Mrs. HM Flies Into Another Flippin' Fit Of Pique With Farmer H

Farmer H is skating on thin ice. So thin that a single teardrop could send him crashing into the depths to Lock Ness Monster levels. But don't you worry about Farmer H, because Mrs. HM is nowhere near to crying. She might, however, emit a dangerous drop of spittle while spewing her displeasure with Farmer H's latest antics.
We all know that Farmer H never needs anything from the store. So I have taken to interrogating him about specific items, and using my incredible sense of attention to detail to compensate. I know how many bananas he has left in the bowl on the kitchen counter. I use them as a marker for when I MUST go to the store. I knew Monday night that Farmer H had TWO banana left. He'd be eating one Tuesday morning, leaving ONE. So the very latest I could go to the store was Wednesday, or he'd be out of bananas.

I was planning on a trip to Terrible Cuts on Monday, but Farmer H threw off my schedule. So I changed it to Tuesday. As long as I was there, I might as well go in The Devil's Playground for my weekly shopping. So Monday night, watching Farmer H eat his supper of shrimp and slaw and a Hawaiin Roll, I asked if we needed Hawaiian Rolls. They're closed up in the cabinet, and I don't regularly eat them, so my power of observance was not in play.

"I have two left."

"Okay. I'll get some tomorrow after my haircut."

And I did. The mini sub roll Hawaiians, which are the ones Farmer H likes best. They stay fresh for a pretty long time compared to regular bread, several days past the date. We rarely have them long enough to mold. They get a little stale when old, and I give them to the dogs, who love them.

Anyhoo... Farmer H was gone when I got home with the groceries (SHOCKER), so I had to carry them in by myself. As I went to put the bunch of seven bananas in the bowl, I saw that there was no room! That glass fruit bowl was filled with tiny green bananas! SEVEN of them. Plus the one I knew would be left, turning spotty.

That made me kind of mad. How in the Not-Heaven were we going to get rid of 15 bananas? It's not like I'm a baker or pudding-maker. And the bananas I brought home were beautiful! I'd wheeled out the dolly under the banana display at The Devil's Playground, to get the good bananas. Just right! Bright yellow. The longest bananas I'd seen in a while. Yet Farmer H had apparently brought home AUCTION BANANAS! Without bothering to tell me.

Oh, but it gets worse. When I put away the Hawaiian Rolls, I saw that there was a FULL PACKAGE of Hawaiian Mini Sub Rolls, dated July 31. They'd be good at least until my next shopping trip. I took out the pack of Hawaiians with two left, dated July 18, to give the dogs. I guess I can freeze the new package. But it will probably stay good anyway, with a date of August 10.

Farmer H's excuse for the bananas was: "I was sure you'd look and see them." For the Hawaiians, he only said, "Oh."

Too bad the dogs don't like bananas.

When One Door Closes, It's Just Another Attempt On The Life Of Mrs. HM

I'm pretty sure Farmer H is still trying to kill me.

Saturday night, he was leaving for the auction. I was in the kitchen, getting my own supper ready after feeding him. I'd chopped an onion, and wanted him to toss the peel and ends off the back porch. No use stinking up the house with a cut onion in the trash. I let Farmer H know that I wanted him to do this by saying, "Toss that onion off the porch as you go out." Pretty simple, right? I was speaking English, Farmer H's native tongue.

Imagine my surprise resignation when he stumped around the end of the counter and passed the onion plate without even looking. With a heavy sigh, I darted around the counter and grabbed that plate, intending to step out on the porch as Farmer H left, and give him a stern talking-to for ignoring me.

Now imagine my surprise as Farmer H stepped across the portal, and SLAMMED THE KITCHEN DOOR RIGHT IN MY FACE!

I barely recovered, halting at the last moment, and grabbing the doorknob to let myself out. WHAM! That's my face hitting the safely glass in the door. Farmer H had LOCKED the doorknob. Which was hard to turn with my squozen forearm. He was already getting in his truck by the time I got out. To speed away from the scene of the crime, no doubt!

Yeah. I'm pretty sure he's still trying to kill me.

He's got more than one plan, you know. Monday afternoon, he sat down on the long couch as I was getting ready to shower and leave for town. We were watching a movie, and the subject came up about how people are kept alive at enormous expense, even when the prognosis is dismal.

"I can't say for sure, because it ain't one of my kids... but to me it seems crazy to keep these babies on life support for a year or two when they're just going to die anyway, because they got something wrong with them."

"Well, you have to be careful there, because that's the same thing their parents might say about us old people. 'I don't see the point in keeping them alive. They don't work any more, and they don't have many years left. They're not helping society, they're just using up resources.' Young people know it all, and they don't need us."

"There's some truth to that. When you get so old you can't do anything. Like my old buddy when he couldn't get out and go to the store any more. Or your grandma when she went in the nursing home. They were ready to die."

"Great. I know your plans for ME! 'Well, she had that bad toe. I'm pretty sure it was going to get infected anyway, and then go to her brain, which was already crazy enough. So I didn't see no point in keepin' her alive.' Yeah. That's what will happen to me. You'll pull the plug before there's even a plug!"

Yeah. I'm pretty sure Farmer H is still trying to kill me.

Dodging Seven Furry Bullets

Good thing I don't have 10-year-old Genius riding shotgun in T-Hoe any more. And that my schedule is not the same as Farmer H.

I got home from town around noon on Sunday. Farmer H stayed longer at his Storage Unit Store than usual. He was on his way to order lunch, walking across the parking lot, when I called him. Oh, yeah. He had two sausages, with onions and relish. Anyhoo... he said he'd probably leave around 1:00, but ended up staying until 2:00. Which put him turning onto our gravel road about 2:30, after he'd put away his merchandise.

"There was two carloads of kids down there. I mean adults, but young. They looked clean. As I drove by, one of the girls stopped me. 'We're from up the road here, by the auto body shop. We just came down to get in the water and cool off. Do you want one of these kittens? There's seven of them!' She had them wrapped in a blanket."

"They probably brought them down to dump them! At least we don't have Genius the Cat-Listener to stick his head out the window, hear them, and ask to keep them."

"No, she didn't bring them. She found them! I told her I didn't need another cat, and she said, 'I can't just leave them here. I'm taking  them home with me.'"

"I hope she doesn't bring them back! I get so mad at people dumping their pets on us!"

