The Shaming

You know how in the opening credits of The Shining, you wind along those twisty mountain roads, with no guardrails to save you, toward the Overlook Hotel, with that ominous music playing?

Well, today you're going to wind through my convoluted story, no yard sales to save you, toward the overlooked brain cell that had been keeping Farmer H's poop off the toilet seat, with your own screams playing the only tune in your head.

Now is the time to bail out if you're not strong enough for the journey...

Farmer H had been on fairly good behavior since he threw a fit a few weeks ago, and I stopped doing any of the myriad of underappreciated jobs that make his life more cushy. No picking up after him, no shopping, no cooking, no cleaning his dried poop off the toilet seat. It only took him a week to see the error of his ways. I think he saw the light when I asked how that laundry tantrum 30 years ago had worked out for him. HM don't play.

Anyhoo...Farmer H started doing more things for himself, trying to get back in my good graces. Until Friday morning, he had either gone without pooping for a month, or had been cleaning up his own mess. You can bet that I brought up the issue during his pre-auction meal.

"I'm pretty sure you're not constipated, because the evidence is on the toilet seat. I am NOT cleaning it off."

"There you go. You must have run out of other things to complain about, because now you're on me again."

"Don't EVEN sit there and act like I'M the one who's unreasonable. Normal people don't leave their poop on a toilet seat! Why should I be the one to clean it up? It's YOUR poop! Even animals don't sit in their own poop. Cleaning it up is a basic human behavior."

"Huh. When I go in there, I guess I'll look at it."

"I don't know how you can miss it! Here's an idea. Since you're always twisting around and popping that one screw thingy loose, why don't you just pop the whole toilet seat off and take it in the shower with you? You know, since you say you just get in the shower to wash your butt after you poop. That way, you can wash your butt AND the toilet seat. Problem solved."

"I don't know where you get these crazy ideas."

"Uh, I am NOT the one who's crazy. I'm not cleaning that seat. I'll sit in it over and over again. I'm NOT cleaning it. It's probably half gone already, because I've sat on it so many times today. But YOU'LL be sitting on it, too! Sitting on your own poop. Because I am NOT cleaning it! I need to go right now, but I'll just hold it until I get back downstairs."

Sometimes, you've gotta go a little crazy to make a point. The toilet seat was clean the next time I went in there.

The Jabby Codger

Farmer H needs to give up that pipe dream of me being gentle while moving his arm off my pillow when I go to bed!

Wednesday night (early Thursday morning, actually, around 4:00 a.m.) when I felt to make sure there was no arm lying in wait for me...I deduced that the coast was clear. I settled down for a short winter's nap, on my left side, facing away from the (perhaps coronavirus) spewing breather of Farmer H. He seemed to be on his back, so not a direct spray, but more of a settling mist. I pulled the quilt up over the side of my head, to prevent any droplets from invading my brain through my ear canal.

JAB! JAB! JAB!

What in the NOT-HEAVEN? A pointy object pounded against my spine, right between my shoulder blades.

JAB! JAB! JAB!

I sighed heavily. It continued.

JAB! JAB! JAB!

I twisted away. Just out of reach. But that was uncomfortable. Like my boobage was crushing my lungs, like a sponge being squeezed of dishwater. I had to lean back onto my side.

JAB! JAB! JAB!

I grumbled and mumbled. No reaction. I swear, I wanted to grab that arm and fold it backwards at the elbow joint. Let Farmer H try jabbing with a broken chicken wing! But I didn't. I endured.

I either fell asleep to the rhythmic jabbing, or fell unconscious. When I awoke 90 minutes later, the jabbing had stopped.

When confronted later that afternoon, Farmer H denied all accusations of jabbing.

"Huh. I sure don't remember doing that. You might THINK it happened. But it wasn't me."

Sure it wasn't.

Something Tells Me Farmer H Is Not Meant To Have Saver Points

Oh my gosh! The saga of Farmer H's quest for Casey's saver points continues!

Tuesday, I stopped by the School-Turn Casey's on the way to get a copy of The Pony's birth certificate. I went inside with the sole purpose of buying scratchers. I didn't take my $25 worth of winners to cash in. No siree, Bob! I took a twenty dollar bill, and bought four tickets. I'd cash in those winners later when I got my magical elixir at the Gas Station Chicken Store.

I was confident. Smug, even. Knowing that I was outsmarting Casey's, making that cash purchase to get Farmer H's points. I waited until the clerk was ringing up the tickets. The ENTER thingy came on for the phone number to punch in for points. I put in my own phone number for Farmer H's account. I pushed enter. I even asked for the receipt.

"Okay. We're good." Said the clerk, meaning I should get on out of there.

"Can I have my receipt, please? To show my husband that I entered his points?"

She gave me a funny look, and then handed me the receipt. I didn't have my glasses on, and just glanced at it. I saw Farmer H's name at the bottom. So I knew the points had gone into his account.

After the birth certificate, and mailing it in a small package at the main post office, I proceeded to the Sis-Town Casey's. I wanted to get two more tickets, to put in Genius's letter this week. New tickets came out on Monday. I like to get them at the beginning, because I think they put a lot of winners up front, to entice people to buy them all month.

Anyhoo...I went inside, and I'll be darned if it wasn't that wench who said she was putting in my gas and scratcher points last week, and DID NOT. But her line was open, and she called me over. I bought two tickets. As she rang them up, I punched in my phone number. I also asked her for my receipt.

"Can I have the receipt? To see that I got my points."

She got a look on her face like, "Oh, crap!" But she gave me the receipt.

Here's the deal. When I got over to the Gas Station Chicken Store, I moved the receipts from my glasses case to my purse. But first I looked at them, with my glasses on.

The one from School-Turn Casey's showed Farmer H's name and account, but no points. I figured maybe that's how they do it. Maybe he has to look up the points online.

The receipt from Sis-Town Casey's did not show anything other than my purchase of two scratchers, and the total. Not Farmer H's name. No numbers for his account. Doggone it! That gal had done it again! I was livid! But at least the receipt had her name at the top. Heh, heh! EVIDENCE.

I explained the situation to Farmer H when he got home. He looked up his points. NONE of them went into his account! He said maybe that girl didn't know how to put the points in, and was faking it. Farmer H thinks the clerk has to push some button on the register to make them count. He said he would ask "his girls" at the Hillmomba Casey's the next morning.

WELL! According to Farmer H's girl, points are not allowed for the purchase of LOTTERY, ALCOHOL, or TOBACCO! That's poppycock! People might as well buy that stuff elsewhere, if they're not getting credit for their purchases. Besides, they HAVE given me points for lottery at that very Casey's. And why, then, could I not get credit for my GAS over at the Sis-Town Casey's?

Muddling matters even more, we got the points for lottery at the Steelville Casey's on our way home from Oklahoma.

I think Casey's has a lot of left hands who don't know that the right hands are doing.

They shall rue the day they upset Mrs. HM. When I get my gas on Friday, I'm going to pay for the gas. Enter my points. Get my receipt. Then say, "Oh, I also want to buy some scratchers." Heh, heh! They won't get me out of line that easily. They'll have to do TWO transactions, rather than one.

I'll show THEM!

Life Is Passporting Me By

Tuesday morning, I got a text from my sister the ex-mayor's wife. She asked if she could use me as an emergency contact for her passport. Of course. If she's ever locked up abroad, perhaps in a Turkish prison for sneaking pharmaceuticals (unsuccessfully) out of the country, then I'm her gal. I think, perhaps, she's more likely to need that passport when she flies to Florida for vacations. A Missouri driver's license is not good enough ID at an airport now.

Funny thing, when I got that text, I was on the way to the county health center to pick up a birth certificate for The Pony. He needs one to get a passport! He says there's an office on OU's campus that does passports. Takes the picture and everything. He just needs ID and an official birth certificate. And a social security card, and the fee, and proper paperwork. Anyhoo...it's pretty certain that The Pony will need to fly somewhere at some time, what with a degree (and hopefully career) as a chemical engineer. He's already flown to three job conferences, I think in California, and Minnesota.

