaining my theory about the ticket not being scanned. "I don't want that kid to get in any trouble."

"Well, he wouldn't get in trouble for that. It's not about scanning in the ticket. The ROLL of tickets wasn't activated. So I can pay you the five dollars. Whoever put out the new roll of tickets is the one they'd want to talk to."

WHEW!

Looks like Mrs. HM is NOT a criminal or an accomplice after all. Good thing. I don't believe Farmer H would bake me a cake with a file in it to bring me on visiting day. The closest I might get would be a Twinkie with fingernail clippers.

Saturday, June 23, 2018

The Big Salad

Let the record show that Farmer H knew he was having a big salad for supper on Friday evening, along with some leftover pizza from Thursday. He knew it, he was fine with it, I asked him a million questions to pin him down...and STILL, there was an issue.

"So, you'll be having the leftover pizza, and a big salad. Do you still want chicken in your salad?"

"No. The pizza and salad are fine."

"Since you're having the pizza, do you want your big salad in the leaf bowl like last time, or in a regular bowl?"


"That leaf bowl is fine."


"I'm putting in lettuce, mushrooms, cheese, boiled eggs, and tomatoes. Do you want some red onion like last time?"

"Yeah. Onion is good."

"Will you be eating both at once? Or one before the other?"

"Both at the same time."

"Okay. I'll put the pizza in the oven to crisp the crust right before the salad is ready."

See? I had all the details I needed for proper preparation of Farmer H's meal. I prepared it accordingly. I called him in to put the dressing and croutons on his salad, then took the pizza out of the oven. Everything just as planned. I set my salad in FRIG II, so I could talk to Farmer H before he left for the auction.

I could hear him crunching the pizza crust, so I knew it was warmed the way he liked it. He ate the salad. We chatted. I noticed his other two pizza pieces languishing on the paper plate on the table by the remote, as Farmer H chowed down on the salad from the La-Z-Boy.

"I thought you were going to eat it all together. Your pizza will be cold. And not crisp."

"It's fine. I ate one of them. I'll eat the other two after my salad."

About 30 seconds later, Farmer H set down his leaf bowl, about 1/3 still full of salad, on the table.

"Whew! You made too much salad!"

SERIOUSLY???

You might recall that I had asked him if he wanted THAT MUCH SALAD! In the leaf bowl! I had flat-out asked if he'd rather have it in a regular bowl. Which holds less than the leaf bowl.

"Well...it's no good to keep, once you've put the dressing on it."

"I know."

"So...you want me to throw it out?"

"No. Well. I might eat some more of it later."

"Like when you come back from the auction?"

"Yeah."

"So...I should just cover it and put it in the fridge?"

"Nah. Go ahead and throw it out."

This might give you an inkling why Genius calls me The Short-Temper Cook.

Friday, June 22, 2018

It Has Come To Pass

Now that Farmer H and I are living the life, my greatest fears about retirement have come to pass. He's home too dang much, making demands on my time! Passive-aggressive demands!

Since the Fly-by-Night Drug Courier Service has not yet contacted Farmer H to make a run (another story all its own), he's underfoot. It's too hot to hang out at his Storage Unit Store shooting the bull. Too hot to straighten up his Freight Container Garage full of Storage Unit Store stuff. Poolio seems to have lost his luster. And there are only so many days a week Farmer H can spend four hours at the barbershop, getting his sparse hair cut.

Wednesday morning, he came home from who knows where, and sat down on the long couch with a manilla file folder.

"I have my paperwork from that drug place. I'm gonna make a copy before I give it back."

Farmer H thumbed through the folder, remarking on different forms. There must have been 15 pages in that folder.

"What you MEAN is...I'M going to make a copy of all those before you take it back."

"There you go. No. I was planning to make my own copies."

"On MY copier/printer? You don't even know how. You'll get it all messed up. I'll do it."

"It's not MY fault you have stuff piled all over it!"

See, there's the thing. Farmer H can have 20 buildings (some made especially for such purposes) piled high with junk...but let ME stack some printouts of receipts pertaining to The Pony's college expenses on top of my copier/printer (mainly used as a printer), and he's ready to call Hoarders.