"Yeah. Our neighbors Copper Jack's human mom, and the Crazy Rottweiler's human mom, both put on Facebook today, 'I'm sick of people hanging out here like it's a park!' I don't know what we can do about it, though."

"They're pretty brave, parking down there on our private road. Like it's public property! Let them park along the blacktop road, and see how many people hang out."

"There's no way we can keep them out. Just stare at them when we go by."

"Or take a picture of them right under the NO TRESPASSING sign, so they think they might get in trouble!"

Yeah. I would never do that. They could be head-loppers who'll put my body in the septic tank up the road. It could happen! It already has...

Whoopsie! I Did It Again!

Remember how yesterday, I suggested that I might need to be a gal wrapped in gauze, surrounded by bubble wrap, wearing a straight-jacket? I might need to accessorize that ensemble, with mittens, inside of oven mitts, covered by those giant hand pads that police canine trainers wear when they're the pretend-criminal. Just something to keep my hands from gripping or grasping or grabbing.

All I did was get up from my desk in front of New Delly. Like I've done one million and twenty-seven times before. My desk is a corner affair, made by Farmer H by fixing two pieces of countertop to adjoining walls, and I sit in the V section. When I get up, I turn to my left, and grasp the little lip of the underside of the countertop to assist in hoisting myself up from my rolly chair, and steady myself while my knees unstiffen so I can walk.

As I was mid-hoist, I felt something go horribly wrong inside my right arm! It was a squeezy/pinchy sensation, halfway up my forearm. The underside part. Like when you hold your arm out to look at your palm. Which is the upperside part as I'm grasping the countertop lip. Sweet Gummi Mary, that smarted! I felt immediate weakness as well. I've obviously strained a muscle, and possible constricted a nerve. It's kind of a carpal-tunnel-y sensation, but farther away from the wrist. I'm sure it will be better in a day or two.

Here are some things I've discovered I really need full function of that muscle for:

Getting up from my rolly chair at my desk (DUH)
Lifting my 44 oz Diet Coke foam cup to my lips
Lifting my bubba cup full of ice water by its handle
Turning the plastic lid to open a bottle of Diet Coke
Carrying my lunch tray
Holding onto the stair banisters as I descend to my lair
Holding a new jar of salsa while I attempt to remove the lid with my left hand
Lifting my heavy pizza pan with the holes in it out of the oven
Going up and down the channels with the TV remote
Operating the recline/sit up feature on my OPC (Old People Chair)
Typing on New Delly's keyboard
Scrolling with the mouse wheel
Turning on the lamp
Writing with a pen
Cranking back the lever of the La-Z-Boy
Shifting gears in T-Hoe
Opening FRIG II's door
Squeezing lime wedges into my 44 oz Diet Coke

I'm sure I will discover other limitations as they occur. As I type this, I'm enjoying a bit of a respite, since I took my nightly ibuprofen about an hour ago. This should tide me over until 3:00 a.m. when I go to bed. I've been bending my hand back like a fiend, every time I'm not using that arm, to stretch out that muscle. That makes it feel a little better.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, The Walking Wounder

You know how some people are a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma? That's not me. What I SHOULD be is a gal wrapped in gauze, surrounded by bubble wrap, wearing a straight-jacket. That might protect me from myself.

As you read yesterday, I have somehow started my big toe rotting off by trimming my toenails. Just as that was getting better, another incident befell me on Wednesday. Uh huh. Befell me. These things happen. With no conscious thought or input from my own central nervous system.

Maybe I have a central REALLY nervous system. I was just standing there, in front of the bathroom mirror, picking my hair. Not in a bad-habit kind of way. In a COMBING kind of way. I just use a plastic pick, because it lifts my hair and gives it more body, and doesn't stretch it out like a too-toothy comb. I'm a right-hander, so I finished picking the right side of my head, and then reached across to pick-comb the hair on the left side of my head.

YOUCH!

I miscalculated, and instead gouged the skin at the end of my left eyebrow. GOUGED! It really hurt! Some inappropriate language might have accidentally leaked out during my pain fugue. I eventually regained my senses and composure, and managed to dress myself, and arrange my lovely lady-mullet into a socially acceptable display of old-lady tresses.

My injury was forgotten until I returned home, and was slipping into something more comfortable for lolling about my dark basement lair. I looked into the mirror as I was pulling a shirt over my head, and saw a red, scabby line on my left temple, at the end of the eyebrow.

The Man Owner at The Gas Station Chicken Store had probably given me that FREE 44 oz Diet Coke because he thought I'd been in a fight! He felt sorry for me! Or else he thought I was a scrapper, and didn't want to incur my ire after not having Diet Coke for five days.

I really need to be protected from myself.
Gauze and bubble wrap and a straight-jacket should do it.

Me And My Big Toe, Sitting Here In Solitude

Shades of night have fallen and I'm chillin'
Sitting in my OPC, aren't you?
TV-watching's fun
Now my shows are done
I'll head upstairs just like a gal should do
It's just

Me and my big toe
Sitting here in solitude
Me and my big toe
One of us is oozing out some goo
But when it's three o'clock, we climb the stair
We never knock, not near the lair!

Just me and my big toe
Neither of us something you should view

Mrs. HM is not a singer. But she does have a big toe, and that big toe has an issue.

I first noticed it on Sunday morning. While I was sitting on the toilet before my shower, but that's not pertinent. I'd show you a picture, but... well... FEET!

It's my left foot big toe. The crack (heh, heh, I've already typed TOILET, and CRACK) along the nail on the right side. It looked a little pink. Puffier than normal. It also was tender to the touch. WELL! I certainly didn't want to get paronychia (DON'T GOOGLE!) like my mom had in her pinky finger, and the first doctor wanted to cut it off.

My sister the ex-mayor's wife got it in a finger. She went to a different doctor, sooner, and he drained it, and Sis said it STANK worse than the Grinch's attitude. Okay, I put those words in her mouth. But since it seems like this paronychia might run in the family (don't even know if that's possible, maybe we're just dirty bacteria-ridden sloths), I wanted to keep an eye on that toe. Not literally. I'm not a contortionist.

Anyhoo... I washed and dried that toe real good. The rest of me too, of course, but with special attention to that toe. Then I put a little Germ-X on it, just in case. I swung my leg back and forth at the kitchen counter, to dry it by evaporation. That's where my Germ-X was, in my purse. Unfortunately, I swung too far, and cracked my bad toe on the kickboard under the cabinets. It didn't hurt TOO bad.