Genius has a passport, because he needed one when his first employer sent him to TAIWAN on a job, during the first two months he worked for them. That was in 2018, so I know his passport is still good, and Genius can fly all willy-nilly around the country, or to any hemisphere he desires.

Farmer H still has his passport from when he was a world traveler with his old company before retirement. Germany, Switzerland, France, Wales, Brazil, New Jersey...he made the rounds! I think he said his passport is good for 12 years. So he's all set for flying if he gets the urge.

Me? I have no plans of getting a passport. I've been on a plane. No desire to get on one again. I'd have to be tranquilized! Though I don't begrudge the rest of my family their air miles.

He's KILLIN' Me, I Tell You

Yes, Farmer H is killin' me! I'm not so sure this was an actual attempt. Kind of like his antics described yesterday, when trying to throw away a soda cup.

There we were, tooling along central Oklahoma in A-Cad, when Farmer H started his rant. I'm not even sure what set him off. Perhaps he was trying to garner sympathy from The Pony in the back seat. Heh, heh! We all know what a futile attempt THAT would be! The Pony cares not for helping people.

Anyhoo...the general topic was that I am mean to Farmer H. I'll own that. He gets what he deserves. But I will NOT own this specific blame he was trying to pin on me.

"You're even mean to me when I'm sleeping!"

"I don't think so. I'm so GLAD you're sleeping...why would I do anything that might accidentally wake you?"

"When you come to bed, you do all kinds of things to my arm!"

Sweet Gummi Mary! Exactly WHAT was Farmer H insinuating? What did he think I was doing to his arm? Bending it back at the elbow, twisting the bones apart like a chicken wing? Boiling it in oil? Using it as a pincushion? Stubbing out my nighttime cigars on his flesh? Tattooing his own phone number on his forearm so he can remember his Casey's account?

"Sure. At 3:00 or 4:00 a.m., as I'm coming to bed, I want to take extra time to torture you. All I do is move your arm, because you have it stretched out across my pillow. What do you want me to do, lay down on it? I can do that."

"No."

"If I wake you and ask you to move it, then you'll be mad because I woke you. All I do is lift your arm and put it on your side of the bed."

"And you're not at all gentle about it!"

Well. That got me to laughing SO HARD that I couldn't breathe. The very idea that I should treat Farmer H's arm like it was spun glass, or a fragile container of nitroglycerin! Every time I tried to be a smartass right back to him, I was overcome with wheezy giggles. FINALLY, I was able to squeak out:

"What do you expect me to do, wrap it in cotton and gauze, and lift it with a sling made of silk?"

The Pony was smirking in the back seat. I know it's not all that funny, but you just had to be there, and see and hear Farmer H's indignation because I DARED move his arm out of the way before I lay down to sleep.

When actually I should be the one who's indignant, having my sleep space invaded by the long arm of Farmer H.

Who Knew Farmer H Could Be So Entertaining?

Sweet Gummi Mary! I laughed so hard on Saturday that I thought I was going to pass out. Farmer H was the unintentional comedian. Quite a feat, since he was born without a funny bone.

We spent the weekend with The Pony in Oklahoma. On Saturday morning, we picked him up, and he asked for a McDonald's sausage biscuit meal. Farmer H drove onto the parking lot, and saw that the drive-thru line reached around three sides of the building. He parked A-Cad, and announced that he was going inside to save time.

Farmer H came back with, of course, the wrong order. He had the sausage biscuit, and a Sprite, but no hash brown. He said the THOUGHT the price seemed awfully cheap. Then he buckled his seat belt, and backed out of the parking space. The Pony and I cut eyes at each other, but The Pony was already resigned to going without his hash brown.

Farmer H yanked the wheel over to the left, because he spotted a trash can, the kind you drive your car up to.

"I'm going to throw away my soda cup from yesterday, or your mom won't shut up about it." He told The Pony conspirator-like, even though I was sitting right there.

Farmer H wasn't quite close enough to the trash can. He put down A-Cad's window, and attempted to toss that 32 oz foam cup, with about 10 oz of Diet Mountain Dew left in it, into the snout of the trash can.

The Pony and I knew it was a futile attempt. We know our physics. Farmer H does not. That cup landed on the edge of the snout, kind of teetered there. Farmer H threw open A-Cad's door to push it in. He had one leg out of the car. But his seatbelt held him in. The cup rolled onto the edge of A-Cad's window. Got pinched between it and the trash can snout. Diet Mountain Dew spattered on A-Cad's window ledge.

Farmer H may or may not have let a curse word escape. He had to unbuckle his seatbelt and get out to pick up the foam cup.

I laughed like cartoon Muttley of Wacky Races. All wheezy and almost unable to catch my breath.

Farmer H is hilarious. Although unintentionally.

One Tire Over The Line, Sweet Gummi Mary

Mrs. HM always parks where she has space available to open T-Hoe's door the full monty. It has two notches, you know. All the way, and not far enough. If the door isn't open all the way, it's a struggle to bend my right knee and slide it under the steering wheel. I can barely bend it 90 degrees.

For that very reason, I will park away from other cars, or on the end of a parking row. Just so nobody can crowd me while I'm inside doing my business. The exception is The Gas Station Chicken Store. It has a space on the right end of a row, where they've widened the space to allow the owners to sometimes drive their large SUV up beside the building. I never trap them in there, heh, heh. But if the space is available, people park in it.

Last week, I chose that parking space. I always cheat way over to the right. They have a concrete parking bumper there, sideways, to keep you from going too close to the building corner. I get T-Hoe's right side tires within a couple inches of that bumper. Which leaves me enough space to open T-Hoe's driver's door ALL THE WAY without invading the neighboring parking space proper.

SWEET GUMMI MARY!

I came out, 44 oz Diet Coke and scratchers in hand, to find a line-parker!

Oh, NOT-HEAVEN no! There was NOTHING on the other side of that car. Nobody was parked there when I went in or came out. They didn't adjust due to somebody else's bad parking job. IF they were doing it to give themselves a wide-openable driver's door, then they would have understood my plight, and guessed the reason I was far off our dividing line. You'd think they would have at least stayed inside their own space. That's all I needed. An inch or two more.

It doesn't look as bad from this vantage, high up in the driver's seat. But I could NOT get T-Hoe's door open to the second click without the edge resting on that bright red paint job. It won't balance in between clicks. So I had to cram my legs in with the door open only to the not-far-enough notch.

Looks like T-Hoe is a magnet for weirdos' cars

People piss me off. I'll have to go back to parking way over by the moat, in unmarked spaces.

Rules For Thee, By Cracky, But Not For Me

If you are a reader of my not-so-secret blog, and I'm pretty sure you are...you may recall how Farmer H's alter ego shamed my alter ego about a burned-out light bulb. Here's the gist of it, the meat and potatoes, in case you don't want to read the whole dang thing now:
__________________________________________________________

“Why are so many lights burning out? They never used to do that.”

“Val. They’re not meant to be on ten hours a day!”
 
“WHAT? You’re crazy! Of course they’re meant to be on. They’re light bulbs!”

“Normal people don’t do that.”
 
“You are so full of it! So you’re saying that people walk around in the dark, to spare their light bulbs?”

“No. But they don’t leave them on!”
 
“Say a person gets home from work around 4:30 or 5:00. They turn on the lights in their house, and get supper, and do homework with the kids, and watch TV, and one of them probably stays up until at least midnight, or maybe longer. You’re saying they don’t have the lights on during that time?”

“No. They don’t. They turn them off when they leave the room, and then turn them back on when they come back.”
___________________________________________________________

I'd print this out, and confront Farmer H with the evidence in black-and-white, but he's the Dean of Denial. He'd say I just now typed it up. Fabricated it! Although I'm pretty sure he wouldn't use the word fabricate. That's something he'd think goes in the dryer to prevent static.

Anyhoo...funny thing about printed-out, not-so-last words. They have a way of coming back to bite Farmer H on his tighty-whitey-covered rumpus.

