I Was FRAMED, I Tells Ya!

Remember this guy?

He's still a little grumpy. I know how he feels.

Those chairs have been sitting on the porch since before The Pony left for college! I'm pretty sure. And Farmer H just HAD to have them, after seeing them at the end of somebody's driveway BACK WHEN HE STILL DROVE TO WORK. Uh huh.

They were nice chairs, before they sat on the porch for two years, in the weather, having cat butts on them. And that frame is for my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel, who is on the lookout for such things, and probably would not like her future household accoutrements marking time on a porch, available as a scratching post.

Farmer H must be a REVERSE hoarder. He stockpiles stuff on the OUTSIDE of his house. Pretty soon, we won't be able to get in and out.

I think maybe Stockings has given up.

I know how THAT feels, too.

Sauce Revise For Different Guys

Now that The Pony is out of the Mansion, I have to adapt my "recipes" for Farmer H. You may recall that Farmer H does not much care for fluid in his food. Like when he dips himself a towering bowl of vegetable beef soup...he does not like the "juice," as he calls it. I just call it soup.

Anyhoo...the three guys all loved spaghetti. Genius was a middle-of-the-road kind of guy. He'd eat it any way I made it. No Goldilocksing for him. Everything was just right.

The Pony preferred elbow macaroni noodles in his "spaghetti." That's because they hold the sauce in their hollow elbows, and The Pony is all about the sauce. Oh, he'll eat noodles bare, and noodles with only butter. But he really likes sauce. He'd drink it out of a cup, I imagine. And perhaps dip a scrap of bready pizza crust in it every now and then, or dunk a noodle. So when I made spaghetti sauce with The Pony at home, I had to tilt the dipper and get his with no meat or mushrooms in it. Pure sauce. A lot if it, with about 1/3 bowl of noodles swimming in it.

Farmer H wants nothing to do with "juicy" sauce. I have to also tilt the dipper for his, making sure the saucy part of the sauce runs out, and he gets red-colored hamburger meat and mushrooms. The good thing about Farmer H is that he loves his spaghetti more the second and third day! So I get three meals out of one preparation. That's because the noodles soak up the sauce in the container in FRIG II, leaving Farmer H with red-colored noodles, hamburger, and mushrooms.

Oh, yeah. It's not like I make my sauce from scratch. It's a can of Hunt's Spaghetti With Meat Sauce. Not that there's any meat inside. I think it just has the flavor. Allegedly. To that canned sauce, I add a couple individual packets of NutriSweet for Farmer H's diabetic sweet tooth, squeeze in some minced garlic, grind some black pepper, and add the browned ground beef and some canned mushroom pieces.

I'm shocked that I don't have my own cooking show: The Hillbilly Gourmet.

A New Sucker At The Devil's Playground

It's a time-consuming job, you know, to keep the blogworld updated on new snack discoveries at The Devil's Playground. But somebody's gotta do it, and Mrs. Hillbilly Mom pledges to leave no new snack untasted. Because she's selfless like that.

I bought a bag of Tootsie Pops the other day, and upon closer inspection at consumption time, noticed a new notice on the bag.

No, not the PEANUT FREE part. Who ever thought there might be deadly peanuts in a Tootsie Pop? Not this ol' gal, that's for sure. But look right above that peanut notice, at the WATCH FOR NEW FLAVORS command.

I'll admit that I picked through three bags to find the one with the most red suckers showing through the window. I had no idea there might be new flavors, or I might have shaken those Tootsies to see which bag had new ones!

Let the record show that my bag DID contain two new flavors. Only one of each. Because most of my Tootsies were red. But I found this one right on top when I opened the end of the bag.

It caught my eye because of the orange color. I haven't seen an orange Tootsie Pop in about a decade. Okay. It's been about a decade since I bought anything Tootsie. Seems like the last thing might have been one of those big bags at Halloween, with assorted Tootsie treats, to keep in my classroom cabinet for the boys when they waited for me after school. There might have been an orange Tootsie Pop in there. If so, I guarantee you that I hid it for myself! And just now, research showed me that you can buy A WHOLE BAG of orange Tootsie Pops online!

Anyhoo...I grabbed this one, and put on my glasses, and saw that it was pomegranate. Meh. It was okay. Nothing special.

