Over The Lips, Past The Gums, Lookout Stomach, Get Some Tums

The Pony's friend, 2nd Bestie, came for a visit last week. As usual, they went to lunch at The Pony's favorite place, Steak N Shake.

"Did you guys have a good lunch?"

"Yes. She spilled her fries at the first bite. She ate them, though! She didn't want them to go to waste."

"Off the FLOOR?"

"Mom. We ate in my car."

"Oh. That's different. Better than the floor of Steak N Shake."

"They went down beside the seat. She fished them all out, though."

"She seems to like eating off the floor of your car..."

"I know! You're remembering the cookie, aren't you? That I told you about, after the movie that time down in Norman."

"Yeah. I can't forget that. HOW long had it been there?"

"At least a year..."

"I didn't know THAT! I thought it was just a week or two."

"No. I remember when I made the cookies, and Bestie and 2nd Bestie were full, and didn't want any more. I just didn't clean out my car."

Anyhoo... the Pony was planning a trip to the city to visit 2nd Bestie on Sunday. However, they decided to reschedule.

"She's sick. Like sick to her stomach."

"Oh, no! I hope it wasn't...um...something she...ATE! Heh, heh! I didn't mean for it to come out that way, but at the end of the sentence, I was remembering the car fries."

"It could have been. They were down on the metal track that moves the seat. And there's some grease on it."

"I'm not sure if that's worse than a year-old cookie."

"Well, YOU ate a hot dog off the porch where JACK eats!"

Yes. Yes, I did.

It Ain't My Cup Of Cheese

When we made our trip to The Devil's Playground last week, The Pony went hog wild buying himself some items which I do not keep on hand. He spent like a college student living off his parents' dime! The Pony has champagne tastes on a store-brand soda budget. Speaking of which, he also bought himself some wine. Which I generally decree to come out of his budget. Not off my debit card. But he DID do all the legwork with my shopping list, while I ran over to Casey's for some scratchers.

One of the things he bought himself was feta cheese. Said he adds it to stuff, and sometimes just eats a few crumbles as a snack. When he sat down with supper, he took the container to the living room coffee table with him.

"Here, Mom. Try some feta cheese. It's good!"

"I don't know. Let me smell it first. WHEW! No thanks! I don't want any. It smells like FEET!"

"Heh, heh. It IS FEETA cheese, you know!"

That Pony. When he's not being excessively droll with his dry sense of humor, he can be a laugh riot.

A Not-So-DELIcious Tale

I went to the Country Mart Deli on Friday, seeking a quick meal for Farmer H and myself. The Pony was out with a friend, and didn't need to strap on the old feedbag at home that evening.

As I walked across the parking lot, and through the automatic double doors, I could sense someone behind me. I don't like that, you know. When I entered the inner double door, the whole group dashed around me. It was a lady, a 9-10 year old girl, and two boys who may have been twins, around 5 years old.

I know I'm old and slow. But of course that group headed straight to the deli counter. DANG IT! I hate standing around waiting. So I went to the adjacent produce department, to pick out bananas (extreme green for The Pony, just turning yellow for Farmer H), and some hot-house tomatoes on the stem.

Like I said, I'm old and slow. But even after my careful selection, and getting open the end of the static-clinging produce bag for my tomatoes... the deli usurpers were still at the counter. I thought about going to the other end of the store for Farmer H's individual ice cream cups, vanilla with strawberry and chocolate swirl. Then I figured somebody else might come in and go to the deli counter. So I went on over there.

SWEET GUMMI MARY! They were still deciding! Not one thing bagged. The lady ended up getting a bunch of General Tso's Chicken. The boys didn't really want that. They had wanted chicken tenders, but Country Mart was out of them. So instead of taking the chicken nuggets in their place, she got those boys General Tso's Chicken!

Boy 1 kept whining that she didn't get him BBQ for dipping sauce. She explained they didn't have it. And that when they got home, he could pour BBQ sauce in a bowl, and stir his chicken all around in it. He didn't seem to be buying it. Evidenced by a bit more whining, while sliding his hands all over the glass-fronted deli case. As did his brother, Boy 2. Sometimes they even joined hands to do it in unison. Then Boy 2 wandered off (nearer to me!) and started stomping at a fly on the tile floor. I don't know what the girl got. Maybe macaroni and cheese. It took forever.

Finally, it was my turn. There was nothing Farmer H would like, except the General Tso's Chicken. No rice in sight this day. So I got his favorite sides of green beans and mashed potatoes with brown gravy. For myself, I got some of the untried chicken nuggets. Which I later found out tasted just like McDonald's chicken nuggets. Except it was all white meat inside. Actually pretty good.

I saw some jumbo shrimp left in the bin. So I got that for The Pony's lunch the next day.

"I'll take however many pieces of that shrimp you have left. I usually get 10, but I don't think there's that many."

The deli boy put it in a bag, and weighed it, rather than charging by the piece, like they usually do. Heh, heh! It was only $3.88! But here's the tragic mishap!

Deli Boy had been telling me how he just wasn't awake (at 1:30 p.m.) because while he had MADE his coffee that morning, he forgot to DRINK his coffee that morning. Also, that he had just moved out of his parents' house, and this was his first day on his own.

"Oh, you're having trouble ADULTING!"

I know all that lingo from Genius. Anyhoo... Deli Boy agreed, and started dipping out the shrimp with his tongs, putting them in the plastic bag. On the very last tong, he DROPPED two shrimp! One went to the floor, and the other, he pinned against the counter with his apron-ed midsection.

"Oh, no! There weren't that many! I don't want the one on the floor, but I'll take that one you trapped."

Heh, heh. It's not like I was going to eat them! Besides, let's recall that I ate a BBQ hot dog that fell on the porch where Jack licks the boards clean after his daily treat.

The Pony, Hick, and I are going to have really strong immune systems... if we don't die of food poisoning first.

Funding The Enemy

I bought new stamps this week. Even though I hate to fund the people who regularly lose my mail, send it back as undeliverable after four weeks, and can't get a bill from Missouri to Illinois in 10 days.