Monday afternoon, Farmer H was sitting in the La-Z-Boy, watching The Andy Griffith Show, eating roast and vegetables when I left for town. They were intended for supper, but he was eating lupper, with an early exit planned for an auction. The day was gloomy, and Farmer H had turned on the living room lights to see his roast. We normally don't turn those lights on until evening. The front window allows plenty of sunlight if the sun is available, and enough for computing and TV watching if it isn't. I guess roast has different requirements.

As far as I knew, Farmer H had no other plans until auction time. Imagine my surprise when I returned from town, and saw that SilverRedO was not parked under the carport. The house was locked. Yet when I entered, I noticed that Andy Griffith was still teaching Barney and Opie lessons, and THE LIVING ROOM LIGHTS WERE ON!

No. I didn't bring up the subject when Farmer H returned from a sortie to his Storage Unit Store for an individual sale. I'm saving it for future ammunition. I will start out with,

"Remember when it was MY FAULT that a light burned out in the basement...?"

Casey's At The Spat

There's no joy in Hillmomba.

You may recall that last week, Farmer H had a problem with his Casey's account. The one where he racks up points for future purchases, and receives delectable offers like free bottles of water, a bonus slice of pizza, and an unneeded Milky Way candy bar. He somehow managed to get back into his account a day or two later. He's not sure if that was due to him sending a demand to FAQ about getting his 760 points restored (pretty sure that's not a frequently asked question), or if the clerk magically fixed his problem.

Anyhoo...on Monday, at 10:28 a.m., I got a text from Farmer H, who was up at his Storage Unit Store rearranging his treasures.

"HM i finally figured out how i got back in my caseys thing. I put your phone number in so just use your number when you buy stuff."

"I don't want my number on that!!! You have a new account now, and it's MINE! Now I'll get scammers on my number. I didn't make an account ON PURPOSE, because I don't use my number for anything like that."

"It wont send you anything it comes to my email no you wont and ill figure out how to change it later"

SWEET GUMMI MARY!

Farmer H figuring out how to change the number would be like the blind leading Indiana Jones through the Temple of Doom.

Anyhoo...I was in that Casey's on Monday afternoon. When I cashed in my scratchers for new ones, I dutifully punched in MY OWN PHONE NUMBER to get points for Farmer H's account.

"Do you want your free donut?"

"Um. No. My husband takes all the free stuff. In fact, it's HIS account, but he used my phone number. HE'S the guy who keeps getting locked out of his account."

"OH! So your husband is Farmer H?"

"That's right."

"I know I tried to help him this morning, and he came back in and said he didn't get his points! THEN he said, 'Oh. I had you use my wife's phone number.'"

"Yeah. We're going to have a talk about that! If I wanted to use my number, I would have set up my OWN account!"

Yes. Farmer H's influence reaches far and wide. Or at least spans 5 miles across Hillmomba.

The Marley Mystery, Part 2

On Sunday, Farmer H was sitting in the La-Z-Boy, trying to watch the Daytona 500 that got rained out, when he had a text from HOS (Farmer H's Oldest Son). HOS wanted to know if Farmer H had a sewing machine. That's neither here nor there. I have no idea why he wanted one. Farmer H just happens to have one over in his Freight Container Garage, surprise, surprise, from the original 18 storage units that he bought.

Anyhoo...we don't hear from HOS much lately. He's busy working all day. He did text Farmer H a week or so ago, to ask what was going on with the tree trimming. He said he'd been up to his old place (still has a "collection" of stuff there, like father like son), and saw tire tracks all around.

Anyhoo...I asked Farmer H when he was going to tell HOS about Marley.

"He's been gone over two weeks. You're going to have to let them know sometime."

"Yeah. I'll text him back."

Farmer H sent a text:

"Marley is gone. Did you guys come and get him?"

Just in case, you know. Because HOS brought Marley down and left him when he moved, and didn't bother to say that he was in the pen. Good thing Farmer H noticed him on the way to the BARn.

There was no response until the next morning. Monday. President's Day. All HOS said was,

"Marley showed up at our house."

What in the NOT-HEAVEN? If I was British, and a bit dramatic, I would exclaim,
"Not bloody likely!"

It's five miles to town. Then another five, through a civilized, paved area, through two more towns, to where HOS lives. Probably 10 miles total, through a populated area, lots of traffic. Even though HOS had said previously, during the moving months, that they'd taken Marley to town a couple times, no way was that dog going to know how to get there on foot! Especially not when he had a cough, or had been chewed up by Jack.

"I guess HOS thinks I'm stupid. No way did that dog find his house in town!"

"Maybe...Mrs. HOS came out to visit. You said she's friends with the neighbors up there. Maybe Marley was running around, and she took him home, and didn't want to tell HOS, in case he wasn't ready to bring Marley yet. So in HOS's mind, Marley showed up at his house, because that's what Mrs. HOS might have told him."

Marley's travels will remain a mystery, unless HOSS gives up the goods during this week's pizza dinner.

Anyhoo...it's a relief to know that Marley is okay, and reunited with little HOSS. I hope he gets along with their new dog...

The Marley Mystery, Part 1

The last time we discussed Marley was January 27, when Farmer H was dosing him with honey on grease bread for his cough.

THAT IS THE LAST TIME I SAW MARLEY!

As you may recall, Marley is the little white fluffy dog who belonged to HOS (Farmer H's Oldest Son), that we took when HOS moved to town. HOS's son, HOSS (Farmer H's Oldest Son's Son) told Farmer H on one of their Thursday night pizza outings that they had a new little house dog, but that they might take Marley back, too.

Here's Marley in his pen, when we first got him, all fluffy.



And here after a trim, and several days running wild. I can't adjust the picture size, because all my Marley files are corrupt! I had to copy them from previous posts, and they won't re-size.




Anyhoo...I didn't think too much about Marley. I asked Farmer H if he'd been giving him the honey. Farmer H said,

"I haven't seen him for a couple of days. The last time was when you saw him in the garage. I was coming home that day, and all four dogs were out in the BARn field. As I drove by in the truck, Jack jumped on Marley and started biting him. Copper Jack got in between them. He wasn't biting. It was like he was separating them. Juno stood off to the side."

"Huh. Maybe they're showing Marley his place in the pack. Copper Jack didn't used to get involved."

So...we kept an eye out for Marley. When I'd hear the dogs barking their fool heads off in the early morning hours, I figured maybe Marley was around, eating food on the porch or in his pen. He always was a wanderer. Farmer H drove the Gator up to HOS's old place several times.

"I didn't see him up there. I waited. I revved the engine. Usually, he'd come running, and follow me back. I didn't see him anywhere."

"Maybe those neighbors took him in."

"He hung out with their dogs, but they don't take them in the house. They might be feeding him if he's around."

One disturbing find, according to Farmer H, was a bunch of white fur out by the big sinkhole.

"It could be Marley's fur. Not a lot of it. Or it could be from a rabbit. I hope Jack didn't kill him."

"I think we'd have found a body if Jack killed Marley."

"Yeah. Probably."

"If he was hurt, he'd crawl back to his pen. Not go running off someplace else."

Farmer H asked around, when he talked to his cronies. One of them, living in the house where the headless body was found in the septic tank (it was for sale at that time, this guy's not a killer), said he thought he saw a little white dog over on that side of the compound. At a house where they have 3 female dogs.

"Marley could be hanging out there. He's never been fixed."

"Yeah. Maybe. Somebody could have taken him in. He's a cute little dog, if you don't mind him being hyper. And don't have a male dog he fights with. Then again, there's the case of those two gals feeding Jack down at the mailboxes. Anybody could have taken him."

Tomorrow, the saga continues.