Then I got a bandaid, not name brand, but the kind that Country Mart has, which probably cost more, but are less of a walk to reach than those at The Devil's Playground, way over in the pharmacy. I opened the bandaid and put some triple antibiotic ointment on the bandage part. Then I carried it by the sticky part to the piano bench, which is where I put on my socks every day. I hiked my foot up there, and covered the crack of my big toe with that medicated bandaid. Left it on all day and night.

The next morning, I was sitting in the La-Z-Boy talking to Farmer H, who had wandered in briefly to see if I was alive. I was. He didn't know about my big toe. I took the bandaid off, getting ready for the shower anyway, and saw that some reddish gunk had oozed out of it onto the bandage! I showed Farmer H, but he didn't seem to be very interested in my big toe. Although he DID ask if I wanted to go to the casino on Tuesday. Which was going to be hard on my toe.

I wiped off my toe gunk and then washed it with liquid soap straight from the spout. Then rinsed it good in the shower, patted it dry, and repeated the Germ-X and triple antibiotic bandaid treatment. I've done this all week. After the oozing, the toe didn't look puffy anymore, and wasn't tender.

I think it's getting better. I don't know what causes that. Don't want to read about paronychia long enough to find out. (Again, DON'T GOOGLE! I will not be held responsible if a picture pops up!) I had trimmed my toenails a couple days before it appeared, but the edge wasn't sharp, and the top part of my toe crack wasn't where the redness was.

Me and my big toe. Sitting here in solitude. Hopefully on the mend.

You Probably Won't Believe This

I had a good day! Yes, it's true. I wish I would have warned you to sit down first. Hope the shock didn't cause anyone to faint, breaking a tailbone or cracking a skull!

First, let me mention a scene from Tuesday. I had gotten the mail out of EmBee, and was walking back across the blacktop road to T-Hoe, before driving to town. Way up the gravel road, around the bend, peeking out from the trees, was Copper Jack. At least it looked like Copper Jack. I didn't have my glasses on. I squinted. It was his size and color. Four legs. As I stared, he backed up into the trees so I couldn't see him. Huh.

That dog doesn't really like me. Won't let me pet him, but lets every stranger who stops by run a hand over his head. WHY would he be following me down to the mailboxes? Farmer H had left for town. I don't know if maybe the dogs ran after his truck, and then heard T-Hoe and followed me. I didn't see Jack or Juno. It was going on 5:00, late for a trip to town, but we had just returned from the casino. Maybe the timing had the dogs confused. I continued, and didn't think any more about it. Until Wednesday.

I left for town at the regular time, shortly before noon. Going down the first hill, where Farmer H and Buddy poured the lumpy blacktop, I saw TWO LITTLE DEER walk across the road in front of me. Must have been twins. The same size. They'd lost their spots, but they were not even half grown. They were the size of Copper Jack! And the same color. Much thinner legs, and longer neck. But I do believe maybe it was one of those little deer that I saw down by the mailboxes on Tuesday.

Anyhoo... I got to town, and was thrilled to see that the road construction at the intersection by Dairy Queen hasn't caused a detour yet. That will cut into my Country Mart route, and thus my scratcher machines there, plus Farmer H's weekly ice cream supply.

I went in The Gas Station Chicken Store, thrilled that the Diet Coke spigot got its shipment after being without since last Thursday. Not only that, the Man Owner was working the register, and he said, "Your soda is on the house. You don't have to pay, because I messed up again." I of course declared that I'd pay, I had the correct change in my hand, but he insisted. He's a class act. One of these days, he's going to learn how to do his job. He's only been at it about 30 years.

Standing in Country Mart at the lottery machine, an old man came up and started chatting about which tickets he likes, and told a story about a guy he knew who worked at a gas station, and got caught scamming tickets! He'd tear them apart to put in his case, look up the numbers. When he got one that didn't say NOT A WINNER, he'd buy it. I don't know what kind of scanner they used to have back then, but these days you have to scrape off a part to get the bar code or those numbers. I guess maybe it used to be the honor system with the retailers. Or maybe he was taking the tickets people asked him to check, and lying about it not being a winner, and taking them. That would make more sense. You couldn't scan them on your own back then. Anyhoo... that was a nice old man, and I actually enjoyed talking to him.

Farmer H spent the morning and half the afternoon at his Storage Unit Store, straightening up. He said I should come by and take a look at it (admire his straightening), but I was able to resist that urge.

All dogs were present at the Mansion, and greeted me at the garage. They were rewarded with a slice of Nutty Oat Bread each.

Yes. I had a really good day. Can't complain.

Boring, isn't it?

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Is Not Assured

We upgraded our health insurance policy (through the school), for when the fiscal year changed July 1. I know I mentioned how we got two ID cards for three people. I have since received the extra ID card, so everything is good. I think. Here's a paragraph from a previous blog post:

Usually, there's a meeting at school for the retirees. The insurance rep comes in and goes over any changes. Then we sign a form to continue or change policies. This year, there was no meeting. I even called school to see if I'd missed the letter. Nope. No meeting. But since I wanted to change, I could go to the main office and fill out the form. So I did. Back in May. Paid my premium in June, which was for July. [Oh, there's another story about THAT, which might come up soon.]

Uh huh. The time for that other story is here!

Let the record show that I leave six checks in the administrative office. Already filled out, ready to deposit on the first of the month, even though they don't pay the insurance premiums until the tenth. I have money in my checking account to cover all the checks. It's easier than depending on the mail, or driving over there every month to pay. Then I take the next six over when those run out. They take a check out of my folder every month, to cover the premium. The secretary who does this retired, but the one taking her place assured me it would still work the same way.

Everything was good. The check for July (dated June1) cleared the bank in a timely manner. Health insurance was no longer on my radar. Mission accomplished.

A couple weeks ago, I got a letter from school, dated June 27.

I am sorry for the delay in getting your new health insurance premium amount sent out for the 2019-20 school year. We appreciate your patience while we transition several positions in the central office. Please note your premium below which began in June for your July premium:

$1699.20

Should you have any questions in regard to this letter, please do not hesitate to contact our office.

What in the actual NOT-HEAVEN???

It was addressed to me. That is the amount I've written my six checks for. The amount the bookkeeper told me when I went to the office to upgrade the policy. So this is not news to me. I am worried that they didn't pay my premium for July! The new insurance cards have different deductibles. So it looks like I'm on the upgraded policy.