Anyhoo, I ran out of the stamps I use to mail Genius's (and formerly The Pony's) weekly letters. I'm sure they didn't pay much attention to the stamps. But also sure that Genius will notice that he's no longer getting assorted flowers, but instead receiving an envelope with a nod to the GREAT OUTDOORS.

I tried to get a closeup of some, but my new SamGalA didn't focus very well.

Aren't they cool? I know it's just a pictured square used to fund delivery of my letters. But still, there's nothing wrong with enjoying the beauty of scenes lovingly painted by an artist.

Of course I also bought a book of regular U.S. flag stamps for mailing my bills. My utility companies and creditors will have to get by without beauty.

Pony In A Mansion Is The New Bull In A China Shop

The Pony is at it again! Thursday evening, he tied up the trash bag and hoisted it over his shoulder like Santa. A really bad Santa. Because it was filled with stuff like tomato tops, expired slaw, an empty pickle jar, and blue wine bottles. Rather than taking the usual route out the kitchen door, to get to the dumpster under the carport... he started past the cutting block, on the way to the front door.

I was getting ice at the door of FRIG II's freezer. He was chiding me that I'd better get all I wanted before he came back in, because he had plans to fill his insulated metal cup. He turned to look at me, driving that point home with fake bravado. In doing so, the trash bag swung around and hit the door frame of the laundry room.

The Pony hesitated only a millisecond. But I noticed. I was not a teacher for 28 years for nothing!

"Did you just slam that trash bag into the door frame? Seriously? Is there no nice thing we can have?"

"Um. Maybe?"

The Pony turned around, and ran his hand across the exact area of the door frame I was asking about. There was a small, lighter-colored chip in the wood. A divot. Not big. But noticeable.

"You totally did that!"

"I don't think so..."

"You DID! Don't come near me! Stay away! I IMPLORE YOU!"

That got The Pony laughing. He hung his head, and trudged off through the living room, to the front door, on his way to the dumpster.

I might need to follow his route, and check for structural damage.

Partly Cloudy, Fake Flamingos

We went to Casino Town on Wednesday. While waiting at a stoplight on the way home, The Pony noticed a nice fountain. He was enamored with the FAKE FLAMINGOS stationed around the different levels. I liked the reflection of the clouds on the building itself.

Not a great picture, taken through the tinted back window of A-Cad. But you can see some of the clouds on the shiny wall of the building.

You have to look really close to see the fake flamingos.

If Only Someone Could Have TIPPED Us Off Ahead Of Time

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has not always been the suave world-traveler that she is now. At one time, while pursuing her valedictorianship, she was downright backwards! But so were her classmates. Some never having left the safety of the county, not even to travel to the city an hour away.

You can imagine the excitement that ramped up over the course of four years, for the SENIOR TRIP to Daytona, Florida. We sold magazines to raise money. Chartered THREE buses! And left Hillmomba at 5:30 a.m., armed with playing cards (to pass the time) and shaving cream (to slather on the faces of sleepers).

Of course such a trip had to have some educational value. Our school principal was a history aficionado, so the SENIOR TRIP took a route to make stops at assorted historic battlefields, forts, the Cyclorama, and the Space Center in Huntsville, Alabama.

Let the record show that we were a bunch of rubes. Rubes who were 17 and 18 years old, and knew it all, while knowing very little. For example, I was AMAZED by the vending machine at our motel that sold tiny cans of fruit juice! That's all I babbled about to my dad, on a call home. He was kind enough not to tease me about it, what with him being a frequent traveler for training with Southwestern Bell, and knowing the ropes of motel vending machines.

You can't drive through for fast food with three Greyhound buses. I'm not even sure if drive-thru was a thing back then. We didn't have fast food in Hillmomba. Only a Sonic. So on this trip, we'd stop to eat at cafeterias. Oh my gosh! And I thought the VENDING MACHINE was something!

This sure wasn't like our school cafeteria! Imagine 150-something of us rubes pouring off those buses, road-weary and starving, heading into unknown territory. We each had whatever spending money we had earned through part-time jobs, or what our parents could afford to send with us. The fundraisers had paid for the buses and lodging and entrance to attractions. But we were on our own for meals and souvenirs.

It must have been somewhere in Mississippi where we encountered our first cafeteria. We lined up and pushed our trays along the metal bars, marveling at the selection, choosing foods we recognized. Without fail, as we reached the end, a courteous young man would appear and offer to carry our tray to a table.

Well! We were able-bodied country kids. Taken aback by such an act of generosity. Yet seeing no need to have somebody else carry a tray that we were perfectly capable of handling. So, without fail, each of us said, "No thanks. I've got it." And walked away clutching our food.

Some of those courteous young men followed us to our tables. Where one was heard to mutter under his breath: "Cheap-a$$ Hillmomba!"

I don't know how many cafeterias we patronized before one of our teacher sponsors on one of the buses explained that those courteous young men were working for tips. Which resulted in some of us remaining on the bus at cafeterias, choosing instead to eat crackers and chips and candy bars out of the magnificent food vending machines at our motels.

Gotta Read The Signs

You may recall that I've been having obstacles to overcome to procure my daily 44 oz Diet Coke. Road crews don't work on the weekend, by cracky! So it has been smooth sailing to town for a couple days. Monday, Farmer H sent me a text that the side-mower was working again on my main route to town. I passed that information on to The Pony, who was getting out to meet a friend.

The Pony returned information that the three-vehicle, six-man stand-around crew was working on my SECOND route to town. But Farmer H returned home before I left, and said that surely that second crew was past our bridge by then, and on the route with the side-mower.

I decided I would look for clues when I stopped for the mail before taking either route. AHA! There was the bright orange sign they put up declaring ROAD WORK. It was just across our little low water bridge, but pointing up the hill, toward my main route. That sealed the deal. I would turn left, and take the second route, which would be, as Farmer H prophesied, clear of road crews.

After harvesting the mail from EmBee's innards, I climbed into T-Hoe to take a glance at it. WOO HOO! A couple of casino offers from Oklahoma. A receipt for my monthly health insurance premium check from Newmentia. And the ATT bill.

A white pickup truck pulling a flatbed trailer came down the hill and stopped at mailbox row. A passenger reached in to get their mail. Then the truck turned into our gravel road. I was parked off to the side. He had plenty of room.