THE HORROR Of This Situation Has My Mouth Watering

Don't jump to conclusions. My mouth isn't watering with anticipation for something delectable. It's watering in that pre-vomiting kind of way. Sit down, and have some smelling salts at the ready. Don't be thinking you're so much tougher than Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

Saturday evening, Farmer H decided not to attend the auction. He was planning a heated, jet-whirlpool soak in the big triangle bathtub, with a red Solo cup containing some of the giant jug of whiskey he'd been given by a non-drinking fellow storage unit baron. He was sitting on the edge of the La-Z-Boy, getting ready to commence his spa treatment, when he said,

"I think I'll make an appointment with a podiatrist, to get my toenails trimmed."

"WHAT? That's not what they're for! They have medical degrees!"

"Your grandma used to."

"I think you're confusing her with my step-grandma, who asked my grandpa's cardiologist to clip his toenails at the end of the appointment, thinking they were seeing the podiatrist."

"He did it, too, didn't he? The cardiologist."

"Well, yes. I think he was in shock. But that doesn't mean I want you to make an appointment with a cardiologist, either."

"OR...you could do it for me!"

"You KNOW I hate feet with a passion! I'm gagging, just thinking about your feet and those big toes. But I would find a way to do it, somehow, to prevent you from making an appointment with a podiatrist."

"I can't reach my toes good." 
 
"I trim mine while sitting on the toilet. NOT in the La-Z-Boy."

Farmer H was at that very moment bent over. Clipping. Then I saw what he was using. The tiny clippers that have laid on the electric-fireplace mantel for years. The clippers from when The Pony was a baby. BABY nail clippers!

"I can't believe you think you can use those clippers! Your crusty hooves will pop those clippers apart. You need the big heavy toenail clippers from the bathroom drawer. AND you need to clip after your bath. When the nails are softer. You're going to cut yourself and get an infection!"

IF I am tasked with trimming Farmer H's toenails, I'm going to need a welder's helmet and gloves, one of those shields that riot police use, and maybe a long-handled hoof-trimmer from a veterinarian.

SWEET GUMMI MARY! The things I find myself willing to do to ensure myself rides to Oklahoma, and casinos.

From The "If You Want Something Done Right, Do It Yourself" Files of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom

Is the deal OFF The Table, or ON the table?

Such a question might be asked of Farmer H, but I can guarandarntee you that the answer will be unsatisfactory.

Last Monday, I was prepping a late lunch to take down to my lair. Farmer H was in the Mansion, due to inclement weather preventing him from hanging out up at his Storage Unit Store. He was planning to leave for the auction. It's an early one, farther away, and he normally leaves by 4:00 to get a good seat, and peruse the wares.

I had plugged in HIPPIE to charge. I don't like to leave him unattended while connected. TWICE, The Pony had his battery cord start smoking and sparking while he was plugged in. That's on the original cord, and the replacement! Lucky for us, we were right there when it happened, and he immediately disconnected. It's not like I unplug lamps and major appliances when I go to bed or drive to town. But a laptop, yes! No fires on MY watch!

"When you leave for the auction, will you unplug my laptop? Just pull that plug out of the side, and lay it on the table."

It's not rocket science. It's not brain surgery. It's not splitting the atom. Farmer H has seen me plug or unplug HIPPIE a million times. HIPPIE sits on the wooden TV tray at the living room picture window. I sometimes sit my ample rumpus on the coffee table's end while computing. HIPPIE's wireless mouse, and his battery, lie on the table when unplugged.

As I made this request, Farmer H was kicked back in the La-Z-Boy, slack-jawed, watching Charles Ingalls and Mr. Edwards hauling jars of nitroglycerin packed in wooden crates of straw across not-quite-roads in a buckboard.

"I don't know why I bother. You're not even listening to me!"

"I heard you. Unplug your laptop when I leave."

"Just pull out the plug and lay it on the table."

Silence.

I went on about my business, leaving Farmer H in his stupor. I was surprised to hear him stumping about on footless ankles a mere 15 minutes later. I'd thought HIPPIE would get an hour of charging, not 15 minutes.

Anyhoo...when I went upstairs later, I glanced at HIPPIE to make sure he'd been unplugged. Yes. Farmer H had dutifully disconnected the power supply. And LAID IT ON THE EDGE OF THE TV TRAY! All squished up against the edge of HIPPIE so it wouldn't fall off. Not that such a position hurt anything. Merely illustrating my point that Farmer H must be told many times how to do a simple task, and then still does not do it correctly.

He's either a bloomin' idiot, or gaslighting me into craziness.

Yielding Is Not Better Than Receiving

Sweet Gummi Mary! The GALL of some people simply amazes me.

Saturday, as I was returning from town, I stopped T-Hoe at the top of the hill that descends to the low water bridge that floods often. It was not flooded, but I saw a truck approaching from the road on the other side. It was pretty far away. I had time to get T-Hoe over the one-lane bridge with no sides before that truck got to it.

However...there is not much room to pass a vehicle on the road past the bridge. This was a full size gray pickup truck, towing a black closed trailer. You know the kind. Or maybe you don't. It's wider than a U-Haul trailer. The kind you can put 4-wheelers in. Or a dune buggy. Or lots of construction equipment. I didn't want to worry about getting T-Hoe's wheels off the pavement, or for that trailer to get off and tip over. There is no shoulder to that road. Just a ditch on each side. So I waited at the top of the hill, where I had room to pull over across the end of a driveway.

The gray pickup proceeded over the bridge, and up the curvy hill to pass me.

THE DRIVER DID NOT GIVE ME A COURTESY WAVE!

Can you believe that? I had gone out of my way to give him the right-of-way, and he couldn't even lift two fingers off the steering wheel for the courtesy wave? Not even a courtesy nod!

What was that driver thinking? That I was chicken to play chicken with him? That I was planning a heist on the house at the end of that driveway? That I'd stopped to pick up a bag of dog food from along the road? [That's another story.] That I lived at that house, and was parking my vehicle sideways? Taking in the view?

I DEMAND MY COURTESY WAVE!

Funny how being courteous to another driver can result in white-hot rage when your courtesy is not reciprocated. I hate it when I'm not appreciated for my magnanimosity...

If He Had A Brain, He'd Take It Out And Play With It, And Lose It Down In The Cushions Of The La-Z-Boy

Sweet Gummi Mary! Farmer H has been all abuzz lately about his Casey's account. He wants me to credit all my purchases to his account number, which is his cell phone number. I'm okay with that. It doesn't cost me anything. I wouldn't use such an account myself. So I punch in Farmer H's phone number when I buy gas and scratchers at Casey's.

In fact, last evening, I mentioned that Farmer H's Casey's account must be getting pretty healthy, what with me most likely adding more points to it than he did.

"Huh. They're always giving me stuff! The other day, I got a free slice of pizza! I bought one for lunch, and they said I was entitled to an upgrade! Just this morning, I got a free bottle of water!"

Farmer H pulled out his phone, to check on his points. For some reason, I pictured the king in his counting house, counting out his money.

"I have 765 points. Whatever that means. Wait a minute! It kicked me out! Or maybe I hit SIGN OUT by mistake. Well...now it's not letting me log back in. Huh. It says my password or email is wrong. So I hit that I forgot my password, and it says there is no account associated with my email!"

Farmer H must have entered that info 10 times. I suggested that he look back in his emails, to see what his email account was that they'd sent it to.

"I don't know, HM. I don't have any record of Casey's sending me an email."

"How do you get your offers?"

"They just pop up. In the top corner. And I click on them."

"So is it by text? Sprint keeps sending ME texts with offers. Or maybe you used another email for that account. Like when you had your work email."

"No. I used my regular email. The girl typed it in for me."

"Maybe she spelled your name wrong. Instead of using the double letters. Or maybe she capitalized it. I'm always having to tell people 'no caps.'"

"She asked me to spell it. But I didn't tell her anything about capitals."

"Try it using your capitals."

"Still no account."

Farmer H spent 80 minutes fiddling with that Casey's account! I did not have a solution. I figure the account is linked to his phone number, and the email was just for recovery of the password. When I left the Room of the Unknown (Account) Holder, Farmer H was trying to open a new account. I don't know how that worked out for him. I guessing unsuccessfully.

Farmer H had already stated his last resort: "I'll ask them girls to help me when I go to Casey's in the morning."

Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Go Back In The Garage

Sweet Gummi Mary! Can I not have one single day of joy over my 8-months-awaited tire repair?

First cat out of the bag, I looked at the receipt for T-Hoe's tire repair that Farmer H had left on the kitchen counter overnight. The repair cost $15 at the Devil's Playground automotive department. That's reasonable enough. As I looked at the itemization on that bill, I noticed that they'd listed the air pressure in each tire.

32 POUNDS

What in the NOT-HEAVEN? T-Hoe's tires should be inflated to 35 pounds of air. Not 32. In fact, the problem was only with that left rear tire. So the Devil's Minions had gone to the three good tires, and DEFLATED them!

When I got to the garage, and looked at that left rear tire, it seemed a little flat on the bottom. Huh. Supposedly it had 32 pounds of air in it. Upon starting T-Hoe, the dashboard computer tattletale showed that all tires had 32 pounds, except that one, which had 30! When it drops to 29, I get a warning light showing a flat tire.

I called Farmer H, to inform him that the tire he'd gotten fixed had again lost two pounds of air overnight. Just letting him know that I was on the way to town, to put more air in my tire.

Farmer H got all surly with me, and actually said,

"What do you want me to do, TAKE IT BACK?"

Um. Yes. Isn't that what most people would do, who paid to have a tire fixed, with no fixing?

For all I know, the Devil's Minions just TOLD Farmer H they had fixed the tire. After all, he said they couldn't find anything wrong with it, and then SAID it was a tack, without showing him the tack.

Anyhoo...when I left, the weather was bright and sunny. I didn't even put on my jacket. Yet when I got out at the Gas Station Chicken Store to steal some FREE AIR, I almost got hypothermia. Seems the temperature was 24 degrees. The wind had to be at least 20 mph. I dug a coat off the bottom of the floor behind the driver's seat. That's the good thing about being a retired teacher who doesn't care about cleaning out her car. Always a "duty" coat laying around.

Oh, and besides letting air out of perfectly good tires, the Devil's Minions had moved my trash bag! It's a big black trash bag that I keep up front, on the passenger side, to put junk mail in. That saves the step of carrying it inside the Mansion to throw away. I have to top laying where I just grab it, toss in the mail, and forget about it until the bag is full enough to justify putting it in the dumpster. Only NOW, that bag was folded down all flat. I couldn't reach the top or put anything inside unless I got out and walked around to the passenger side.

Farmer H said the Devil's Minions probably did that when they vacuumed. WHAT? He took it for a tire repair! Nobody asked for vacuuming. Or letting the air out of perfectly good tires! SHEESH! I'm lucky they didn't take my duty coat!

Anyhoo...I put more air in that bad tire. We'll see how much it loses overnight. Farmer H might as well face it. He's going to have to take that tire to somebody who will actually fix it, and stand over their shoulder while they do so.

Do You Hear What HM Hears?

Listen! Did you catch that? It's like music to my ears. It IS music to my ears!

Actually, it's a 32-second video of an orchestra playing Handel's Hallelujah Chorus. I use it to make the official announcement that

FARMER H FIXED T-HOE'S LEAKY TIRE!

Thank you, thank you! I accept your hearty congratulations. Careful there! Don't pat me on the back too hard. I may look sturdy as a tree trunk, but I'm not sure-footed.

Yes, after 8 months of my "needless" complaining, I finally got through to Farmer H.

"I don't know how you can live with yourself, knowing that your elderly wife was bent over in the 34-degree rain today, putting air in her leaky tire. Other people may think you're a nice guy, but I guarantee their opinion would change if they'd seen that sight."

"Which one is it? The left rear?"

"Yes. Rear tire behind the driver. Same as I've been telling you for 8 months."

"I guess I'll take it to town and see if Mick the Mechanic can get two tires for it. Get me your keys."

"The keys are in the side of my purse, where they always are. You can get them yourself. I don't think that will be any harder than picking them up off the counter beside the purse as you walk by."

"Never mind. I have a key on the dresser. I'll use that one."

Always wanting to have the upper hand, that Farmer H. Ready to make a detour to the bedroom for another set of keys, to SHOW ME that he's not one to put up with his woman telling him to get the keys out of the side of her purse as he walks by, rather than her getting up to move them six inches for his convenience.

At 4:33 I got a text,

"Im getting your oil changed and tire fixed
So far they can't find anything in it"

"I don't know why it loses 2 pounds of air a day. Sometimes more. I put in 8 pounds today."

At 4:35,

"They finally found it"

Huh. Doesn't seem like it took all that long to me. It was after 3:30 when I heard Farmer H tromping through the bedroom for his key. Then he had to drive to town. Probably shot the breeze for a while before getting down to business. THEN when he gave me the receipt later, I saw that he'd actually gone to the Devil's Playground automotive department, and not Mick the Mechanic's shop. Which takes three times as long to get there.

According to Farmer H later, at home, the guys didn't put the tire under water, as normal, to check for the leak. They were spraying it with water. The leaker was a tack. Farmer H could not elaborate on whether it was a common thumbtack, a pointy staple used in construction, or a flat nail used to tack down roofing material. 

"The guy just come back in and said it was a small tack."

Uh huh. Which means I'd been driving on it for 8 months. It could have been removed long ago, preventing me from standing on my head at the air hose on a weekly, then two-day basis. But that would have been the LOGICAL scenario. Not a Farmer H scenario.

However...I am elated that I won't have to get out for air every-other day through the end of the winter. I hope. I AM assuming Farmer H got the correct tire fixed this time...

A Dastardly Deed At The Dead Mouse Smelling Post Office

Farmer H and I had plans to meet my sister the ex-mayor's wife, and her husband the ex-mayor, for a casino trip yesterday. First, I had to get the Valentine's Day packages in the mail to Genius and The Pony. Don't even suggest that they are old enough to buy their own treats! Genius even requested, specifically, DOVE chocolate squares this year. Not so much "squares," as "hearts." One year, he was doing the KETO thing, and didn't want much candy. So he got beef jerky.

Anyhoo...we were meeting at Country Mart at 8:30. The main post office over in Sis-Town opened at 8:00. I suggested that Farmer H take the packages there, then meet us at Country Mart. I'd drive T-Hoe to town, and park by Sis at Country Mart. Oh, no. He wanted to pick up Sis and Ex-Mayor in Sis-Town. Which would mean I'd have to leave earlier with him, and we'd have to drive a different route, adding at least 20 minutes each way to our trip.

We compromised by me going with Farmer H, but him mailing the packages at the Dead Mouse Smelling Post Office when it opened at 8:30. We changed the meeting time to 8:45. Everything worked smoothly, except for an atrocity that I witnessed. And got a picture!

Okay. So you don't really see the perpetrator of the atrocity in the picture. I'm not exactly a crime scene photographer, you know. But here's the scene of the should-be crime.

Farmer H got out of A-Cad at 8:25. It was as if the floodgates had opened. As if the bulls had been unpenned at Pamplona. As soon as Farmer H had his hand on the door, a lady parked in front of us jumped out to follow. A man came from behind, just as I was dropping two fingernails out the passenger window. You don't think I'd drop them inside A-Cad, do you?

Anyhoo...this man was a SMOKER! He went up the steps, not grasping the snow-flurried rail, stopped at the top for one last puff, then stepped past the rail to the concrete flower box. He PUT HIS BUTT in the flower box!

Sure, it wasn't his actual buttocks, but rather the end of his cigarette. Sure, the flowers are fake. But HOW DARE HE stick his nasty-habit trash into the Dead Mouse Smelling Post Office's valiant attempt to beautify that old building!

Some people are just butts.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, The Hero

Here she comes to save the day!

Mrs. HM rode in on her white horse behind the wheel of her black T-Hoe Monday, to save an old lady from a world of hurt. Not physical harm. FINANCIAL harm!

I had loaded my weekly Devil's Playground groceries in T-Hoe's rear, and given my cart to a man walking by who asked if he could have it, to lean on for support. So make note, people, that's TWO good deeds for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom in the span of five minutes!