Am I worried needlessly? Did they just send out a letter to all retirees? Because they didn't have a meeting this year? Or was it a letter to ALL employees, because a different amount will be held out of their check (due to increases) for the partial amount they have to pay for family members above their board-paid insurance? Did they also neglect to have a district-wide insurance meeting in May?

It was signed by the new superintendent, who was a previous principal, who was never a big fan of me. One who has a history (it's no secret) of getting a lot of help from other people to do his job. I did not call the office. I have no desire to talk to the new administration.

The gals assured me everything was good with my checks. The first one cleared the bank, you know. So I'm hoping it went into the right account for the insurance.

When One Door Closes, Two More Open, Three Days Later

Farmer H has been in the dog house for locking my little dog Jack up in the BARn for 26 hours. You may have followed the saga elsewhere. Jack is showing no ill effects, and is back to being his boisterous self.

Farmer H was unduly harsh with him when carrying in some groceries today. Speaking quite sharply to Jack to LEAVE THAT CAT ALONE! It’s not like Farmer H even likes the cat. Barely tolerates it enough to feed it every morning. And Jack was only barking at it. Not chasing, not biting, not attempting caticide. I think Farmer H is still holding a grudge because Jack tore up the insulation on the inside of the BARn’s garage door. Farmer H needs to watch pointing the finger of blame at Jack, because there are three fingers pointing back at himself! It’s not like Jack asked to be locked in the BARn for 26 hours, with a plan to wreak mischief.

Anyhoo… that unfortunate incarceration of little Jack happened on Thursday/Friday. Farmer H miraculously made it through the weekend without imprisoning any other pets, though our newest dog Marley remained behind metal, in his pen within a pen. He’s not a canine Hannibal Lecter. He’s just double-penned so he can’t tunnel out too fast.

Sunday evening, Farmer H RELEASED Marley. On purpose. Just to see what he’d do. You may recall that the first recreational release had Marley up at HOS’s old place within a half hour, and Farmer H capturing him (after multiple attempts) to re-incarcerate.

I had no idea Marley was out, until Farmer H bragged about it from his La-Z-Boy during supper.

“I let Marley out while I was mowing. He ran around in the BARn field for a while, then laid down, like the big Jack does, where he could watch me. I think Marley knows he lives here now.”

“Well, you were outside with him. Juno hates when you mow! She runs straight to her dog house.”

“Yeah, she don’t like it much. It doesn’t bother Jack. I don’t know where he went. He barked a couple times, but he didn't bother Marley like before.”

“So you put Marley up when you came in?”

“No. He’ll stay around. I left the door open to his pens.”

“Where will he sleep? If he comes up on the porch for one of the dog houses, these other dogs are gonna flip out!”

“I imagine he’ll go back in his pen and sleep, in his little shed. It’s what he’s used to now. It’s where his food and water are.”

“Anything can get in there and eat his food, with the doors open. You might want to check and make sure he’s out there. And put him back. He’ll feel safer overnight.”

After eating, Farmer H went out. Not for long.

“I don’t see him out there. I guess I’ll drive around and look for him. He might have went up to HOS’s again.”

Indeed. When he returned 15 minutes later, Farmer H reported that's where he found Marley.

“He was up there. Neighbor Jack’s two dogs are his buddies. He was standing over by HOS’s shed with one of ‘em. He came right to me, and I brought him back and put him in his pen. I might have to put him on a rope next time I let him out, unless I’m right there with him.”

That was my plan from the beginning.

I'm Pretty Sure It's Farmer H's Fault

I've slept about eight hours in two days. Not even braggin'! I'd like to sleep more. There's no reason to get up early except on Fridays, to get to the post office before 11:30. Which necessitates leaving the Mansion by 10:30. And getting up by 9:00.

I've even trained myself to sleep through the jolly-good-fellow jouncing every morning at 7:30, when Farmer H perches on the edge of the bed to put on his pants, socks, and work boots. In fact, I'd planned on sleeping in until 10:00 (!) on Sunday morning. I know, that's scandalous. But I hadn't gone to bed until 4:30 a.m., because I got caught up in a movie.

It wasn't even a particularly good movie. It was Drillbit Taylor, with Owen Wilson and that kid who's on The Goldbergs now. I'd set it to record earlier in the evening. When browsing through my DVRs, I noticed that the little screen was black. Huh! Did that mean the channel I was recording was out? I tried to click out and watch it, but the screen was still black! Dang it! I'll be darned if I record three hours (lots of commercials) of black screen. So I stopped the recording. Turned the DISH off and on. And there it was! My channel was working. Good thing it was on a commercial. I started recording again.

Anyhoo... by the time I started watching that movie (it had actually recorded, not black screen), it was 3:00 a.m. The movie was pretty good. I didn't want to stop. But at 4:30, I had to. I was snoozing pretty good, too, after getting up for the bathroom at 6:30. Farmer H was already out of the house when I woke again at 8:15.

The reason for my wakage was a buzzing in my ear. A MOSQUITO! I hate that high-pitched buzz! It was by my left ear. I was laying on my back at the time, and I reached over like a fancy performer slapping a tambourine beside my head, clapping both hands, trying to catch kill that blood-sucker. I thought I might have. Didn't hear it any more.

Until 15 minutes later. That's right Same reaction. Same assumption. Same result. Every 15 minutes, that mosquito buzzed in my ear. I finally gave up and got up. At 9:00. Really tired.

I'm pretty sure a mosquito in the bedroom is Farmer H's fault. He's probably growing larvae in his breather reservoir. Now I have an itchy bite on my back crack area. Above it. Like where you might get a tramp stamp, if you got it from a really bad tattoo parlor, and they didn't center it, but put it three inches to the right.

I don't know how that mosquito bit me there. It must have been when I rolled over to look at the clock before getting up.

Off Kilter In The Wee Hours

Well. Here I sit at New Delly, procrastinating in the wee hours of the morning, only to notice, upon glancing at the clock, that three of my four pictures are off-kilter.


That is a curious thing. I sit here for hours every day. I don't recall them being crooked. It's not like anything bumps them, or touches that wall. We're on a concrete slab floor. Even when I lumber around like Godzilla himself, I don't shake the foundation to jiggle those frames.