Since I had success finding THAT new flavor, I shook out all my Tootsies, and found another!

I tried it last night, and deemed it okay, though not as good as the pomegranate. I think I'll stick with my cherry Tootsies.

Maybe these don't seem like new flavors to you, if you're a regular Tootsie Pop consumer. But I'm used to the originals, which I remember as Cherry, Chocolate, Orange, Grape, and Raspberry. I was never very fond of the grape, and detested the raspberry, because it impersonated my favorite, cherry.

So there you have it. A new snack review for you, and a stockpile of cherry Tootsie Pops for me.

Letting My Faux-Outrage Flag Fly

That's a cool image, isn't it? Or perhaps frightening. Mrs. HM waving a flag of faux outrage, which might be outrageously un-faux...

But first, that flag imagery has reminded me of Farmer H. He's been tooling around in his Trailblazer for a month now, sporting an American flag on a stick. I don't know if he has it stuck in his mostly-rolled-up back window, or if it came with a little support thingy to stick on the window. The fact is, every time Farmer H goes up the driveway, I see him flying that patriotic flag.

I have nothing against that flag, but I want to tell Farmer H that the 4th of July holiday is over, and most people don't drive around flying a flag. It kind of makes your car stand out. Makes it easier for road-raged people to follow you, and pick you out of a crowd of silver Trailblazers. And believe me, if anybody was ever going to elicit road rage with his driving techniques...that would be Farmer H.

I've been forgetting to mention the flag issue to Farmer H, since he's always leaving when the thought hits me. Then Friday, I drove through the cemetery for a moment, going the other direction than usual, because I was on the way home this time. You know how different things catch your eye when you vary your routine? Well...I noticed something about that cemetery.

At least a dozen graves had that exact same flag!

I don't mean just an American flag. The same wooden stick, the same size, the same materials as Farmer H's Trailblazer flag. Heh, heh! Farmer H has been driving around sporting a grave flag!

But that's not what I'm outraged about! I guess it's really just medium outrage, compared to another issue I've got simmering, which you shall read about elsewhere. But I'm still pretty annoyed. I don't know if any company makes a Pretty Annoyed flag for me to fly.

What I'm mad about is PEOPLE WHO WON'T GET OVER!

You know. On the road. They take their half out of the middle, as my dad used to say. Now I know exactly what he meant. When two cars are approaching each other on an unlined road, they both, out of courtesy, should stay as far to the right as they can. Then there's no danger of hitting each other, you see.

I dutifully move T-Hoe as far to the right as I can. But other drivers insouciantly cruise along with a five-or-six-foot gap between their wheels and the edge of the road. That makes it very difficult for T-Hoe to avoid them. There is no shoulder on our blacktop roads. Just a drop-off, of varying depths.

T-Hoe is a substantial vehicle. Like an army tank, not a Shriner's mini-motorcycle. Piloting him is akin to bulldozing through the eye of a needle, not cycling under the Eiffel Tower. Balancing his two right tires on the edge of the pavement is like riding roller blades along a tightrope, not flappping Ronald McDonald shoes along the Great Wall of China.

People really need to be more considerate drivers. Don't make me get an actual car-flag!

If Only I Could Recreate This At Halloween

I saw him through the garage people-door as I parked T-Hoe. Catching a picture of Stockings is a stealth operation. He does not take kindly to photos. I knew the minute I opened up that door, he'd be off, nose out of joint, tail twitching, around the corner of the porch.

Lucky for me, my black cat was distracted by the arrival of Farmer H, and the barking of the dogs. Apparently, it's better to be an audience for a 3-ring circus than to perform in one. Farmer H was in my way at the people-door, and as we did that awkward dance step to see who was going which way, I managed to push the door back, and zoom in for this sight. 

I was able to creep three steps across the brick sidewalk, while Jack and Copper Jack muzzle-wrestled, and Juno barked her fool head off.

Stockings was not amused. He looks like the 3-ring circus ran out of cotton candy, the ringmaster is not to his liking, and he's imminently headed to the ticket booth for a refund.

The good thing about being a fat, anti-social cat with a hoarder human is that you can choose any apartment you want in the cat condominium on the porch.