I stuffed the good mail in my purse, and put the adds in the trash bag I keep in T-Hoe for just such junk mail. As I buckled my seatbelt, I heard a grinding noise. I looked up to see 

A YELLOW COUNTY DUMP TRUCK, PUSHING A SCOOP THAT PICKED UP GRAVEL AND SMALL TREE LIMBS FROM THE ROAD!

As I sat there, T-Hoe in gear, my mouth hanging open, that dump truck crossed over our little low water bridge, and headed up my second route to town. I had snoozed, and I losed!

It was an omen. I did not even win my money back on scratchers.

NO TIPpy For You, And My Ire Too

A strange thing is happening during my almost-daily lunch order at Dairy Queen. It's closed, you know, for inside dining. But the drive-thru does a booming business. It is not uncommon for me to be 13th in line. The line moves fairly quickly. About one minute per car has been the standard. Sometimes I'm only five cars back. Sometimes the line is quicker.

Anyhoo... about once a week, a little gal will bring my order out while I'm still in line. That's nice of her, but not required, or even welcomed, and in fact makes me a bit surly. The cars are so close that it doesn't help me get T-Hoe out of there any quicker. I still have to wait for the cars in front of me to pull forward. Generally, my pretzel sticks are brought out when one or two cars are still ahead of me.

Here's the thing. I thank the little gal, and hand her my money. She gives me the bag, and says,

"I'll be right back with your change."

Darn tootin' she will! I get two items off the 2 for $4 menu. My total is $4.33. I hand her a five dollar bill. No way am I giving her my 67 cents as a tip! That's almost the 69 cents I need to go with my dollar for a daily Diet Coke!

Dairy Queen employees know that they're not working for tips. They get a normal salary. The dining room is closed, and even when open, you pick up your food at the counter. No waitresses. No carhops. No tips.

Don't get me wrong. They don't hint at a tip. They are quite sweet and apologetic for my wait. But I'm still not giving them a tip. You'd think, by using common sense, they'd bring out some change with them. Like the coins, or what change would be if I paid with a ten or a twenty. Just have it there in a pocket or pouch. Otherwise, how are they really helping to speed things along, if they have to go back inside, ring up the bill on a register, and come back out with change?

I don't mind leaving a tip for waitresses or carhops. They are often paid less than minimum wage. Tips are supposed to be reported to the IRS. In fact, these employees are taxed as if they ARE being paid minimum wage, whether they actually receive tips to get them to that level or not. Dairy Queen pays their workers appropriately, because they are not in a position to receive tips.

Sorry, Dairy Queen drive-thru gals. I'll hang onto my change when I drive through. You might as well stay inside your air-conditioned building, and slide that window open for my transaction.

We Don't Need The Pitter-Patter Of Any New Feet Around The Mansion

At one time, we had five cats. They were all outdoor pets. Two of them came from a teaching colleague, and a year later, three were "adopted" from strays dumped out at the mailboxes. We only intended to take one, upon approval from Farmer H. Genius had spotted the kittens, and his tender heart (back then!) couldn't stand to leave them.

We took some food to dump out, and Genius selected a kitten. Once home with it, he persuaded Farmer H that it would be unfair to leave The Pony without his OWN second kitten. So we went back for another. At that time, we saw only one left, which Genius decreed would be cruel to leave alone. So we had three new kittens in one day. From then on, Genius would put down his window as we approached the mailboxes, explaining that he was "cat-listening" in case there were other strays possible new pets.

Only one is left. The other cats have died of old age. Except for my favorite, the hateful Snuggles, whose picture is on my other blog. She was stolen taken lured in adopted by some neighbors. Farmer H accidentally saw her when he was helping them with something. They kept her indoors. A captive. I assume she has passed away by now, but one of her mailbox cronies still lingers.

Anyhoo... last week, I encountered the county side-mower on my way to town. It's a big yellow vehicle with what looks like a riding lawnmower deck mounted on an arm on the side away from traffic. As it drives slowly along, that deck can be lifted and turned sideways to "mow" tree limbs. Or set down flat to mow weeds along the edge of the road. It was going down Mailbox Hill when I returned with my magical elixir. I could see to get around it.

Right after I cut back to my side of the road, I noticed movement in the weeds at the edge. Whoa! It was a cat coming out. A BIG cat. Looked like a gray and black tabby, with its back arched, as if ready to wind around someone's legs.

"Wow! That's a fat cat for being a stray. I wonder if it belongs to someone along here. Haven't seen it before. We sure don't need another cat! Better not let The Pony know about it."

I squinted to get a better look at this healthy specimen. All at once, it jumped straight in the air! You know how cats do. Straight up, legs still in a standing position. Then in one motion, it spun around (seemingly in mid-air) and dashed into the woods.

When that big healthy cat spun around, I saw that

IT WAS A RACCOON!

We don't need one of those at the Mansion, either.

Panic In The T-Hoe

Friday noon, I gathered up my phone, glasses, and purse to head to town. In checking to make sure I had my notecard with brief grocery list, I moved my scratcher winners from the side pocket of my purse to the main compartment.

A quick "BYE" to The Pony, still in his room, and I was out the door. I spotted Juno and Jack running along the edge of the back yard. Pretty sure they were on a squirrel trail. They heard me, and loped around the end of the garage, under the carport, and up the porch steps before I could go down. For their loyal greeting, I gave them limited cat kibble.

At usual, I opened T-Hoe's door, set my purse on the console, and hoisted myself up on the running board. Backing out and turning to the driveway is more difficult now, with The Pony's car parked at the end of the carport. Don't think Farmer H is going to move his precious Gator, nor leave SilverRedO out in the open. The Pony's little Rogue is odd-car-out.

Anyhoo... as I pulled onto the gravel road, I reached over to sort my winners and decide where I wanted to cash them in and buy more.

WAIT A MINUTE!

I couldn't find my tickets. That was ridiculous! They had been RIGHT THERE! Tucked inside my purse, by my glasses case and my SamGalA. Huh. What in the Not-Heaven? I continued to look. Down in the side pocket, in the main compartment, on the seat, down between the seat and console. No tickets!