These pictures have been up a loooong time. Farmer H got them for me, at various auctions. Way back when the Rams were a St. Louis football team, and I was a fan of Kurt Warner, Isaac Bruce, and Marshall Falk. Back when The Pony was just a little shaver.




I have no idea how all but the first frame got crooked. It's hard to tell with my photo kind of skewed, but The Pony and the big Isaac Bruce on the right are tilted clockwise, and the middle picture of all the Rams is tilted counterclockwise. I don't recall any earthquakes around here. I'm not even suggesting that all the tilting occurred at the same time. I just don't know how it happened. I haven't changed the battery in that clock for a long time. Even if that was the explanation, it would only affect the Rams below.

Another mystery of the lair. I might straighten them, and monitor the situation.
Or I might not.

Return From Absence Makes The Heart Grow Somber

Let the record show that I am not exactly thrilled to have Farmer H back home. Three days without him was relaxing. I don't begrudge his return to the Mansion, but I'm not planning a welcome party. Here's the thing. He's the same old Farmer H.

First of all, he's committed an infraction that will be revealed elsewhere, and I'm having trouble forgiving. It's something he's done before, and has been lectured on more than once. Okay. That really doesn't narrow it down. But I am not in the mood to discuss it at this sitting.

Here's the most recent transgression. The precipitating factor to my rant.

It's bad enough that Farmer H does not say what he means. It's TEN TIMES WORSE when he lectures me on "never understanding like a normal person." Sweet Gummi Mary! As IF Farmer H would have any inkling how a normal person's mind works!

I stood at the bottom of the stairs when he returned from the auction. He'd had time to stump around the bathroom, and crank back in his La-Z-Boy, and fiddle with the TV remote. I asked a simple question:

"Are you going to the auction tomorrow night?"

"I don't know."

"Well. I was asking, because I need to know what time you want supper."

"Six."

"Okay. So you're not going to the auction, and you want supper at six."

"No. I'm going to the auction."

"So that means you'll LEAVE at six?"

"Yes. That's what I said."

"Actually, you said you wanted supper at six. That's why I asked. Because you usually want supper at 5:15 or 5:30, so you can be done and leave at 6:00."

"I don't know why you always go on like this. I can't tell you anything. You don't understand like a normal person!"

"Well, it's kind of hard to understand, because when I go by what you tell me, it's wrong. You don't say the facts. You say what you want, and I'm supposed to figure it out."

"You don't know how to listen!"

As you might imagine, I did not bother to ask what he wanted for supper.

This Heat Makes Me Wish I Had My Thyroid Back!

Mrs. HM does not deal well with heat. Part of that problem is the fact that she is too well insulated. But we won't dwell on a condition that she can do something about. We'll jump right to the fact that she is missing the majority of her thyroid, with only a tiny sliver remaining. No, the thyroid did not pack up its meager belongings in a red bandana and tie them to a stick and hit the road one night while Mrs. HM slumbered. Nope. The thyroid was RIPPED FROM HER NECK by a highly qualified surgeon back in '06. Your biology lesson for today is that the thyroid secretes hormones that help regulate body temperature. Sorry, there are no textbooks here. We've gone to online only, hope you have access.

Anyhoo... I just can't take the heat anymore. Gone are the days when I could go out in the early August heat and shovel a dump truck load of dirt in Mom and Dad's front yard, filling in the driveway to plant some grass. No more working up a good sweat on a five mile run. A slow hobble from kitchen door to T-Hoe is almost more than I can take these days. The humidity is so oppressive.

Thursday, I think it was 94 when I walked by the thermometer on the back porch. Farmer H was at the barbershop, soaking up air conditioning and gossip. I didn't know that until later. I thought he'd just run to town for his prescriptions. In fact, I was so optimistic that he'd be home first that I unloaded the soda from the back of T-Hoe, and carried it to the side porch. Knowing that he'd carry it inside. Even though I had pointedly reminded him that it was in the back of T-Hoe for the past week.

It's bad enough that I have to carry in perishable groceries without his help. Bad enough that I have to load that soda in the cart, then unload it in T-Hoe. Soda is heavy! This was two six-packs of 20 oz Diet Mountain Dew bottles. Two six-packs of 20 oz Diet Coke bottles. AND 14 bottles of flavored water (oz unknown) drunken by Farmer H. They were in bags, assorted flavors.

Whew! My face was beet red, and I was melting into a blob of something not as pleasant as chocolate. More like that yellow fat trimmed off a chicken. Good thing Farmer H finally got T-Hoe's air conditioner charged with Freon a few months ago! It didn't take long to cool off. Of course, every stop, I got all beet-faced again.

The Gas Station Chicken Store was OUT OF DIET COKE! The Man Owner had the audacity to admit that it was his fault. He was quite apologetic. He assumed full responsibility, but said he was SHOCKED that he had failed to order my magical elixir. He was SURE that he had. Until the distributor got there, and he saw that he had not.

That meant an extra stop, at Orb K. Where my favorite parking spot was taken by a BRINKS TRUCK. Sweet Gummi Mary! Just because they're full of money, they think they can park ANYWHERE!

It didn't help my mood or state of meltiness that when I arrived home, I saw SilverRedO NOT under the carport. And all those beverages still sitting on the side porch. So I had to carry them in anyway, before I could enjoy my Lesser 44 oz Diet Coke.

More heat on Friday. When I'll be carrying in the groceries alone.

Farmer H Takes One For The Team

Remember how Farmer H went out to Oklahoma to install a vice in The Pony's professor's oven? Lab equipment for the study they've been working on for over a year? He had such grandiose dreams of being their knight in shining armor, and being compensated accordingly. Then he got his wake-up call.

Farmer H spent several hours last week researching what kind of vice would work, with specs supplied by The Pony. They were actually looking for a more elaborate contraption, with a high-dollar price tag over $5000. Farmer H came up with the vice idea. All parties agreed that it would work. Farmer H ordered one from his guy who runs a machine shop kind of business. Farmer H has a guy for just about anything you'll ever need.

The first vice turned out to be about 3/8 inch too large to fit inside the oven and work properly. So it was sent back, and another ordered. I'm pretty sure Farmer H got it for $250. Not sure if he paid yet, out of his Storage Unit Store fortune, or if his guy is letting it ride right now. All I know is that Farmer H had an invoice to show the professor, with the tax ID and everything of the business, in case the university would cut the check to the source of the equipment.

