Mrs. HM Is A Prisoner In Her Own Mansion

With the dreaded sickovirus wearing out its welcome, my body doesn't want to do much of anything extra. This couldn't have come at a worse time. For 10 months I've had nothing pressing to do. A sickovirus would not have interfered with my plans. I could just sit home and not do battle on the uneven playing field of The Devil's Playground. I could make my own daily Diet Coke from bottles and FRIG II ice. Put off the scratchers. Or have Farmer H bring me both, and even do the shopping.

I admit to having Farmer H bring me my magical elixir two days, and a total of 3 scratchers, all of which were losers. So Sunday, emboldened by the ability to gaze without squinting, the red in my peepers faded from crimson to blush, I decided I was well enough to make a trip to Country Mart and the Gas Station Chicken Store. There were so many things to do before Tuesday's trip to pick up The Pony, and the Thanksgiving feast.

First thing, I tossed in a load of laundry, and took my meds. Cracked open HIPPIE to catch up on my blogs. Watched a little TV. I wanted to put a fresh coat of L'Oreal on my lovely lady-mullet. Then I could go to town.

Once the dye job was in progress (I'm still not ready to quit my dye job!), I sat back down in the La-Z-Boy, careful not to lean back, but on the edge. I fielded a couple texts from The Pony. Watched a little more TV. Drank water to stay hydrated. Talked to my Sweet, Sweet Juno through the front window. And saw a truck drive by really slowly down the gravel road in front of the Mansion.

It was a dark colored pickup truck, pulling a trailer like you haul a car on. I'm pretty sure I've seen that truck out here. So at first I just though maybe a dog or horse was in the road. Or that the driver was slowing down for potholes that developed after our recent snows and melting. I saw the side of the brake lights going on. I could see through the trees to the end of our driveway, where the front of the truck was just past. THEN it started backing up!

WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN?

Surely that dude wasn't going to turn into our driveway! Farmer H was at his Storage Unit Store. I was sitting there in my pajamas, with an old threadbare yellow towel pinned around my shoulders by a chip clip, with a paste of Medium Brown slicking my tresses down like an unkempt flapper girl. I was in no mood to answer the door. I quickly devised a plan to cut the sound on the TV. I didn't want to turn it off, because the DISH receiver has been giving us fits, saying the satellite is blocked when it's not, but only for certain channels. I couldn't rush to close the shades, because that would be seen from the driveway, revealing that someone was home.

Yeah. I'd mute the TV, dash into the master bathroom, and wait it out. WAIT A MINUTE! What about my cough? It was sure to betray me. Maybe I'd take a pillow to cough into...

Just then, I noticed something odd about that backing-up trailer. There were two guys sitting on the side rails. At the back, by the tailgate. I watched as one stood up, dipped a shovel into the bed, and brought it out to sling gravel onto the road.

THEY WERE FILLING HOLES!

That was a relief. A lady doesn't like her convalescence and L'Oreal-tressence disturbed by a wandering local.