Stink Bait, The Apparel

Tuesday morning, I reached for the knob to turn on the shower, and saw a hat. A camouflage cap with a large fish hook on the side. I was pretty sure Farmer H had not set a line to catch a fish in the shower. I figured he'd washed his hat, and hung it there to dry. He often hangs his SpongeBob boxers that double as his Poolio swim trunks there. Even though historically, bathrooms have been humid areas, suitable for growing African Violets, and not a great place to hang clothing up to dry.

Sweet Gummi Mary! What's with the hat hooks, anyway? If you've ever immersed yourself in Hillmomban culture, you've seen that fashion statement. Even high school students wear them, IN school, which doesn't seem quite right, those giant hooks being as menacing as a pocket knife.

Why would anybody want to wear a giant fish hook mere millimeters from his eye? If you fall, it could pierce your skull. In a fight, you're equally as likely to skewer your own temple as snag some guy's knuckle. In a car wreck, you could jam that curve of barbed metal into your temporal lobe. Say goodbye to memory, understanding, and language! Oh, wait. You can't bid those faculties farewell, because you won't have a memory to do so! At the very least, you could fall down drunk, and scratch your scalp, and need a tetanus booster.

Anyhoo...I told Farmer H that I'd moved his hat to the side of the big triangle tub, and that he might want to hang it outside to dry.

"Yeah. I washed it last night. I was sitting there, and I smelled it."

"I've learned that whenever I'm sitting in the living room, and get a whiff of a stench, that's always what smells. Your hat."

"No. I wasn't sitting in the living room. I mean at the auction. I was sitting there at the auction, and noticed a stink, and it was my HAT!"

Heh, heh. I'm glad I wasn't his traveling companion for that auction in the city.

Sliced, Meat Loaf

Because nothing ever goes as planned in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's world, the meat loaf creation occurred Tuesday morning. Since Farmer H sprang that surprise auction trip on me Monday afternoon, Monday's supper became Tuesday's lunch. That's because a different auction trip was planned for Tuesday night.

Actually, making the meat loaf for lunch fit into my time schedule better than for supper. I made it when I got up (at 10:00 [DON'T JUDGE]), and it was ready by 11:30. I'd told Farmer H that it would be ready by noon, in case he wanted to eat before he left for the auction around 2:30. The auction doesn't start until 6:00, but it's an hour drive, and the guy he rides with likes to get there early to look at everything.

Anyhoo...Farmer H was running around the county, being at that time in town at an estate sale. He came home for his trailer, and said he'd be back in an hour. So I waited until after I got ready for town to make his smashed potatoes.

I must say, the meat loaf turned out well.

That's after Farmer H sliced off the end. He likes the ends, and will no doubt take the other one for his next meal. I don't mind if I have the end or the middle. Here the meat loaf is already in a plastic container, ready to be shoved into FRIG II until time for my supper.

Nothing exotic in my meat loaf. It's ground beef, some type of diced bread (in this case, two hot dog buns), dashes of steak sauce and Worcestershire sauce, a sprinkle of dry onion soup mix, and two eggs. That all gets mashed together by my own two hands, then plopped into a glass baking dish, drizzled with ketchup, and slid into the oven at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. It's actually one of the easiest things to make, as long as you don't mind getting your hands slimy.

The little red-skinned potatoes out of Farmer H's pal's garden were first put into the microwave for 10 minutes. Then stabbed a couple times with a paring knife to open them a bit. I added butter, ground some salt and pepper onto them, poured in a little milk, and set to smashing them with my smasher. A taste off the smasher proved them to be surprisingly delicious.

That's about two Farmer-H-size servings left, stored in a recycled plastic bowl that once held a Hardee's Chicken Bowl. I like those little bowls, because they have a see-through lid that doesn't spill. I often put Chex Mix in them to send to The Pony.

And now, in keeping with my long-standing habit of chronicling my various and assorted minor injuries...I'll show you the near-maiming I suffered during the making of this meal.

We've got a bleeder! That ain't ketchup, by cracky! I actually didn't feel any pain, but noticed that red spot on my thumb as I was getting the ingredients ready. Sweet Gummi Mary! The littlest thing can turn into a bloodletting when you take an aspirin a day to keep your blood unclotted.