Anyhoo...I backed T-Hoe out of the parking space (third from the end), taking precautions not to run over the old lady pushing her cart to the end, to leave it next to a yellow concrete pole. I kept her in my sights, even though a red pickup had also backed out after me, and was driving behind me to the stop sign.

WAIT A MINUTE! Something was in that old lady's cart! And she was back to her car, rounding the tail light. I scrolled T-Hoe's squeaky window down, and stuck my head out.

"MA'AM? MA'AM! Did you leave your purse in the cart?"

Indeed. Her large purse was still sitting in the child seat part of the cart. It was almost bigger than a child. A very wide, not tall, floppy beige child. With straps and buckles. It looked like leather. Or maybe pleather. Not all stiff like vinyl.

"Oh. Maybe I did. Thank you."

I kept T-Hoe idling there, as I watched that lady walk past three cars to the cart.

"Yes. That's it. Thank you again!"

Uh huh. That's how we do it in Hillmomba. Honesty is the best policy. Look out for your fellow woman. At least that's how we old whippersnappers do it.

T-Hoe May Or May Not Be Possessed

Strange things happen around here quite often, but they usually happen inside the Mansion. Sunday afternoon, T-Hoe went a little crazy.

I wasn't even inside T-Hoe at the time. I was coming out of the Gas Station Chicken Store with my 44 oz Diet Coke and scratchers clutched in my left hand, keys in the right. As I approached T-Hoe's right flank, I clicked my clicker to unlock him.

Well! T-Hoe clicked all right. Three or four times! He made a clunky noise that I hadn't heard before. His tail lights seemed to flash too many times for one click. I feared he was going all wonky, and I'd be stranded there with 44 oz of magical elixir and no innernets.

I reached to open T-Hoe's door, and it was locked! That's not fair! After all the clicking and light-flashing. I knew T-Hoe had gotten a signal. Hm. Maybe I'd hit the LOCK button instead of UNLOCK. So I clicked LOCK, and then UNLOCK. I heard one click each time. The door latch complied when I pulled the handle. Whew!

I stowed my soda and stuffed the scratchers in the side of my purse. Turned on the ignition. DING DING DING! A light flashed on the dash! COMPARTMENT DOOR AJAR! Sheesh! No way did I want to climb back out and check on that. I was headed a quarter-mile away to Orb K. I'd check it then.

Yes. The glass part of T-Hoe's hatch had popped open. It's heavy enough that it was still in position, but not latched. I pushed it down. CLICK. Problem solved.

I've had this happen before, but it was when I had my thumb on the clicker part that actually opens that compartment door. This time, I did not. I'm pretty sure I clicked the actual UNLOCK part, too. I don't know why T-Hoe went all wonky. As I've tried to tell Farmer H a million and one times, I think T-Hoe has an electrical problem.

Unless Farmer H is gaslighting me again, for another pretty-sure attempt to kill me...

It Takes An Enclave To Haze A Dog-Napper

Our neighbor called Farmer H on Friday. She had just turned onto our gravel road at the mailboxes when she saw two blond gals parked in a blue car, WITH MY LITTLE JACK! She stopped to question them. She had her phone recording, but not taking a video of the car or the gals.

"Do you live here?"

"No."

"That's my neighbor's dog, he runs down here a lot."

"We were just feeding him."

"This is private property. There's the sign. You need to leave, and if you don't, I'm calling the police."

"Okay."

Seriously? WHAT could they have been feeding my little Jack? It's five miles out of town. Who drives out here with food if they don't live here? Winding down two miles of blacktop in the middle of nowhere. If you're going to drive-thru for food, and eat in the car, I'd think you'd do it right there on the parking lot. Or take it home. Not take it to some random place. Farmer H said they might have had snacks, like a candy bar. CHOCOLATE is not good for dogs! Who would feed a dog a candy bar? Something is fishy here.

We know Jack is mighty cute, in an odd kind of way. He has no collar, since he either ate or chewed off the last one we put on him, a black nylon one. So these gals might have assumed he was a stray that had been dumped out, except he's fat and sassy and friendly, not starving and sad.

Thank the Gummi Mary, it was our across-the-road neighbor, the dog-groomer-rescuer. Of course she's going to look out for a dog! She hates people being out here when they don't belong, too. I commend her for possibly saving my little Jack from the clutches of those strangers.

I told Farmer H we need to get Jack another collar as soon as possible. He said to get a leather one, and he'll engrave our phone number on the tag. That will make Jack miserable. He hates a collar. But it's the best we can do. I also mentioned that chipping him won't work unless he's actually lost, and somebody scans him. People who STEAL a dog aren't going to do that.

Farmer H said that HOS's (Farmer H's Oldest Son's) wife had her phone number tattooed in her dog's ear. Which could again work for a LOST dog, but not for a stolen one.

I don't want to lose my little Jack, but I refuse to pen him up or chain him. A dog shouldn't live like that. Farmer H won't let him be a house dog, but that would also make Jack miserable. He's used to running free. The best we can do is a collar with our phone number. So at least nobody assumes he's a stray when he chases Farmer H down to the mailboxes.

A Rudie 'Tudie Day At The Gas Station Chicken Store

That ol' Even Steven! He's such a comedian. Only two days after two strangers were uncharacteristically kind, by taking my cart back into the store, and holding a door open for me...I was beset by two rude strangers with bad attitudes!

The Gas Station Chicken Store has narrow aisles, you know. Only three aisles total. Upon entering the door, I go straight down the middle aisle, turn right when I reach the beer coolers with a slanted mirror up top, and step up to the Coca Cola soda fountain that dispenses my magical elixir.

Next along the soda fountain aisle is the Pepsi soda fountain. And then the chicken counter. You stand there to order, wait for it to come out, and take your ticket with the price on it to the register.

Nobody hardly ever goes down the far left aisle as they enter the door. It has uncool beer cases stacked there, and a sliding-door cooler with individual bottles of juices. Gas Station Chicken Store customers are generally not juicers.

Anyhoo...I made it down the center aisle without incident. The Woman Owner was stocking chips across from the Coke fountain. She wasn't in my way. But an old lady was. She was waiting behind another old lady who was at the chicken counter. I wasn't in a hurry, so I stood back, making sure not to get in the way of the chipping, to wait until the Old Lady moved forward. She looked like her knees hurt. I could sympathize. She was leaning an elbow on the counter.

A man at the chicken counter moved forward, then the waiting lady, and the Old Lady crept up a few steps. That put her in front of the Pepsi fountain. Completely out of my way.

I laid my $15 scratcher winner on the counter ledge in front of the Coke fountain, and pulled out a 44 oz foam cup. I was at least a long-arm's-length away from Old Lady. Well! She turned and looked over her shoulder at me. Daggers! As if I was somehow harming her, or interfering with her waiting! She had that look on her face like the old lady in Girl, Interrupted, when Winona Rider blew cigarette smoke in her face in the day room of the loony bin, right before that old lady said, "Asshole."

Whew! Excuuuuse me! I poured my 44 oz Diet Coke, put a lid on it, and edged past Old Lady and Chicken Lady. Therein stood my next Rudie 'Tudie. The man who had ordered chicken stood at the register. Like he was next to pay. Which he couldn't do until he had his chicken and order ticket. He should have let me pass, but he wouldn't give up that position. The man at the register paid, and it should have been my turn. But I couldn't get there.

Customer Man was putting his change in his pocket, getting ready to pick up his two sodas and pack of cigarettes, when the chicken clerk called out the order and shoved the chicken box across the chicken counter. So Mr. Blockade turned and took two steps back to grab his order, then went right back to the register. When technically, he should have gotten behind the person who had come in behind ME.

He gave me a look, too! Sweet Gummi Mary! I guess we could have had ten or twelve people backed up waiting, while he held his ground at the counter, making sure he would be next as soon as he had that chicken ticket!