Farmer H, you know, took three days of his time for the trip. It's a drive of 8.5 hours one way. He was fortunate to obtain two nights' free lodging in the local casino 5 miles from campus and The Pony's apartment. Gas, however, was not free. Farmer H arrived by 4:00 on Monday. He took his tools (oh, yeah, he provided his own tools) into the lab, and looked things over. Tuesday morning at 9:00, he went to work on the project. By noon, he was done. He spent some time with The Pony, preferring not to drive 8.5 hours home that night.

Well. Farmer H had grandiose dreams of being compensated for his labor. And of being comped for his lodging if it hadn't been free, and for transportation costs. The Pony had mentioned the whole scheme because his professor was getting a grant for this equipment that she needed. He said his dad could probably design something cheaper, and that's how Farmer H got involved.

Tuesday, upon completion, the professor said she would go upstairs to see about his payment. Apparently, she was told that she hadn't filled out the required forms. That she hadn't gotten proof that the "contractor" was insured. That the invoice wasn't even in her name. Etc. She came back and apologized to Farmer H. Said that she would write him a personal check, and deal with getting reimbursed, and if she wasn't, well, that was okay, because she'd gotten just what she needed, already done, when it might have taken until the end of spring semester to get it done through the university and their maintenance team. However, she didn't have her checkbook on campus, but she could drive home to get it.

Farmer H said he was fine with the professor giving the check to The Pony to send to him. He's a braver man than I (although I'm not actually a man), because I know how long it takes to get a birthday card from The Pony. Depends on when he decides to get it, when he decides to address it, when he decides to go to the post office, and how long the mail takes between Norman and Hillmomba.

So... Farmer H will be lucky to get reimbursed for the $250 cost of the vice. He's okay with that.

Even Steven Will Not Allow My Dehydration On His Watch

With Farmer H away from the Mansion, the trash dumpster once again became my job. It goes out on Wednesday mornings, so I wanted to put it at the end of the driveway Tuesday. Just to be sure. I got caught up watching Trisha's Southern Kitchen, and it was 11:15 before I ventured outside. The dogs went WILD! Oh, how they remember our glory days of dumpster-pulling and rabbit-chasing.

Of course, when I got to the end of the driveway, Farmer H sent me a text. Have I mentioned that he can sense when the worst time is to contact me? I stopped and sent him a text that I was at the end of the driveway. I can't text while walking. Besides, I didn't have my glasses, so it took twice as long.

When I was about 1/3 of the way back to the Mansion, the sun disappeared, and a downpour ensued. I tucked my phone into my shirt pocket, and skewed the bill of my just-a-few-minutes-ago sun-shading cap to cover it. Don't even suggest that I could have sprinted to the safety of the metal-roofed carport. My sprinting days are over.

Pics to prove it happened:

You may not notice the rain in this view, but I'm pretty sure you can see the dumpster WAAAAY up there. You might imagine that from here I was just a few seconds away from re-entering the Mansion. Think again.

Did I mention that it was a downpour? Juno forsook me, to hole up in her house. The two Jacks were off on an adventure over on Neighbor Tommy's ten acres. I hung out for a few minutes between SilverRedO and the Gator. This picture was meant to highlight the downspout gushing at the corner of the porch, but I can barely see it. Ten minutes later, I decided I'd rather be wet than stand on my driveway knees. So I ducked under Carportagra Falls and pussy-footed my way across the wet bricks of the sidewalk.

I probably could have skipped my shower, and just toweled off.

The Lengths Farmer H Will Go To For An Alibi

Let the record show that Farmer H has left the Mansion. Don't get your hopes up. He'll be back shortly. He's gone to Oklahoma, not with a banjo on his knee, but with a vice in his trunk. He's taking a part to install in the lab where The Pony has been doing his chemical engineering research. Uh huh. He has been requested by the professor to put a vice in her oven. NOT A BUN! A vice. Used for stretching polymers, not for pinching them.

The professor is from a foreign country. One where I suppose they don't suffer fools gladly. During their meeting, she informed Farmer H that she was pleased with the plan he had for her grant money. And furthermore, she finds it nearly impossible to get good help these days, what with the younger generation pretty much not knowing their butt from a hole in the ground. Not in those exact words. I suppose they have other terms for that in her country. Further furthermore, when former safety officer Farmer H pointed out all the lab violations at the university, such as inadequate extension cords, and electrical outlets too near the water source, the professor AGREED with him that safety does not seem to be a priority. Anyhoo... the project is a success, and Farmer H and a twenty-something female professor have bonded over a laboratory oven.

While Farmer H is away, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom answers to no one. She is morally, ethically, spiritually, physically, positively, absolutely, undeniably and reliably, not only merely ruling, but really most sincerely ruling the Mansion!

That means I pour out dry dogfood on the back porch in the morning, and make sure Marley has water (he has an automatic feeder in his pen). After that, the day is my own!

I'm pretty sure Farmer H is still trying to kill me. Even though it is currently from afar.

Normally, when he gets up and leaves the Mansion in the inhuman hours before 9:30 a.m., Farmer H locks the kitchen door. To make sure I'm safe, you know, from any marauders who would intrude while I slumber. Monday morning, Farmer H was already near the border of Missouri/Oklahoma when I left for town. I was comforted to see that he had locked the kitchen door on his way out.

The day went smoothly, almost like a vacation, no time constraints on me. I didn't go upstairs to make my supper until 7:45. I'm a night owl, you know. As I was getting a tray ready to take back down to my lair, I heard my Sweet, Sweet Juno barking her fool head off. What in the Not-Heaven with that dog? I went to the front door to take a look out at the driveway, and discovered that it was UNLOCKED!

I had driven to town, leaving the front door nigh on wide open to criminals! I'd been slumbering and showering before that, with easy access for mayhem. All afternoon, I'd been jamming to tunes in my lair, happily unaware that ne'er-do-wells could be ransacking the floor above me.

I suppose Farmer H had forgotten to lock that door the night before, after he returned from helping a neighbor with her electric. I don't have the details on that yet. She sent him a message that when she turns on her vacuum cleaner, her lights dim.

Anyhoo... I'm pretty sure Farmer H is still trying to kill me. Now with an alibi of being a whole state away when it happens.

Reparte At Orb K

I stopped by Orb K around noon on Sunday, to pick up some scratchers. I'd already told the clerk my desired tickets. She was bent over, practically standing on her head, tearing them off. Sweet Gummi Mary! One of these days, the Orb K clerks are gonna blow a blood vessel. I almost feel bad for their contortions to fetch my tickets. But not bad enough to not buy tickets there.