As you can see, I'd done no more than tear a hot dog bun into tiny pieces to line the bottom of the mixing bowl. I hadn't even opened up the pack of ground beef yet. My skin was sliced when I tore off a piece of plastic wrap to lay out for a hunk of that ground beef, that was being frozen for later, perhaps for spaghetti sauce.

You know how clingy plastic wrap can be. I was wrestling it loose from itself around the roll, and the cutting strip on the edge of the box got me. I didn't want a bandaid mixing with the raw meat. So I kept rinsing off the thumb and blotting it with a paper towel. The side of my thumb didn't actually come in contact with the meat mixture, but I didn't want to take a chance on any dripping.

I didn't mention the near-severing of my thumb to Farmer H. I'm sure he would not have cared. Not about a drop of blood having a chance to mix into his meat loaf. Nor about my pain and suffering.

Farmer H, The Smashing Conversationalist

Sunday evening, I ascended from my dark basement lair to make supper for Farmer H. I'd asked him the day before if he wanted chili dogs or a terrible tater for supper Sunday night. Being Farmer H, he said he liked both, and it didn't matter to him. So I said we'd have the terrible tater. Which is a big baked potato piled with (in Farmer H's case) butter, sour cream, BBQ pulled pork, and shredded cheddar, with dill pickle spears on the side.

Yes, I know you've all told me to stop giving Farmer H choices. I have not heeded your advice. It comes back to bite me in the butt every time.

Anyhoo...I came up to make supper, and confirmed the items that Farmer H likes on his tater.

"You said we were having chili dogs."

"No...I gave you a choice, and you said you didn't care which one. I need to use up the sour cream before it expires, and the potatoes before they grow eyes."

"Oh. Okay. I don't care."

"No. I haven't started. I'll make the chili dogs."

"No. It's fine."

While the big taters were in the microwave, I sat down on the short couch for further brain trust conversations with Farmer H.

"I got some hamburger today to make you spaghetti. And some garlic toast. I can make you a chicken bowl with the hamburger that's left. You know. In place of the chicken. Like the ones I get at Hardee's. With rice, refried beans, cheese, sour cream, and salsa."

"That would be good. But I'm going to the auction Tuesday, probably." {He said he was going last Tuesday, then didn't.] "Did you see them taters I brought you?" [red-skin potatoes that he got in Iowa from his pal]

"Yes. I thought of microwaving them and melting Velveeta on them, like when we have the broccoli/cauliflower."

"My pal in Iowa gave them to me. He made us mashed potatoes. His wife has that disease that makes you tired all the time. And weak."

"Oh. You mean...uh...Guillain-Barre Syndrome?

"No. That's not it."

"MS?"

"No. Not that."

"Uhh...Lou Gehrig's Disease?"

"Yeah. That might be it. Anyway, my pal left the skins on and put butter and milk in them."

"Did he use a mixer?"

"No. He used a masher. He called them Smashed Potatoes."

"I have a smasher. I've done that before, and none of you liked them. You wanted them all whipped and smooth, like they might as well have been instant."

"Well, these were good."

"I can make them like that. But surely you don't want them tonight with the terrible tater."

"No."

"And they don't go with spaghetti."

"No."

"I had originally thought of making a meat loaf, and having those potatoes on the side. But then you wanted the spaghetti instead of the meat loaf."

"Meat loaf is fine."

"Okay. Monday night, we'll have meat loaf and smashed potatoes."

"That sounds good."

Well. Monday night, Farmer H went to a surprise auction with a Storage Unit Store buddy. He told me right before I took the hamburger out of FRIG II to put the meat loaf together. So now it's planned for Tuesday night.

Just wait. When I take it out of the oven, Farmer H will probably say, "I thought you were making spaghetti."

The Last Shall Be First, And The Third Shall Be Last

I saw a video yesterday, of a fight because a dude cut in line at a restaurant. I didn't actually SEE the video, because I didn't click on it. But you know how it goes. You'll be waiting your turn in line, and some YAYhoo, as we call them around here, will think he's entitled to go ahead of the waiters. It mostly happens to ME when I'm driving T-Hoe. Let the record show that I don't give an inch. I will accelerate along with the cutter, making sure he doesn't beat me off the light, to dash in ahead of our lawful line of traffic, when his own lane ends. I can do that, you know. T-Hoe is a substantial vehicle to be reckoned with.