I know I should have said something like, "Excuse me, are you paying?" But I really don't like to ask anybody anything, ever since that CRAZY DONUT MAN flipped out at the Casey's when I was trying NOT to take his turn!

There's more than one kind of chicken in the Gas Station Chicken Store.

It's Raining A Lot Of Leg Pee Around Here

Sweet Gummi Mary! I thought Groundhog Day had already happened! Yet here I am again, reliving that package delivery scenario from a couple months ago.

On Tuesday evening, I ordered my tax preparation software on NotSoAmazingdotCom. Yeah. That's not a real site. I think you know what I'm getting at. I have NotSoAmazingPrime, so 2-day shipping is free. You know where this is going, right?

When I placed my order on Feb. 4 at 7:54 p.m., the page was touting delivery on Feb. 6 if I ordered within the next four hours and something. That seemed too good to be true.

I'm not in a grand hurry to get this tax CD. Don't even suggest I should have bought the downloadable version. Just no. Not with my technology skills, and my satellite internet.

Anyhoo...when I got the confirmation email, NotSoAmazingdotCom proclaimed that my order would arrive by 9:00 p.m. on Feb. 6. Sure it would.

It's now Feb. 6 at 10:49 p.m.

I DO NOT HAVE MY PACKAGE.

Delving into the electronic trail, I discovered that shipping was by USPS. That's the post office. No way was a package being shipped out on a Tuesday night, and getting here in my mail around noon on Thursday. Nope. Mail leaves the dead mouse smelling post office for delivery around 8:00 a.m. I don't think Superman moonlights for NotSoAmazingdotCom and the USPS.

Tracking showed:

WEDNESDAY, FEB 5, 2020, 1:22 am
Picked Up by Shipping Partner, USPS Awaiting Item
OKLAHOMA CITY, OK 73159
Shipping Partner: [NotSoAmazingdotCom]
"Your item was picked up by a shipping partner at 1:22 am on Feb 5, 2020, in Oklahoma City, OK. This does not indicate receipt by the USPS or the actual mailing date."

I know where Oklahoma City is. I regularly sweave within 20 miles of Oklahoma City. It's a MINIMUM 8-hour drive from here on the turnpike, exceeding the speed limit. Not accounting for loading and unloading and sorting of packages. No way was my package getting here by Thursday, even if that demon FedEx became involved.

There's more.

THURSDAY, FEB 6, 4:26 pm
"Package arrived at an [NotAmazingdotCom] facility
Hazelwood, Missouri US"

There's more.

THURSDAY, FEB 6, [10:49 pm]
"Now expected February 7 - February 8
We're very sorry your delivery is late. Most late packages arrive in a day. If you have not received your package by February 8, you can come back here the next day for a refund or replacement."

What in the NOT-HEAVEN? Why advertise that you can deliver it in two days, when you can't? Maybe to keep sucking that automatic payment for NotAmazingdotComPrime out of my credit card every year? So I think I can get packages within two days?

I know that some items come from other shippers, and might not be available for two-day shipping. JUST SAY SO! I would still have ordered my tax preparation software, and I wouldn't have been pissed off, throwing shade on my barely-read anonymous blog!

Don't say my package will be here in two days when you know it's impossible. Surely NotAmazingdotCom has shipped enough packages from there to here to have data revealing the true shipping time.

As Judge Judy used to say, paraphrasically, "It's raining a lot of leg pee around here."

Hillbilly Mansion, Where A Question Always Begets A Question

Farmer H has a problem with responsibility. With taking it, and with accepting it. But you knew that already. Even if, by some glitch in the matrix, Farmer H is NOT responsible for something, he will react as if he needs an alibi.

Sometimes Farmer H sits on the long couch. Like if I've beaten him (not literally) to the La-Z-Boy, or if he's eating some supper that requires cutting. I'd say if it needs slurping, but you also know by now that Farmer H could eat his soup or chili or beans with a fork, since he practically squeegees out all the liquid.

Since The Pony went back to college, we've found a couple things he forgot. Or maybe left on purpose. One of them is a container of Chex Mix. I'm sure it was an oversight. The Pony LOVES my Chex Mix. I make it with extra garlic powder and garlic salt, just for him. There was a shortage of Chex Mix this year. In the end, I only had enough left over to give The Pony, Genius, Friend, and Farmer H. I didn't have any left for myself! That's okay. It's better to give than to eat yourself. Heh, heh.

Anyhoo...Farmer H had his container of Chex Mix on the table next to the La-Z-Boy. He has a habit of picking out first the Bugles, then the Chex, then the pretzels, then the nuts, and leaving the Cheerios. Which will sit there until I decide to toss them out and wash the container. Farmer H will never say, "I'm done with this," and bring it to the kitchen for washing. It could conceivably sit there until NEXT Christmas, if left up to him.

Anyhoo...last week, I got to thinking how good some Chex Mix would be. With a bottle of REAL Coke. So I looked to the couch, to see if The Pony's tub of Chex was still there. I didn't see it.

"Did you eat The Pony's Chex Mix?"

"Did you take it downstairs?"

"Would I be asking you where it is if I took it downstairs?"

"Do you always remember everything you do?"

"Can you ever just answer a question?"

"Can you not blame me for something just once?"

"Do you know where the Chex Mix is that was sitting on the couch?"

"Was there Chex Mix on the couch?"

"Don't you remember seeing it there when you sit down?"

"Why would I notice Chex Mix on the couch?"

SWEET GUMMI MARY!

I went to the couch, moved two throw pillows, and there it was. Seemingly with the proper ratio of ingredients, though some had been eaten, probably by The Pony.

Seriously. Shouldn't I have known better than to ask?

ONE Job, People, ONE Job!

I might as well change my identity from Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to Charlie Brown. I don't know why I keep going back for more, like Chuck kicking the Lucy-held football.

Yes, I keep going back to quite possibly the worst Hardee's in Hillmomba. I can't quit it. I stopped Wednesday for chicken tenders. There's been a little problem with the sauce. Most times I've been there (that's a LOT of times), I get two sauce packets with a five-piece tenders. That's doable for a normal person. They're not long chicken plank tenders. More like extra-long chicken nuggets. Only real chicken.

Of course I like a lot of sauce, so I add some Honey Mustard salad dressing from Save A Lot. I keep it on hand for just such occasions. I'd never use it on a salad!

Last week, the dude working the drive-thru only gave me ONE sauce packet! Are you kidding me? ONE sauce packet, for five tenders? That's stretching it. Lucky for me, I always take my tenders home, so I have my backup Honey Mustard salad dressing on hand.

Anyhoo...Wednesday, the same dude was at the drive-thru. A gal took my order, but this dude was there at the window. Maybe he's the manager. He seemed quite confident in himself. He wasn't some scroungy high school kid. When I took my lunch out of the bag back at the Mansion, I was displeased to see only one packet of honey mustard. Right then I made the connection that this dude was the one sabotaging my tender enjoyment by shorting me on the sauce.

Anyhoo...down in my lair, I was watching some YouTubes when I reached for the SINGLE packet of honey mustard sauce. I absentmindedly peeled it open. I actually had the lights on, but you know how stuff works around here. My lair was still dark, because the last remaining working light of the four fluorescents hadn't decided to fully warm up yet. I glanced down at my sauce packet, tender in hand for dipping, and slammed on the feeding brakes.

MY HONEY MUSTARD SAUCE WAS BROWN!

As you might imagine, I was concerned about food poisoning. This packet had opened suspiciously easily. Not like sometimes, when you almost fling it across the room when the top finally comes loose. I looked at the label I'd peeled off.

IT WAS HONEY Q SAUCE!

Sweet Gummi Mary! That perhaps-manager dude must be messing with me! I did NOT ask for Honey Q sauce. They've given it to me before. Not a fan. It's a mixture of honey and BBQ sauce. When there was light, I took a picture.

No way was I eating that. It's a trick of the camera angle that makes it look half empty. The packet had the normal amount of sauce. I didn't dip into it at all.