Dang it! I guess I'd set them out on the kitchen counter when looking at the grocery list. Luckily, I wasn't even to the creek waterfall yet. I turned around at the road that branches off, and headed back to the Mansion. I didn't want to fool with the garage door, and maneuvering T-Hoe's unfoldinable mirrors through the opening going in and out. I parked next to the Rogue, and walked under the carport to the brick sidewalk. The dogs were going crazy. This was unheard-of! It threw their world off-kilter.

Juno trotted to the cat kibble area, and looked at me hopefully. Her heart wasn't in it, though. She knew this was off routine.

Once inside, I searched all over for those winning scratchers. On the counter, under stuff on the counter, in the clean sink, on the floor. Nope. No scratchers! I was getting worried. I guess they were in T-Hoe after all. Back out I went, across the uneven bricks and the unevener gravel.

I searched T-Hoe again. And my purse. Took everything out. No scratchers! Surely I hadn't missed them in the kitchen! I called The Pony. Who tried to talk me down from my ever-intensifying panic, as he searched the kitchen for me.

"No. I don't see them on the counter. Or under the stuff. I looked in the wastebasket, but it was only my losers from yesterday. No. They're not down beside your cutting board in the sink. Not on the floor. I can look on the porch for you..."

"I would have seen them on the porch. I was just in there. Can you come out and look around T-Hoe? Maybe I'm missing them. Maybe they slid down beside the passenger seat."

The Pony dutifully (in his bathrobe) came out and searched. I got back out. Looked under the seats. In the back seat. All over.

"I'm about ready to cry. They can't just disappear. That was $60 worth of winners!"

"I don't know where they could be..."

"I guess I'll have to go back in and look in the kitchen again. I'm not walking across the gravel and bricks, though. I'm pulling back in the garage."

"Okay. I'll meet you inside."

I backed T-Hoe into the driveway, and pulled towards the garage. I saw the door raising. The Pony had used the inside button to open it for me. Wait a minute! Here came The Pony in his flowing robe, out the garage door,

WITH SCRATCHERS IN HIS HAND!

"They were laying where your door is when you're parked. I guess they fell out when you opened T-Hoe's door."

"THANK YOU! I bet if I pulled in there, I would have been on top of them, and wouldn't have seen them!"

"Probably. From where they were laying."

Good news is, we found my winners. Gooder news is, when I gave them to the clerk at the Gas Station Chicken Store, she said I had $65 worth of winners!

Bad news is... I only had a $5 winner with the part of that money I spent on new tickets.

Juno On Deck

Poolio looks better than I’ve seen him look in years! The water is clear, minimal algae on the bottom. Farmer H said Juno went down the steps to the deck on Tuesday. He leaves the gate open, but the dogs don’t go down there. Juno usually lays in the food pan area, or down by the corner of the porch, whimpering while Farmer H or The Pony are in Poolio. Juno was unavailable for a photo, but here's Jack, standing where she lays. His tail is too fast for the camera!

Here's the gate, with a lock NOT SET ON THE COMBINATION, so don't come trying to break into Poolio!

Designed to not allow Jack to pass through! But the remaining cat can make it. Much to Farmer H's dismay. Here are the steps down to the deck.

“I was floating in the pool. I heard Juno, and looked up, and there she was on the deck! When it was time to leave, she didn’t want to go up the steps. I had to help her. When she got about 4 steps from the top, she scampered up.”

I don’t want to imagine how Farmer H helped Juno get up the steps! I can’t imagine him going up ahead of her, cajoling and encouraging. Probably more like shoving from behind, or dragging by the scruff of her neck. If Jack goes down there, he might jump in! He's a little swimmer.

Look at that sweet face! Imploring me to let hims swim, perhaps...

At least if Jack got through the open gate, and jumped impulsively (like he does everything) into Poolio, it would be while somebody was there to boost him out. Not sure his long body could bend if he got his front feet out and back feet on the ladder step.

The Pony always closes the gate while he’s down there. Farmer H leaves the temptation.

Lunch In A Lurch

The Pony and I have found a new favorite lunch: Dairy Queen Pretzel Sticks. They are on the 2-for-$4 menu. Three soft pretzel sticks, with a little container of queso sauce for dipping. The Pony doesn't like queso. We have a deal. I let him choose the pretzels with the most salt crystals, and he gives me his queso. Sometimes I also get him the two chicken strips off the same menu.

Of course I like a little something more than just pretzels for a meal. So I toss a few taquitos in the oven. They're GREAT with the extra queso sauce. You know what taquitos are. The little rolled flour tortillas stuffed with chicken and cheese, about the thickness of a fat kindergarten pencil.

Wednesday, I had my tray ready. It was a little crowded, what with a plate for the taquitos, the cardboard container with pretzels sticking out, the two quesos, and a ramekin of salsa. Plus my scratchers under the plate. And a spoon for the salsa.

Anyhoo... I slung that double Devil's Playground plastic bag over my arm, the two bubba cups of ice sandwiching my 44 oz Diet Coke. I held the tray in my hand. I used my free hand to hold onto the balusters as I descended to my lair. There's no rail, you know!

I was on the second step from the bottom. I'd transferred bag and tray to my right hand. I was stepping down with my left foot, holding onto the ceiling with my left hand. Then it was time to grab the metal pole that supports the ceiling. In stepping down at that time, I lurched.

It was only a lurch. Not a smooth step. I wasn't in danger of falling. No trick knee collapse. Just a little gap in timing between the step down and the hand on the pole. In the midst of that lurch,

A TAQUITO ROLLED OFF MY PLATE!

Oh, the tasty Mexicanity! I let out a yelp of despair. The Pony, obliviously pinching his butt in the broke-seat La-Z-Boy, did not even inquire as to my okayness. I finished my descent. Set bag and tray on the steps. Took my new cell phone SamGalA out of my shirt pocket, and laid him on the step as well. And picked up my fallen taquito.

It was a little longer than five seconds. I carefully blew off any dust bunnies or millipede toe-jam, and put that treat back on my plate. It tasted as good as the non-fallen.