This time I was in line with a cart at Save A Lot. There was a man checking out at the lone open register, with cart full of reasonably-priced groceries. Behind him was a lady with a fuller cart, foodstuffs almost to the top of the basket. I was after her. I had two tubs of sour cream, a bag of pretzel sticks, a half-loaf of nutty oat bread, a family pack of hamburger, a box of frozen garlic texas toast, and three individual ice creams (two cookie dough, one chocolate). All my items fit in the child seat of the cart.

A lady came from the other direction. She knew she was after me, but she couldn't get in line, because we filled the main aisle with our waiting. A guy in a Save A Lot apron came to the first register, but all he did was call for a girl to come up front. Of course the new checker opened the lane by the 4th Waiter.

"I can help somebody over here."

To her credit, 4th Waiter looked at 2nd Waiter and me. "Do you want to go? You're both ahead of me."

Yes, I commend 4th Waiter on her waiting etiquette. It's a virtue seldom seen these days. In addition, she had her son of about five years old with her. So perhaps we'll have another decent citizen in the queue for adulthood. The 2nd Waiter shook her head, and motioned that she was next in her own line. I, too, declined.

Here's the thing. It was a no-win situation for me. Sure, it was rightfully my turn. But I'd be cutting in front of a lady who was RIGHT THERE at the line, and had a young child with her. A young child who might wonder why I cut in front of his mom. So I motioned for her to go ahead, and got in line behind her.

The lady with the full cart was done before me. I was indeed last.

I can't complain, though. Even Steven has been pretty fair to me since Friday. Farmer H and I will be making a trip to the city to the lottery office to collect that fairness one day this week. I hope there's not a line.

Trapped Like The Rat That I Am

Saturday morning, Mrs. HM was trapped, my blogfriends! Trapped like a rat in a Mansion! And by morning, I mean 11:45 a.m.

Farmer H was selling at his Storage Unit Store. I'd sent him a few texts. The first being about watching that show with Jack and Ozzy Osbourne, when they stopped in Missouri. They were at Genius's old college, blowing things up with explosives. Farmer H responded to that one. The next was asking if he spent $47.13 on the debit card without giving me a receipt, and the third about what he might want for supper if he was going to the auction. I figured he'd get around to answering, but I wasn't waiting on him. I'd been up since 9:30 (DON'T JUDGE), and it was time to drive to town for my magical elixir.

Let the record show that I lounge around the Mansion in my pajamas until I'm ready to head for town. Then I take a shower, and put on town clothes. I was walking towards the bedroom/master bathroom area, across the living room, behind the couch, when I heard all three dogs going crazy. I turned to look out the front window, and saw a long black car (a ritzy one for out here, big as a Lincoln Town Car) signaling with a blinker to turn into the Mansion driveway. NOBODY does that out here on these gravel roads. Sweet Gummi Mary! They hardly do it in town.

I don't know anybody with a black Lincoln Town Car! I haven't seen one driving around out here. It came from farther up in the compound, so it had already gone past the Mansion at some point without me noticing it. Probably in the ungodly hours before 9:30 a.m.

Anyhoo...no way was I opening the door to a strange car, me in my pajamas with bedhead, and Farmer H all the way in town and not checking his phone. I twisted the mini-blinds closed, turned off the TV, and went into the bathroom to pretend I wasn't home. The dogs kept barking, over at the carport end of the house. I heard THUMPING on the porch. Yes. I'm sure it wasn't my own heart. It was THUMPING on the porch.

I waited for the doorbell, or a knock at the door, so I could ignore it. But it never came! So either a person was standing on my porch and not trying to see if anyone was home, or the THUMPING was one of the dogs running back up on the porch. I could still hear dogs, though, barking across the front yard, and towards the BARn.

I crept to the bedroom door, to see if there was a silhouette outside those wavy-glass side windows that flank the front door. There was not. I listed for more THUMPING, which would mean the stranger was leaving. I heard none. I snuck over to look out the frosted glass french doors at Poolio. Not a ripple. No way was I opening up the door to look for that car!

My heart slowed down, and I figured the car must have left. Right? Yeah. Surely. I took a shower and got dressed and THEN looked out, but saw no car and no dogs.