Anyhoo... while she was upside down, out of sight, there's no point in making small talk. The blood was probably pounding in her ears anyway, rendering her temporarily deaf. As usual, I spent the time looking at the floor. It paid off, because I found TWO PENNIES! Yes. Of course I'll show them to you, on Saturday, elsewhere.

The clerk popped back up, most likely experiencing a head rush. While she was scanning my tickets, I stooped over and took a picture of my new pennies.

"That'll be twenty dollars," she said.

"Here you go. And I'm already two cents ahead, because I just found two pennies!"

"Oh! Are they face up? That's supposed to be good luck." She said, not knowing I'm a famous penny-picker, headed for Future Pennyillionaire status.

"Well, one of them is. So I guess that means I'll just break even. But I'm still two cents over!"

She bade me good luck, and I headed home to scratch.

Heh, heh. I had three tickets. Two were winners. One for $5, and the other for $25. So I came out ten dollars ahead! Make that ten dollars and two cents.

There's No Honor Among Mansion-Dwellers

Back when both boys still lived at home, Genius was notorious for stealing other people's food. He never wanted anything when we went to the store. Meaning while he laid home in bed until noon, and The Pony and I ventured to The Devil's Playground on Saturday mornings.

You know how it is. You buy food for the household. It's up for grabs. Anybody can help themselves, and when it's gone, you buy more. Hopefully, the person eating the last one will let you know you're out... Then there are the special treats that one person particularly enjoys. It's only polite to ask if you can have one. Generally, permission is granted. Especially from The Pony. He may not care about helping people, but he's remarkably unselfish about sharing food that someone else pays for.

Alas, poor Pony. Many's the time he groggily pawed through the pantry, bleary-eyed, for his favorite breakfast of a Little Debbie Cosmic Brownie, only to come up with an empty box. "GENIUS!" We all knew the thief. In fact, the thief didn't even deny his theft. "I wanted one. So I ate it."

We won't get started on the communal items that were left with crumbs lining the bottom of the bag, or a tiny dab of ice cream that wouldn't fill a spoon. Shame on the last (next-to-last!) eater, declaring, "I didn't eat ALL of it!"

With both boys gone now, it's just me and Farmer H. He pretty much leaves my food alone. Unless it's all prepared and convenient for him. Like when I cut the cheese, heh, heh, and put it in a plastic container in FRIG II. Farmer H would never take out a block of cheddar and slice it for himself. But he'll take two or three portions ready to slap on a cracker. I don't even begrudge this to him. It's the healthiest of any snack he would choose.

Farmer H has his vanilla with chocolate and strawberry swirls individual ice cream cups on the top shelf of FRIG II's freezer door. I don't eat them. I replace them when they're running low. I have my birthday cake flavor individual ice cream cups on the third shelf of FRIG II's freezer door. Farmer H leaves them alone. He's not supposed to have ice cream at all, but an individual cup, along with some protein snack, isn't as bad as the Casey's donuts and Milky Ways he sneaks when he's out of the Mansion.

Let the record show that I also buy Farmer H a bag of individually-wrapped sugar-free Russell Stover chocolates. He has one or two a night, with his ice cream cup. And hopefully some protein. I don't know, because that's during the hours that I'm down in my dark basement lair.

When Farmer H was gone to the auction Friday night, I was searching for a snack to have later in my OPC (Old People Chair) while watching TV. I went to the kitchen table, where I have a giant bag of individual potato chips. I chose the BBQ flavor. Then spotted Farmer H's bag of individual chocolates. I selected a coconut version.

They're not very big. About two bites. There's one propped against my bubba cup, with my lucky scratcher-scratching quarter to show size. I don't make it a habit to eat Farmer H's chocolates. This is only the second one I've had. Ever. But I can't save an individual ice cream cup in the downstairs mini fridge freezer, and I didn't want a Tootsie Roll Fruit Chew Pop. So I nabbed this coconut treat, and laid it on the cutting block with my individual bag of BBQ chips, to carry down with my supper tray, and save for later.

When it came time to move out to my OPC, I grabbed my chips, but didn't see my coconut treat. Sweet Gummi Mary! I must have left it on the cutting block. Oh, well. It wasn't worth walking upstairs for. Farmer H had already come back home, watched TV in the La-Z-Boy, and gone to bed. So it wasn't like I could holler up to him to drop it down the stairs to me.

Saturday evening, as I was preparing supper, I figured I'd take that coconut treat downstairs this time. I looked for it on the cutting block. It wasn't there. Not under the paper towel I re-use all day to dry my hands. Not on the several mail envelopes that I'm going to deal with in a day or two. Huh. I knew that's where I'd put it. I went out to the living room to ask Farmer H.

"Hey! Did you take that coconut candy that I took from you, and forgot on the cutting block last night?"

"Yeah. I was in the kitchen, and I wanted a piece of candy, and I seen that one laying there, so I took it."

I could hardly chastise Farmer H for taking the piece of candy I took from him. But the least he could have done was tell me that he re-claimed his candy. Otherwise, it seems like he's trying to make me think I'm going crazy.

If Mrs. HM Had Two Good Knees, And Farmer H Had Two Good Eyes, They Could Communicate More Efficiently

Friday evening, Farmer H left for the auction at 6:00. He'd finished his supper in the La-Z-Boy while I sat on the short couch to chat. Then he took his plate to the kitchen, and left. I reached for the TV remote, and saw his phone on the table, attached to his charger-battery-thingy. Oh, no! Farmer H loves his phone! He's always fiddling with it. He sends me pictures from the auction. He calls me on his way home. Now he'd left it behind. It's not like I could call and tell him he forgot his phone...

I jumped up and rushed to the front door. You know. Rushed. In my own way, more of a hobble, grabbing at the back of the long couch on the way to the door. I stepped out on the front porch to see SilverRedO tooling up the driveway. I waved my arms, willing Farmer H to notice me. He did not.

Thing is, Farmer H only has one good eye. He lost the sight in his left eye when he was 14, looking into an unexploded parachute firework, on the Fourth of July. The eye that was on the side of SilverRedO that was exposed to the porch view. So he couldn't peripherally notice my conniptions on the front porch.

I thought Farmer H might notice that his phone was missing, and return for it. He did not. If I'd made it to the porch faster, he would have been looking right at me, with his good eye, through SiverRedO's windshield, before backing out from under the carport.