A Flashy Recovery

Even Steven has seen the error of his ways! No more catering to The Pony at the expense of Mrs. HM! Good thing The Pony did not reinvest all of his $50 winner into more tickets. He chose only one, predetermined, for me to pick up for him in town, and pocketed the rest. His ticket was a loser.

I, on the other hand, had a return of luck. It must have been poised on the sideline, like a ball-boy at Wimbledon, waiting for a chance to retrieve my rightful winner at just the right opportunity.

Isn't that beautiful? A WIN ALL symbol! Only three numbers in! I might have let out a little "WHOOP!" as I uncovered that 'winnell,' as Farmer H would pronounce it.

That adds up to a $100 winner! Sure, it's the lowest jackpot I could win with a WIN ALL. But I'll take it, by cracky!

No, I do not plan to turn this into a lottery blog. Soon enough, I'm sure we'll stop winning, and go back to either a slump, or my usual 40% return rate on scratchers. But winning sure is fun while it lasts!

Lady Luck Has Forsaken Me

Seems like only four days ago, I bemoaned the fact that The Pony has stolen my lottery luck. You know, when he won $50 on a $5 scratcher I bought him with my very own lottery allowance. Oh, that's right. It WAS only four days ago.

Today I waltzed into the Mansion kitchen, fresh from a lottery run (with a side of 44 oz Diet Coke), and told The Pony I had a ticket I could give him. I set aside the ones I'd bought for Friend's birthday, and one I'd gotten specifically for myself. But there were a couple extras, also for me. I let The Pony have his choice.

Before the words were even out of my mouth, he said,

"I'll take the pink one!"

And snatched that ticket out from the rest, before I even had a chance to spread them out. I'd been wanting that pink ticket for myself, a Lady Luck. In fact, I'd been about to buy it in the Country Mart machine on the left, but it said there were only three remaining. So I went over to the lottery machine on the right, and bought it there.

You know what happened, right? The Pony had a $50 winner!

Right there in the middle. That symbol for an instant $50.

I've been faithfully buying this ticket for months. It's flashy. It has never given me winners. So I've been thinking that it's due. In fact, I've been glancing down at the winning symbols at the bottom before I scratch. I just had a feeling I was due to get a symbol, not match a number.

As The Pony explained after choosing it right out from under me, and winning,

"I just had a hunch."

How Hot Is That Doggie In The Window

When I came out of the Gas Station Chicken Store on Sunday afternoon, an old green pickup truck pulled in with windows down. The baying of 3 or 4 hounds nearly deafened me! I can understand people taking their pets for a ride. And the pets getting excited. But these dogs were amped up! Were they barking at ME?

I looked inside as I passed. Dogs of assorted sizes jumping over the front seat to the narrow back seat of that club cab. The man driving was telling his wife to settle them down. I rounded the rear of T-Hoe, and saw what might have stirred up those canines.

Parked one space over was THIS little cutie. Again, I understand people taking their pets for a ride. But it was 84 degrees. I know that lady only ran in the GSCS for a minute. But still, her loyal companion was inside a virtual oven. At least she might have allowed him a bit more window crack:

It's not like he was going to squeeze out of this meager opening. I'd think a couple more inches would have been safe. It's not like anyone could get a fat arm down inside to unlock her door, or pull out the pooch. She returned before I left. No harm done. But the past two days have been in the mid-90s. And that doggie is wearing a fur coat!

Good thing I'm not mouthy about other people's business. Also a good thing it wasn't in the 90s. Because I might have given her my opinion.

Pony And The Jets

Back on the day that I discovered either pasta sauce on the living room carpet, or spilled wax from my melty fragrance thingy that Genius had gifted me for Christmas... we also had another Pony incident.

Don't think I'm picking on The Pony. I'm just bringing to light how accidentally destructive he is! We'd just finished the waxed carpet discussion, and The Pony was headed off to the master bathroom for his nightly soak in the big triangle tub.

"That's another thing," said Farmer H. "You don't need to be in there so long. Now the heater is broke."

"No it's not. I just used it last night."

"Yeah, but did the water stay hot?"

"It got hot when I turned it on."

"That's the thing. You run those jets for two hours. They're not made for that. They heat the water as it's going through them. But now it doesn't work."

"Oh. I thought the jets just moved the water around."

"NOW that's all they do."

"Huh."

"When you get a job, you'll have to build us a whole new house to replace everything you've broken!"

No. We're not picking on The Pony. Not at all.

He's A Slow-Motion Version Of The Tasmanian Devil

Just when you think there's nothing left to break or clutter-up, because they're already broken and cluttered... The Pony comes along.

As I've mentioned, I give him a daily lottery ticket. He likes to scratch them at the cutting block while I'm trying to do other things in the kitchen. Like get ice for my magical elixir, with the way blocked by The Pony's rumpus as he leans over the cutting block, or sits on the one stool (out of 4 possible) that is directly in front of FRIG II.

Thursday, I turned from the kitchen sink to dry my hands with the paper towel that I leave on the corner of the cutting block. You know those commercials where the young professionals are turning into their parents? I think it's for some insurance company. Anyhoo... I'm like one of those commercial characters. Even though I'm neither young, nor professional. I am turning into my mom.

Mom used to leave paper towels all over the house. I'd find them here and there, in her home, and in the Mansion when she came to visit. Not a WHOLE paper towel, mind you! A Bounty Select-A-Size... torn in half! Mom was thrifty. She was a child of the Great Depression.

I'm not quite that bad. Sure, I do tear my Select-A-Size paper towels in half, down in my lair. That's all I need for my dinner napkins. But upstairs, I'll use a whole Select-A-Size to dry my hands after washing. However... I save them. I lay the paper towel down on the cutting block. It dries. Then I can used it again. My hands are clean, you know after washing. It's just clean water that I dry on them. Some of those paper towels can last me a WEEK!

Not the one on Thursday! As I reached with drippy hands, I saw that my recyclable paper towel was COVERED WITH SCRATCHER SHAVINGS!

"Pony! I can't believe you did that! I was going to use it again."

"Well, now you're not!"

The Pony picked up my paper towel. I assumed he was going to shake off the shavings in the wastebasket, and put it back on the cutting block. Nope. HE SHOVED MY PAPER TOWEL DOWN IN THE TRASH! Into the container that held his Dairy Queen pretzel sticks, which are coated with butter, and leave a greasy spot on the waxed paper that lines the cardboard container.