When interrogated later that afternoon, Farmer H said he knows of no car by that description that belongs out here. He thought maybe it was somebody wanting to pay him for a portion of the road gravel, but I suggested that such a person would know our name to look up the house phone number, or most likely tell him on Facebook that they were coming by to pay. And we'd be familiar with that car.

Still a mystery. All I can think is that maybe it was a politician, out glad-handing the constituents. Farmer H has allowed a couple candidates he knows to put signs in our front yard/field. The fancy car would fit in with a campaigner going to every house.

I Can't Believe Medical Research Hasn't Got My Back

Let the record show that if medical research teams ever develop a total back replacement, or a back transplant...Mrs. HM wants to be first on the list!

I had JUST RECOVERED from hurting my right side butt-back while feeding the goat and mini-pony. Friday morning, I injured my left butt-back. It's not nearly as severe as the right side. I don't think there's a nerve involved in this one. Just muscle. Heh, heh! Don't you all be visualizing my MUSCULAR butt-back!

Once again, I was in the midst of a good deed when the injury befell me. Okay...it was a few minutes after the good deed. I had just finished scrubbing the toilet in the master bathroom. I sat down on the toilet to clip my toenails. DON'T JUDGE! That's where I always clip my toenails, bending over while sitting on the toilet. What? Did you think I chewed my toenails or something?

Anyhoo, I felt that twinge on the second clip. It was the little piggy that stayed home. No doubt due to a sore back, not feeling like a trip to the market, and planning to eat something other than roast beef for lunch. And most certainly the introspective type, with no intention of drawing attention to himself by squealing WEE WEE WEE all the way home.

Dang it! I'm hobbling around again, favoring the other side. It doesn't hurt getting into T-Hoe, though. And I can climb steps with moderate pain. Before leaving for town, I slathered some BenGay on that area, and turned on the backrest-part-of-the-seat heater in T-Hoe. Ooh! That felt amazing.

Of course, that BenGay had worn off by the time I stopped twice for scratchers, traipsed into the post office, withdrew money at the bank, and stopped for gas.

If it's like last time, I should be better in about 3 days. Already I'm planning on the heater and vibrator in my OPC (Old People Chair) while watching TV, the heating pad in the La-Z-Boy when I get up, and BenGay combined with T-Hoe's seat-heater for town trips.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to pull through.

Moving Foliation

Thursday morning, kicked back in the La-Z-Boy with Shiba on a pillow on my lap, I was distracted by the strangest sight ever in the front yard/field.

A HEAP OF ASSORTED TREE LIMBS WAS CRUISING TOWARD THE ROAD.

I was so flabbergasted that I didn't think to grab my cell phone and rush to the door for proof. It takes me a while to get up from the La-Z-Boy. It's not called an Energetic Gal, you know. And that Heap of Assorted Tree Limbs was moving at a good clip. I have to be careful not to forget the TREE part of that label. Because a heap of assorted LIMBS would be OH SO WRONG.

Even in my dotage, I know that a Heap of Assorted Tree Limbs is not ambulatory without help from another force. Floodwaters, winds, tractor beam from a hovering flying saucer...all of which were absent from my front yard/field. However, I remembered Farmer H telling me in a text that woke me at 9:20 a.m. (DON'T JUDGE), that HOS (Farmer H's Oldest Son) would be trimming some trees around the Mansion. About 30 minutes later, HOS came zipping across the yard in the Gator. Mystery solved! He had loaded all those severed boughs on the back of the Gator to haul them over to the BARn field burn pile.

HOS wasn't around when I left for town. I was going to offer to bring him a BIG SODA, or some lunch. I guess he went home for lunch. Anyhoo...when I returned, as T-Hoe was coasting down the driveway, I saw HOS on the Gator. He was pulling another Heap of Assorted Tree Limbs. This time, they were on a come-a-long behind the Gator. That's a flat strap used for tying down stuff on a truck. This Heap of Assorted Tree Limbs looked like it was on a trailer. But there was no trailer.