I guess my next step (because you KNOW I'll go back) is to look in the bag before I drive away, and demand the proper sauce. I won't dare mention it before I have the food in my hand. You never know what kind of revenge might be exacted on my tenders if I tip them off beforehand!

Seriously. This dude had ONE JOB. Okay. Maybe several steps in that job. To take money, give back change, add napkins and condiments to the bag, and hand it out the window. It's not rocket science. It's not brain surgery.

I feel sorry for all the young whippersnappers coming up, in case they need rockets or brain surgery. They might end up like Wile E. Coyote after opening an ACME shipment, or get a transfusion of Honey Q sauce.

Speaking Of Candy

You'd think an ex-teacher such as Mrs. HM would be able to learn lessons. That does not appear to be the case. If Mrs. HM could learn a lesson, she would not have a sore mouth right now.

Last year, Farmer H and I went on a Oklahoma casino trip with my sister the ex-mayor's wife, and the ex-mayor. We drove separately. It takes five hours to get there. To pass the time, Farmer H and I eat candy. Not the whole trip, mind you! And his IS sugar-free. But every hour or 90 minutes, a piece of candy is a nice treat. A distraction. Not that I want my driver distracted, of course. But I get bored, even with a book. The last 80 miles is torture. It seems to take the same amount of time as the whole rest of the trip.

Anyhoo...on this gambling trip with Sis and the Ex-Mayor, I noticed that the roof of my mouth was really sore. My tongue, too. In fact, drinking the hot chocolate at the only casino that offers it was TORTURE! To come all that way, during hot chocolate season, and not be able to enjoy the hot chocolate!

I finally deduced that my sore mouth was caused by CINNAMON DISK candy! I had some Brach's Cinnamon Disks in the car, and had eaten three or four of them during the ride. It only occurred to me when Sis offered me a cinnamon candy from her purse.

"NO! I think that's what made my mouth so sore! It's on fire! I really want one, but I'd better not."

Of course I relented on the second day, and took one that Sis offered me. It wasn't so bad!

"Well, mine are just store brand. The Ex-Mayor likes me to carry candy in my purse, and I picked them up when I saw them. Yours are probably name-brand."

Yes. Mine were. This recent bag I got last week, in Country Mart. Brach's Cinnamon Disks. They must use extra cinnamon! I only wanted something to have in the car, when it's getting late and I haven't had lunch. Sometimes I have a cough drop, because that's all there is. So I thought hard candy would be a better option to carry in the console.

Over the past 3 days, I've not finished one cinnamon disk. I started it, then put it back in the wrapper TWICE! It will be going on its fourth day tomorrow. I'm not doing it because I'm cheap. I thought that limiting my cinnamon exposure would protect my mouth. SWEET GUMMI MARY! It's not like I'm eating three or four a day!

Of course, the crispy chicken tenders I had for lunch yesterday probably didn't help the roof of my mouth heal. Nor the tortilla chips I had with a salad loaded with tomatoes last night.

The Anticlimactic Reveal Of The Half-Triangle, Rolo-Like Candy Bar

I'm sure your curiosity has climbed to a level sufficient to kill several cats. WE DON'T ENDORSE THAT! Hope you took a chill pill while waiting for the reveal of Farmer H's description of a fundraiser candy bar. In case you can't remember back to yesterday, Farmer H said the candy bar was:

"They're like half a triangle. It's flat on the bottom, and flat on top. The sides go in. It's like a Rolo."

Well. Now you'll see why I am often confused by Farmer H's descriptions and/or instructions. Here is the candy bar.

Looks like a regular candy bar shape to me. Rectangular. Though slimmer than one might imagine. But for a dollar, a fundraiser candy bar is not going to be the same size as a regular candy bar. It's 1.3 oz, and I think the normal ones are 2.6 oz.

Anyhoo...here are the nutritional facts, in case you're interested.

Not that you'd be tempted to gorge yourself on them, at $1 apiece!

Inside, it looks like normal chocolate.

Not like a Rolo. Though the caramel version would have four little sections filled with caramel. Still not like a Rolo to me!

From the end, which is sadly out of focus...

I might get the general idea of "half a triangle."

Note to Self: Don't ever ask Farmer H for a description, or directions, unless your ears can take high volume, and you have a good aptitude for mystery-solving.

There Is The Edge Of Inanity, And Then There Is The Abyss

There are times when Farmer H makes no sense. He THINKS he is explaining something, when in reality, it's about as clear as mud, and when pressed, he states the same words in the same order, only LOUDER.

Thursday evening, he said the Bad Hay Baling Lawyer's Wife was trying to find residents of our enclave to buy fundraiser candy bars from her kid.

"How much are they?"

"A dollar apiece."

"That's not bad. I'm surprised they're not two dollars now. My students were always selling them. What kinds? I used to get plain or almond for myself, and crunch for The Pony, and caramel for Genius."

"I don't know. She didn't say what kinds."

"How many are you getting?"

"I don't know. Three or four."

"Are you getting them just for yourself? You're not supposed to have candy bars!"

"I can get you some."

"I don't know what kinds! I don't like caramel, though. They're too messy."

"I'd imagine they're the regular kinds. They're half a triangle. Like a Rolo."

"Whoa! I don't know what you mean. Aren't they fundraiser candy bars? The regular shape? Like a rectangle?"

"No, HM. They're like half a triangle!"

"Half a triangle is another triangle!"

"No. It's flat on the bottom, and flat on top."

"I've seen a fundraiser candy bar before. They're shaped like a regular candy bar! A rectangle. Longer than they are wide."

"No. It's flat on the bottom, and flat on top. The sides go in. It's like a Rolo."

"A Rolo is round! And they come in a tube, a round tube, that's long!"

"I don't know what you don't understand! The candy bar is half a triangle! Flat on the bottom, and flat on the top! With slanted sides!"

"Wait! Are you talking about how thick it is? Not its shape? Because if you are, then that shape is NOT half a triangle! It's a trapezoid! If you mean when looking at it from the end."

"You never could understand nothin'! The candy bar is half a triangle! Flat on the bottom, and flat on the top! It's like a Rolo!"

SWEET GUMMI MARY! It was like the "Who's On First" routine, but not funny, and not clever. The best I could figure out, Farmer H was describing the thickness of the candy bar, and meaning that the caramel version is chocolate on the outside, and caramel on the inside, like a Rolo.

Like, if you look at the end, the candy bar would have this kind of shape: /___\

Still, I imagine it's a regular rectangle-shaped candy bar. I'll show you a picture tomorrow.

Ne'er-Do-Wells And Progress: These Are Two Of My Non-Favorite Things

A scourge has come to Hillmomba. A plethora of scourges, according to the clerk at the local Casey's, where Farmer H buys gas for SilverRedO, and Mrs. HM buys her scratchers. Farmer H had been warning me for a month, but I would not listen. Surely I would not be affected...

"At the end of January, I'll have to pre-pay for gas. That, or use my card."

"I don't want you using the debit! It's hard enough to keep up with stuff you don't give me receipts for. You get your weekly allowance. That includes gas money."

"I know. I'll go inside and pre-pay. I was just telling you, so you know. They have signs on the pumps, and on the window."

"I've seen the signs, but I don't buy my gas there. I get it over at the Sis-Town Casey's."

"I bet they do it there, too! It's a chain, HM."

"Well. I'll worry about that if it happens, and when I run out of gas."

I asked the Casey's clerk last Saturday.

"Is that pre-pay thing for ALL the Casey's?"

"Yes. We're trying to warn people. We have SO MANY drive-offs! And they're the SAME PEOPLE! They do it over and over again! They won't dare set foot inside the store, because then they'll be on camera. We had to stop it some way. Now...what's your birthdate?"

"Heh, heh! Management must really be cracking down. Nobody's asked my age for scratchers in a long time."

"Yeah. The manager got tired of us putting in fake birthdays, if we knew the people were old enough."

"How would she know if they were fake?"

"We used the same one all the time. She knew there weren't that many people with the same birthdate."

Good to know. I wasn't too worried about the gas policy. I still had a week to go, you know... Before T-Hoe needed gas.