"PONY! What are you DOING?"

"I threw it away. It had shavings all over it. Here. Have a new one."

With that, The Pony ripped off a new paper towel, from the roll he had brought back when moving home from his college apartment.

The Pony has a long way to go before he turns into ME.

A Thief In The Afternoon

Looks like I gloated too soon! I might have laughed last, when my scratcher win of $100 bested The Pony's scratcher win of $77. But I'm not laughing best. In fact, I'm not laughing at all!

Thursday, I took off alone on my weekly errands. The Pony elected to stay home and loll around by Poolio. He DID say I could cash in his $5 winner from yesterday, and buy him a scratcher of my choosing. Such a giver, that Pony! Of course it was no hardship for me. I had several winners of my own, after stashing my $100 windfall with my casino bankroll.

Anyhoo... I got some tickets when I got gas at the Sis-Town Casey's. Some at the School-Turn Casey's. And some at the Gas Station Chicken Store. When I got home, I fanned out the selection, mentioning where they came from. (I write initials on the back, so I know where I have the best luck.)

The Pony zeroed in on one immediately. The newest $5 ticket, called Jumbo Bucks. It's a green one, with the regular numbers to match, plus a little box that might contain an instant $50 winner. I was happy he picked that one. I don't like it, but I wanted a selection of different kinds.

I was still adding Great Value Sugar Free Cherry Limeade powder to my magical elixir when The Pony let out a hoot at the cutting block, where he likes to scratch.

"I JUST WON $50!"

Farmer H was passing by, on his way out the door to go sell a gun, and added his two cents. "There may be some numbers that match, too." Heh, heh. As if Farmer H ever won something like that.

There were no further matches. The Pony was thrilled with his $50. I was not so thrilled with my single winner. Of $5.

The Pony is stealing my luck!

Seventy-Seven Of One, A Hundred Of The Other

The Pony has put a dent in my scratcher profits. Heh, heh. Profits. As in the meager amount of money I win back in my routine scratcher play. I said I would give him two scratchers a week, like I mail to Genius, coming out of the household money. Of course I feel guilty on days that I buy scratchers and The Pony has used up his two. So I've been giving him one of mine, out of the kindness of my (some say cold, cold) heart.

A couple weeks ago, The Pony decided that instead of getting two of the five-dollar scratchers allotted to him, he wanted one ten-dollar ticket. He even chose the kind, something to do with Red Sevens. I don't know the official name, because I don't buy them. I don't like that ticket.

Of course you know what happened.

The Pony's ticket won $77. Dang it! I still don't like that ticket. Anyhoo... after than win, my own scratcher winners were few and far between. I was in a slump. That usually happens after a good win. But the win was for The Pony. Surely Even Steven would take that into consideration! It looked as if he did not. Until Tuesday.

Uh huh. I had a $100 winner! About time, I say!

Can you believe that The Pony did not quite share in my joy? He's been in a slump.

There's A Fine Line Between Stupidity And Hypoxia

Oh, the high standards of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Expecting employees who ring up and bag her groceries to do so in a logical manner. What are the odds that I get a brand-new checker just learning the ropes, every time I shop? SLIM TO NONE! Inexperience cannot be the excuse!

I know my checker at Country Mart on Tuesday had experience. After all, there was a lady ahead of me buying groceries. I could not have been this gal's very first customer.

She was wearing a paper mask as Country Mart requires of its employees, yet touching it every five seconds, and making sucking noises that were either attempts at inhaling, or snorting back snot! I don't care if people wear a mask or don't, but if you DO, for the love of all that is not-Not-Heavenly, KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF IT! Surely if the gal was sick, she wouldn't have been allowed to work, right? A store that requires masks must also be taking temps before shifts, right?

I'm not concerned about catching anything from her. There was a plexiglass shield between us during most of the transaction. I didn't touch my face. I washed my hands as soon as I got home, and again before eating my lunch. No big deal, just annoying. Maybe she has allergies.

I suppose it was the lack of oxygen to her brain that made the Masked Checker put my bag of hot chicken tenders in a bag with my frozen taquitos. Since she could easily have put the hot chicken tenders in with the foil bag of White Cheddar Cheeseball snacks, no harm done. But no. She'd put the soft bready steak rolls in with the cheeseballs.

But here's the most egregious act of bad-check-ery that the Masked Checker subjected me to. She didn't give me a bag for the plastic tray of 8-piece chicken! Just slid that tray across the end of the checkout to me! Naked. For me to carry like a platter. Sweet Gummi Mary! I didn't want to push a cart out to T-Hoe, and have to bring it back across the lot. I wanted to drape bags on my arm and walk out. I only had five items! You'd think I could carry them in bags.

So there I was, bearing the plastic tray of 8-piece chicken like a cater-waiter offering a tray of drinks. My arm weighted down with the two bags at the elbow, and T-Hoe's door lock clicker in my other hand. Sheesh! Last time I didn't send in my DNA for data mining to 23-and-Me, I didn't notice any Indian or African heritage that would predispose me to carry that tray of 8-piece chicken on my head. It was awkward.

When I got home, I took a pack of Hawaiian Rolls out of a Save A Lot bag, put it in with the steak rolls and cheeseballs, and used the empty bag to stow my chicken tray for carrying in.

But let me backtrack. THE most egregious thing that the Masked Checker did was to NOT GIVE ME MY $20 CASH BACK! I had to ask for it!

"Um. I put in CASH BACK."

"Oh. Yeah."

"Maybe it didn't show up. But I put it in."

I handed her the receipt. She looked at it, and opened the cash register to get my twenty. I really think she was delirious. Hopefully from lack of oxygen due to the mask, and not due to a VIRUSy fever!