Just as I was opening the garage door, I saw the pink hose flapping around. It's the one Farmer H leaves hooked to the outside water pipe, the other end being at Poolio now. HOS's Heap of Assorted Tree Limbs had caught on that hose, and pulled lose from the Gator. Poor HOS. He had to pull that load like a mule towing a barge down the Erie Canal, to get it moved off enough hose to get slack for untangling.

I stopped to talk to HOS, and I think I left a puddle like that dissolved Wicked Witch of the West. It was freakin' HOT out there, and I was just standing still. I don't envy HOS his labors. Even though Farmer H is paying him for his trouble. 

SOLD RAGE II: The Angering

Yes, there's a sequel to last week's Sold Rage!

Sweet Gummi Mary! I might have to look into some rage management classes. To teach them! Heh, heh! To teach other people how to have rage. Just a little rage humor there. Very little.

Disappointed with my most recent new treat of Birthday Cake Cotton Candy, I picked up some of my old standby, Original Gourmet Lollipops. OM-effin-G! When I searched for the link, I saw that THEY HAVE A BIRTHDAY CAKE FLAVOR! I've never seen one of those!

Anyhoo...The Devil's Playground no longer has those bags of lollipops with the little round window so you can scope out the flavors inside. The only place they have my lollies is in that wooden stand up front, in one of the checkout aisles. I harvested a few of my favorites, those being Bubble Gum, Cotton Candy, and Pina Colada. Nom-nom!

Here's where the rage comes in. I'll be ding-dang-donged if that Devil's Handmaiden didn't hold my first lolly by the stick, and drop it from shoulder height into the plastic bag on the metal stand! I swear, it was like she was playing that clothespin-into-the-mason-jar game at a birthday party. I heard it hit bottom. A thin layer of plastic isn't much protection. I was about to come unglued.

Seriously! I picked out the lollies I wanted, checking to make sure they weren't cracked or misshapen, and THIS is how that Handmaiden treated them???

She must have sensed my discombobulation. Or heard my patience whistle out my ears like an overheated tea kettle. Because the NEXT lolly she picked up, she set in the bag carefully. I was ready to tell her to forget it, that I didn't want them if she was going to throw them in. However, I thought she might tell me to take it and the receipt over to the service desk for a refund. Since she seemed recalcitrant, I let it slide.

Once I got home, I saw that I shouldn't have.

Look at my favorite, the blue-and-pink cotton candy flavor. That's a big freakin' CRACK in it, by cracky! I guess I'll save that one until last, and I'll be so happy that I still have one left that I might be able to overlook its deformity, and not fly into a rage all over again.

Sure, it's just a sucker. But it's an Original Gourmet Lollipop. Not a common Dum Dum. I paid good money for it, and I fully expected to take it home in the same shape as when I selected it and put it in my cart. To me, this sweet-treat abuse is akin to smashing a fist into a cake as you ring it up. I really should have complained right then, and not let her get away with this shoddy service.

I guess there's one of me born every minute...

The Plot THINS!

Brought to you by Mrs. HM, who looks for zebras when she hears hoofbeats...today's tale of non-intrigue involving mail delivery between Hillmomba and Oklahoma.

As you may recall, on Monday, I proposed a theory for such poor mail service. It involved possible student workers in the campus post office. AHA! Looks like ol' Sherlock HM was on the right track. Investigation over the innernets revealed that the facility employs two regular postal workers, and two work-study students. So it IS conceivable that the student personnel changed at the end of spring semester, and somebody doesn't know what they're doing.

I took my case to the main post office in Hillmomba on Tuesday. Under the guise of buying stamps (it only cost me $10 for my entire investigation) I interrogated the counter man who once gave me a free three cents worth of postage due to lack of coinage.

Sure, I didn't have to buy stamps. But I'll be needing them by next week anyway. So I led with that, and then the unassuming statement,

"I also have a question. It's not really your problem, but you might be able to give me some information."

See? I was not accusatory at all. I explained the recent 10-day delivery span, my 3-week-old returned letter, shoved it across the counter for his perusal, and ventured my possible theory of mail delay.

The counter clerk peeled that yellow strip off the bottom of the letter. Looked perplexed for a moment. Digested all my facts. Then said, "We've been getting a lot of returned mail lately. It's possible, what you say. But I'm more likely to think it's a problem with the scanners. They go through so many pieces of mail per second that it's unbelievable. I think it kicks some of the mail out, just because it scans too fast. See here? They tried to forward it, but were unable."