"I'll go down and move it over."

"FORGET IT! I'll go to town and find SOMEBODY that will copy it for me!"

"Okay. Whatever."

See, I'm not going to beg Farmer H to let me make his copies for him. I'm done playing his games. He has tantrums like a toddler when he doesn't get his way RIGHT AT THE MOMENT HE WANTS IT. He waves his arms and raises his voice and sometimes swears at me because I DON'T DO NOTHIN' for him. That's Farmer H's way of dealing with our togetherness. Mine is trashing him on the innernets.

Kind of made me regret those FIVE PAGES of attractions near the Henry Ford Museum in Michigan (that I'd printed out the night before, after searching for them, at Farmer H's request) that I'd left for him overnight, on the bathroom counter by his glasses.

Thursday, June 21, 2018

Stockings Takes A Shelfie

When I came home from town yesterday, I saw that Stockings, our tuxedo cat, is movin' on up! To a deeeeluxe compartment on the porch. Yeah. Those are the same shelves that Farmer H says he is going to put in our walk-in closet in the master bathroom. He's been saying that for months now. I'm resigned to live out my years as a hoarder wife.


Stockings is like The Pony of the cat world. He doesn't really care about people. In fact, if he had his druthers, I'm pretty sure people would be replaced by kibble-spouting robots. Stockings has a personal bubble that will not be broached. I knew I couldn't get any closer to him and still get a picture. I DIDN'T know that he could sense my phone camera zooming in on him.

I took my eyes off Stockings for a second, to see if Jack was looking photogenic, and when I looked back, Stockings was stalking away.


It's not like he was running. Stockings is a stocky cat. He doesn't rush anywhere.


There he goes, past those wash tubs that have been sitting there even longer than the shelves. They look suitable for washing a stinky hat, don't you think? Alas, I have no water source over there.

Stockings has his ears back, a bit disgruntled, because not only was I stealing his soul by snapping a photo...but Jack was romping over there to try and hump him.

I did not try to get a picture of that interspecies rendezvous.

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

Imagine Her Driving

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom never knows what monkey wrenches The Universe is going to throw into the cogs of her well-oiled, 44 oz Diet Coke fetching machine each day. Sometimes, it's high creeks. Sometimes, it's a road blocked by a sideways old-people transport mini-bus. Sometimes, it's a county road tractor with a side-mower chewing up tree branches along the blacktop road. Yesterday, however, it had nothing to do with roads, and everything to do with a parking lot.

Here's a pic. Because sadly, it DID happen!


That's my rightful parking space at the Gas Station Chicken Store yesterday. Uh huh. That's correct. You CAN see my actual parking SPACE! At least half of it. Because that lady who "parked" there did not even pull up to the tire-stopper! WHO DOES THAT? She's a whole half-a-car out of that parking space.

Don't mind the man in the background. He was an innocent by-walker. Probably coming from that silver car at the pumps, going in to pay for his gas. They're old-school at the Gas Station Chicken Store. You can't pay at the pump.

Anyhoo...this gal was still sitting in her car, with it running. I had to detour around the back to go inside for my magical elixir, hoping she wouldn't put it in reverse and crush me (or her bumper ON me) while I was back there. Because if you can't even pull up to park like a civilized human being, how do I know you're not gonna mow me down with your inattentiveness?

Gotta get that proposed handbasket factory back on track...

Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Pretty Sure He Would Have Peed On My Leg If It Was More Convenient

Oh, dear. Just when I try to be diplomatic and show Farmer H in a good light HA HA HA LIKE THAT IS EVER GOING TO HAPPEN! Whew! Excuse me, I'm feeling a bit light-headed after all that guffawing.

Monday, I took Farmer H to our new favorite casino for Father's Day. And by "I TOOK," I mean that he swove us there in A-Cad, spent his own money, and we each had $10 food credit for the buffet. C'mon. I bought him candy and cookies and losing scratchers. I'm not going all out. He still got more than I get from him on Mother's Day.

Anyhoo...we were without the company of my sister the ex-mayor's wife and her husband, since they were on a trip elsewhere. That meant we took a different route, two-lane curvy blacktop to the interstate, like when we got visit my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel...rather than a meandering route through towns to pick up Sis and Ex-M.