This Is Hard To Believe, Yet Not

You may recall that there has been a series of unfortunate events here at the Mansion, now that The Pony has returned. We've had the most recent catastrophe of the La-Z-Boy destruction. The abandoned bandaid on the carpet. The clean brown plastic bowl used to store FRIG II's excess ice during the chipping of the bin, which was put in the dirty sink to drain. The excessive butter usage. The butter in the laptop keyboard. The butter packed down in my plastic measuring cup. The lack of hot water for my shower, and dishwashing. The TOES holding the TV remote. The setting-off of TWO smoke alarms while trying to "help" toast some buns in the oven. The three feet of suds in the big triangle tub due to excess shampoo usage. The broken shades across the living room double-windows.

Sunday, as I turned from typing on my HIPPIE while sitting on the coffee table in front of the new-shaded living room windows (due to the La-Z-Boy being disabled)... I knocked something off onto the floor.

Of course it was something of The Pony's, because I don't have anything on that table, other than the little ceramic plug-in scent thingy that Genius gave me for Christmas. With melting wax fragrances like coconut-pineapple, cinnamon, and some kind of berry. I haven't used it in a while, but The Pony likes to smell up the house. Anyhoo... he leaves stuff on the table, like a package of chocolate chip cookies, and a mostly empty bottle of Coke, and some foil wrappers from Dove chocolates.

I called The Pony from his bedroom.

"I just knocked something off! I hope your Coke bottle had the lid on it!"

The Pony came out and picked up the now-empty cookie package.

"It was just this. The bottle is still there."

"Do you think you could throw them away?"

"Yeah."

"Wait! What's that on the carpet? Is that powder from your white-cheddar cheese balls? It better not be sauce from your pasta!"

The Pony reached down to feel it.

"Huh. It's kind of stiff. I really don't know what that could be... it almost feels like wax."

"Did you spill that smelly wax stuff? I've seen you playing with it, poking your fingers in it as it re-hardens!"

"I didn't spill any wax."

"You are the only one who plugs that in every day! I sure didn't do it. You KNOW your dad didn't do it! So if that's wax, it got there because of you, when you sit on the floor with your legs under the table, eating and playing on your laptop."

"I don't know why you always blame me."

"Pony. You have to admit, everything that's broken around here was done by you..."

"Maybeeee..."

"We haven't even replaced the La-Z-Boy, and now we have to replace the carpet!"

"There must be some way to get wax out of a carpet."

"I'll find out for you."

Sweet Gummi Mary! I guess we'll try using paper towels over the wax, and a hot iron. Farmer H thinks ice might work. I think that's more for chewing gum.

I Suppose They Didn't Want To Be Cheeky About Parking Under The NO PARKING Sign

I'm so happy to have a working phone again, so I can play Mrs. Kravitz and document the goings-on down at Hillmomba Creach Landing!

Sadly, I could not get actual evidence on this one. I was too busy jerking the steering wheel so T-Hoe didn't hit another car head-on. Let the record show that this near-collision was the fault of the TRESPASSER, and not the fault of Mrs. HM on her way out of our compound, nor the other driver on his way in.

On the way back, I took some photos on SamGalA, to show you just how far this INTRUDER is pushing the envelope. It is not a simple case of: "Oh, Hillbilly Mom. Those people just want to have fun and cool off in the creek. What does it hurt if they park on your private road?" First of all, the road is clearly marked. With two signs proclaiming it is private, and another announcing that you are on camera. That one is Farmer H's doings, making use of signage found in his storage lockers.

Anyhoo...the INTRUDER was gone when I got back, but I didn't know that when I started taking my pictures.

Here we are, beside the bus-waiting shack, by the NO PARKING sign, with a view of the little space on the right where sensible intruders park illegally at Hillmomba Creach Landing. That's dust hanging over the road, from a car that just came out. Moving around the bend, we see...

The next stretch, where Farmer H put the sign saying "YOU ARE BEING VIDEOTAPED. SMILE!" And up around the next bend...

Is where I expected to see that little black SUV parked on the right, at the end of this stretch of road. But the recreational Creachers had left, spoiling my evidence. I drove up to that point, and took a picture out T-Hoe's passenger window, of where the Creachers had been set up...

It's a little waterfall, where they had three lawn chairs set up. The water is clear, that's just the color of the big flat rocks that line the bottom. We used to take the boys down here when they were little. But we parked OFF the road. There's room. AND, we also happened to LIVE here on property that we own, and were not just transient Creach-waders! If you look up ahead from where I was parked here...

You can see that such a vehicle parked in the road is a surprise to those rounding the bend. Especially if another car is in the process of pulling onto the wrong side, to go around the parker.

When I first observed these Creachers on the way out, I saw their empty chairs and towels at the waterfall. THEN I saw the man, woman, and 7-8 year old boy splashing about in the water down by the bridge. Right by that little space where trespassers park! I put the window down and heard them squealing. The man was bent over, telling the boy that it was a CRAWDAD! Uh huh. Now they're messing with our wildlife!

Anyhoo... my point is that these people did not accidentally drive up our road and happen to park in it to get out and look at the water. They consciously drove at least a quarter-mile up our private road, and unloaded their stuff, to make a day of it. Or a half-day. I guess they thought they were being tricky, so as not to be seen from the main road.

Since they were traversing the creek anyway, a normal person would have parked OFF the road in that little alcove, then carried their chairs up to the waterfall. Hopefully having their toes pinched by our guard-crawdads every step of the way!

Sometimes Mrs. HM Is An Unintentional Tom Sawyer

Saturday evening, Farmer H went to the auction. He's thrilled that auctions are happening again. He warmed up his own supper, leftover pizza that I had put in baggies to keep it from turning to cardboard.

The Pony didn't eat lunch. Unless you count numerous snacks, which he does not. I had a late lunch, and was not interested in rushing upstairs to make supper. Around 6:00, I thought of The Pony, and sent him a text to ask if he was going to make his own, or wait in me to come do it around 6:30. He said he would let me do it. So considerate, that Pony, always thinking of others...

I went upstairs and set down my lunch tray on the kitchen counter. In doing so, I hurt my back! Sweet Gummi Mary! Old people are so fragile! Anyhoo... I called to The Pony, to see if he wanted his pizza warmed in the oven. He did. He came in to rifle through the box of kitchenstuffs he had brought from his Oklahoma apartment.

"I usually drizzle on some olive oil when I reheat my pizza."

"Oh. Well. Too bad we don't have any of that here, since you threw away the bottle that expired in 2011."