I don't know what he meant by that, but I didn't want to tie up the line for a detailed Q & A. He suggested that I call that specific post office, and ask about the validity of the address, just in case it's been changed. I told him I would, if the letter I gave him today did not arrive in a timely manner. He said, "I do agree that 10 days is excessive for first class mail."

I was almost home, tooling up the gravel road in T-Hoe, when I got a text from The Pony.

"The letter from the 13th came today."

So...the most recent letter, with the exact same address, mailed on Friday the 13th...got there in three business days, on Tuesday the 17th. Very timely. One of the fastest turnarounds ever from Hillmomba to Oklahoma.

I think the post office needs a quality control investigation. Oh, wait. It's a government entity. That'll never happen.

Did I Tell You I Was Noshin' On A Treat Made Just For Me?

Yes, I stole that title. Since I'm pretty sure you're not all fans of 1980s country music, here's the song I stole it from. "The Bed You Made For Me," by Highway 101. It has a line: "Did you tell her she was sleepin' in the bed you made for me?"

I would have done a whole song parody. Because, you know, I have nothing better to do, and I like that sort of thing (stealing from other artists). However...I didn't think you would recognize it, which kind of defeats the purpose. We wouldn't want me wasting my unlimited time.

Anyhoo...did I tell you I was noshin' on a treat made just for me? Because I was, Sunday night/early Monday morning, shortly after 1:00 a.m.

Can you believe this ambrosia? BIRTHDAY CAKE cotton candy!!! You might recall that I am a birthday cake flavor aficionado. In fact, I went without my daily individual cup of birthday cake ice cream, just to I could have this treat as my nightly sweet. That's the thing about cotton candy, though. You have to eat it all at once, because I've tried saving part of it, only to find it shrunken down like beef jerky the next day, the air gone out of it, the humidity making it tough, even in a sealed ziplock bag. Not a big deal, though, because the whole bag says it's one serving, at 230 calories.

Once I opened the bag, I saw that my birthday cake cotton candy was two hues.

It was actually fluffier and prettier than it looks in that picture. I guess a hunk of cotton candy doesn't photograph well.

Sadly, it was not the taste treat I had anticipated. Oh, it was good enough. As long as I reminded myself that it was BIRTHDAY CAKE flavor, I could taste those notes. It's nothing to write home about, but good enough for a blog post.

I bought two bags, because it was at Save A Lot, and those special displays don't last long, and are rarely seen again. However...I don't think I'll look for any more. In fact, tonight I'm planning on my old standby, the individual cup of ice cream. I'll get around to eating my other bag of cotton candy soon enough.

An Illogical Explanation

Perhaps you recall that there seems to be a problem with the U.S. Postal Service between Hillmomba and Oklahoma. The Pony has not been getting his mail. Or he's been getting my letters two weeks after I send them. I expect more from my 50-cent stamp.

Thursday, I think I stumbled upon an explanation. I stopped T-Hoe at the side of the county blacktop road (as all denizens of Hillmomba are wont to do) so I could get the mail out of EmBee. This is what I found inside.

Uh huh. It was my letter to The Pony. The one from JUNE 21st!!!

Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's handwriting is perfectly legible. Emphasis on PERFECT. As you can see from the photo, my zip code and state are representative of my penmanship.

The Pony has lived at this address for TWO YEARS now. I've used the exact same address each time. The one The Pony gave me when he moved in. He used to get his letters on Wednesdays, after I'd mailed them on Fridays. Then they started coming later in the week. Then they stopped arriving altogether. He finally got the one I was worried about, with his new health insurance card. In fact, he has gotten other mail, and a couple of letters, since this one was returned.

I didn't show the top, but the stamp was cancelled out of St. Louis on June 22nd. This return label date is July 10th. Where was this letter languishing all that time? It hasn't been opened or tampered with. The enclosed allowance I send The Pony instead of scratchers was inside, unharmed.

Here's my theory. Since this apartment complex is considered campus housing, and their mail gets sorted at a campus post office...I think at the end of spring semester, somebody new took over sorting duties, and is MORE THAN incompetent.

Good thing I always include my return address.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

(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?

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.

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.

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.

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.