What we have here is a failure to communicate.

Like 10 Hot Dogs And 8 Buns

It used to be a problem, buying a pack of hot dogs containing 10, when buns came in a bag of 8. These days, there are so many varieties that I have no problem finding a pack of 8 hot dogs to make the buns come out even. I think the hot dogs are fatter, too! But we're not here to talk about those delicious, delicious hot dogs (according to Farmer H). We're here to talk about things not pairing up, one for one.

I might have mentioned that Farmer H and I have switched our health insurance policy. I get it through the school, totally paid for by us, at an outrageous price, which would be even higher if I wasn't being included in that group of school employees.

Anyhoo... the fiscal year runs from July to July. We'd changed our coverage LAST YEAR, stepping down to the next policy, with a higher deductible, thinking it would save us money. It did not. While the premiums were lower, we were getting nickel-and-dimed with higher office visits and prescription costs, and things previously covered for Farmer H not being covered until after the deductible was met. So we decided to switch back this July, to the top policy of the four offered.

Usually, there's a meeting at school for the retirees. The insurance rep comes in and goes over any changes. Then we sign a form to continue or change policies. This year, there was no meeting. I even called school to see if I'd missed the letter. Nope. No meeting. But since I wanted to change, I could go to the main office and fill out the form. So I did. Back in May. Paid my premium in June, which was for July. [Oh, there's another story about THAT, which might come up soon.]

Let the record show that ever since working at Newmentia, the insurance cards came in the mail. That's because when the new policy started, it was July 1. We weren't in school, so they mailed the insurance cards. They were always late. Most often they'd arrive about a week after coverage started. So we'd be all antsy about appointments or accidents or sudden illnesses befalling us. I was getting antsy this year, telling Farmer H that every day I looked for my new insurance cards, but didn't get anything from the insurance company.

Do you know what he said? "Call school." Well. What good would THAT do?

"We always get them from the insurance company. I don't know why you think I should call school. They've got all new people, since the retirements coming up. They'll be too busy to deal with me, when there's nothing they can do anyway. The cards come from the insurance company. Not the school."

Imagine my SHOCK, and also my HORROR (that Farmer H was right) when I got an envelope with the school's return address, and inside were my new insurance cards! Oh, how I hated to tell Farmer H that he was right. But I did.

"It kills me to tell you this... but you were right about the insurance cards coming from school."

"I TOLD YOU SO! We always got them in the office at work."

"Well. That was YOUR insurance. You changed it about every 6 months, to a different company. But ours has never, ever, in all the years I've worked there, come to the school. Always mailed to our home, by the INSURANCE COMPANY. Not the school."

"Whatever. I was right."

As if THAT wasn't a hard enough pill to swallow, I now have to deal with the insurance cards. Just like the hot dog and bun manufacturers of old, the insurance company goes out of its way to make life difficult.

We have a family plan. This company insures ME, Farmer H, and The Pony. Same as the past two years. Yet they only send out TWO insurance cards. I gave one to Farmer H, because he goes to the doctor every Friday, and doesn't have his medications synchronized for one trip to the pharmacy. I mailed the other insurance card to The Pony, who is off by himself all the way in Oklahoma. I figure I can borrow Farmer H's card when I go to the pharmacy. I have copied one front and back, and stuck it between self-laminating papers to make a counterfeit version to carry in my purse, lest I am rendered unconscious in an accident. It has a bar code and all the numbers on it, which can be verified. It's just not an official insurance card.

Meantime, I've got to figure out how to get another card for myself. I guess I'll go through the rigamarole of signing in online and ordering myself a card.

OR...

Should I call school and ask for another card?

Heh, heh. Maybe I should ask Farmer H for advice...

One Post Forward And Two Posts Back

Sometimes, I wish a story could tie itself up with all its loose ends, and be done. Complete. Fini. Of course that never seems to happen. Sometimes, it's actually a bonus, because then I have something else to blather on about when Farmer H isn't fulfilling his duties as Blog Post Generator.

A couple days ago, I revealed how the FedEx man came a-pounding at the unMansionly hour of 9:24 a.m. Well. Something good has come of it.

"You know, people wouldn't have to pound on the door like maniacs if the doorbell worked. What's it been now, about 10 years?"

"HM. It hasn't been 10 years since the doorbell worked."

"I'm pretty sure it hasn't worked since before Genius went off to college. And that was in 2013."

"Well. That's not 10 years! Can't you subtract?"

"I think it didn't work for a while BEFORE he left."

"I'll go get my ladder and see what size battery it takes."

"Oh, yeah. You replaced that weird one with wires from when we moved in, and put up the battery version. So there's really no excuse for our doorbell not working all these years! Just for the lack of a battery!"

Farmer H was already on his way downstairs for the three-step little ladder my mom gave us one Christmas. It's pretty handy. Not that I would try to climb on it, mind you. What do you think I am, some wily sure-footed mountain goat? Anyhoo... I guess given the choice of listening to me carp at him, or expending [approximately] 10 years worth of effort to investigate the doorbell situation, Farmer H chose the latter.

"It takes C batteries. Three of them."

"I'm on my way to The Devil's Playground now. So I'll look for some."

Of course they come in packs of two, or packs of four. And the display was out of most brands, so I had to get the really expensive version of the Duracell Coppertops, that supposedly last for 10 years. Those dang batteries will probably outlive us! It cost me over $10 for four batteries. I suppose that's only a dollar a year to run our doorbell, and we still have an extra battery!

Oh, yeah. Our doorbell sounds like this. It's Big Ben's half-hour chime.

Because I'm Generous Like That

Hey! Look what I found at The Devil's Playground!

I was actually looking for a bag of Tootsie Pops. Of course The Devil was fresh out. But on the shelf in their place was ONE BAG of these! They're Toosie Pops, you know, but with a center of those fruity Tootsie Rolls instead of the fudgy Tootsie Rolls.

It looks like the wrappers tell you the flavor INSIDE as well as the flavor of the pop itself.

Sorry that's not a good picture. I'd take another one, but I prefer to spend my time ripping open the bag and selecting one for consumption. I'd love to share them with you. Plenty to go around, if only I could invent a computer monitor or smarter phone where you can reach into the picture and pull something out. If you're interested, they're 60 calories per serving, 17 servings per bag.

I, myself, am not interested in the nutritional value.