Once we got to the highway, I pulled out a book to read. It's not like Farmer H is going to make conversation with me. He'd had 20 minutes on that blacktop road, and didn't take advantage of his captive audience.

So...I'm reading along, not really wanting to know what Farmer H is up to behind the wheel, but having an inkling every time I heard wake-up bumps, and my head swayed like that of a charmed cobra. But I can kind of tune things out when I'm reading. I'm an ex-teacher, by cracky! I can remain aware, but not let the outside world distract me.

CLUNK-THUMP!!!

What in the Not-Heaven???

I glanced up, to see, first of all, that we were in the fast lane, a semi truck beside us, another in front of that one, and a semi truck in front of us. We were running along at 77 mph in the alcove of an inverted, flipped-over 'L' of semi trucks. AND Farmer H had something in his right hand, and was sweaving with his left hand, onto the wake-up bumps near the guard cables meant to keep us out of the median.

SWEAVING!

Farmer H looked down and at the center of the windshield and pretty much everywhere but at the road in front of him, and the semi truck beside him.

"Do you have to do that now? This is not the time. Wait until you get off."

Let the record show that Farmer H had said we had 106 miles left on that tank of gas (it's 90 minutes to the casino), and that he was going to get off at a town right before casino town for gas. Let the record also show that in Farmer H's right hand was the Garmin, which had thrown itself off the windshield and onto A-Cad's center console, the suction cup having dried out in the heat and lost its suck.

"Why don't you just take it! And stop telling me what to do! It's not like you're going to put it back up. You won't even take it!"

"First of all, stop yelling at ME because your Garmin fell off. You don't need it to get there. It wasn't even on. Of course I'm not going to put it back up. I never use it. I've never used it. And I don't know how it works. AND you KNOW that you were fiddling with it to put it back!"

Farmer H thrust the Garmin at me. Held it way over my lap.

"I was not! I wanted you to take it!"

"What am I, a mind-reader? If you'd wanted me to take it, you would have held it over my lap like THAT, and not been sweaving from the side line to the side of that truck, looking up under the mirror. YOU WOULD HAVE HELD IT OVER HERE LIKE WHEN YOU GIVE ME YOUR CANDY WRAPPERS AND TOLL TICKETS! So don't go yelling at ME because your Garmin fell off!"

Seriously. If Farmer H had been able to TAKE IT OUT with his other hand removed from the steering wheel, while rolling down the interstate at 77 mph on cruise control, I swear he would have peed on my leg and told me it was raining.

Oh, yeah. I took the Garmin. And laid it on the console where it had originally fallen. It rode there just fine.

Monday, June 18, 2018

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's Luck Is Non-Transferable

What do you get a guy who has everything? And I DO mean EVERYTHING. Except maybe a kitchen sink, but I'm pretty sure he has one of those somewhere. Farmer H is a hard-to-gift man. I knew his boys wouldn't be getting him anything for Father's Day. That would require some effort on their part. I had casually asked Farmer H if he'd like a $3.00 change purse and two boxes of Sno-Caps, and he said he didn't really want those things. To which I replied, "Neither did I."

"HM. I didn't know what to get you. So that's what I got. I thought you'd like them."

So...for Father's Day, I got Farmer H two packs of cookies (SUGAR FREE chocolate chip, and those long wafer kind with icing in the middle, vanilla flavor). I also got him some SUGAR FREE candies, like turtles, and chocolate covered mint, and strawberry creme. I know he likes those. PLUS...I got him some scratchers.


Farmer H has been buying the occasional scratcher for himself these days, being flush with junk money. He always loses, though.

I'd been having a good couple of days with my own scratchers.


I had a WIN ALL on a $5 ticket, which gave me a $100 winner.


And a $75 winner the next day on a different $5 ticket.

So I was very hopeful for Farmer H to win something good. He never buys $10 tickets for himself, so that's what I got him. Plus a couple of $5s.

Well. The only thing that Farmer H won was this:


Yes, for all that, he only won $10. Which is better than a $3.00 change purse and two boxes of Sno-Caps. But still.

Sometimes, you just can't fix loser.