"I have some here. Let's see... I'll use the SPECIAL olive oil, with garlic in it."

"Okay. Get your pizza out. Man! My back is killing me. I need to lean here for a minute."

The Pony put his pizza on the foiled pan sitting atop the stove. He drizzled on the olive oil.

"Turn on the oven. About 350, I think. Now, for the breadsticks I had left... do you want them in foil to warm up?"

"Yeah. If you want to. I think last time, you put a little butter in with them."

"Okay. Oh. I need to open a new box of foil. I can't get it. Here. Pry that flap loose."

"Got it."

"Get the breadsticks out of my pizza box. And that sauce. You can have it, too."

"Here. I'll get the butter for you. I'll set this sauce on the stove by the burner."

"There. Set the breadstick packet on the pan with your pizza, and put them in the oven."

"It's not quite warm yet, but I'll put it in."

"Whew! This back! I'm going to sit on the couch. After about 5 minutes, you can check on your pizza."

"I'll set a timer on my phone."

When the timer went off, The Pony put his pizza and breadsticks on a plate with the sauce, and brought it to the La-Z-Boy.

"I'm glad I came up to get your supper for you! Even though you kind of did it all yourself."

"Yes. I noticed that."

Baby steps, people. Baby Pony steps.

Too Many Goofs Spoil The Path

If Piccadilly Circus and the Arc de Triomphe Roundabout had a baby, it would be the Hillmomba Creach Landing. You know, the gravel road creek beach area down by Mailbox Row, with a bus-waiting shack and red NO PARKING sign.

I'm pretty sure that every person in the world will eventually pass by there. Each day I'm more amazed at what I find on this PRIVATE section of road.

Friday, as The Pony and I came back from an evening pizza run, we saw TWO RIDERS ON HORSEBACK. They came toward us on the blacktop road, and turned into Hillmomba Creach Landing. Without even signaling!

The Pony jumped out to make sure we didn't have any late mail in EmBee. He's not worldly in the equine community, but even HE said, "I wonder how many hands those horses are?" They were gigantic! Not in a draft horse kind of way, but in TALL. A couple of our neighbors have horses, but they're normal size. These were leggy, well-proportioned, thoroughbred-looking nags.

They were skittish, too. I really didn't want to come up on them. Wanted to give them a wide berth, even if it meant driving on the wrong side of the road. HEY! It's MY gravel road, so there is no WRONG side of it to ME!

The man rider had his horse well-collected, on a short rein, while it stamped and tried to whirl, ears back. The two horsemen of the eventual Apopadopalyspe were kind of trapped, in the parking area not used by those creek-floating girls' abandoned cars a couple days ago.

In front of them, preventing their progress up into our private compound, was a sidways side-by-side. I have no idea what that driver was doing, but he was sideways across the middle of the road, preventing an oncoming neon green subcompact (which I've never seen out here before) from coming out. Behind the riders was T-Hoe, waiting for the side-by-side to move, the green subcompact to come out, and the horsemen to stay off to the side so we could get by to drive to our HOME.

Never a dull moment at the Hillmomba Creach Landing.

I'm Thinking Of Starting A ComePayUs Page To Help House The Pony

Remember when I said that Farmer H and I have discovered that three people cannot live as cheaply as two, now that The Pony has come home to roost? When The Pony is one of the people, three can't live as cheaply as The Mormon Tabernacle Choir on a ski holiday with The Vienna Boys Choir, renting a whole town of Swiss chalets for a month!

Thursday afternoon, I had returned from my weekly errand trip over to Sis-Town. The Pony had elected not to ride along, preferring to sit outside by Poolio, working on this week's chapter of his book. He was back inside by the time I arrived. The Pony left the La-Z-Boy to help me part with one of my precious scratchers. LOSER! But all mine were too, I discovered later. Which was too bad, because we are going to need some extra money...

The Pony went back to the living room. I heard a CLANK.

"Um. That did not sound good..."

"Was that the recliner? Did you mess up the recliner?"

"Maybe?????"

"I can't deal with this right now!"

"To be fair, all I did was sit down. And it made that clank."

"Will it still recline?"

"Yes????? But it feels not right."

"That's what happens when you don't sit in it right!"

"All I did was sit down!"

"I've seen you every day, reclined, laying sideways, with your head on the arm, and your feet on the wall!"

"I wasn't doing that now!"

"We can't afford a new recliner!"

"Isn't this one really old anyway?"

"Yes. But that would have lasted Dad and me the rest of our lives. We don't have all that long!"

"I just looked under it. Looks like there's a spring (?) loose. In the middle. Not the leg part."

"Well. Maybe your dad can fix it. You're going to tell him."

Turns out that Farmer H could NOT fix the La-Z-Boy. That part snapped. Now there's a big depression in the seat. Or as I finally got him to admit, it's like sitting on a toilet. We'll be shopping for a new La-Z-Boy on Saturday, as soon as Farmer H can tear himself away from making $1-per-item profits at his Storage Unit Store.

I just have to remember not to sit there. Farmer H tried it out. A spring poked his butt as he was getting up.

Will Shackytown Themed Sheds Become The New Milk Cartons?

This is a tale of two busy-s. Two busybodies. Me. And Farmer H. It's frightening to think that we're so much alike in our concerns over two cars parked down by The Creach. The creekside beach.

When I left for town on Wednesday, I saw two small cars parked near the NO PARKING sign down by the bus-waiting shack at the mailboxes. I was going to give the trespassers a searing stinkeye, but nobody was around. I figured they were probably walking around in the creek. It was already 87 degrees. The cars were still there when I came back. So I took a picture.

They barely got off the road! Dang squatters. Anyhoo... I thought maybe they had parked there, and met up with someone else to go somewhere, since there were no signs of people in the creek.

I forgot all about it until Farmer H mentioned it at suppertime.

"I'm wondering if I should call the police about them cars down at the creek. I saw three girls get out of them when I went to town. They was gonna float the creek, I guess. Two of them was carrying their floaty things, and the third one was getting out of the white car with hers. She was wearing shorts and a bikini top."

"That creek isn't deep enough to float! They wouldn't get far."

"If they carried it past our bridge, it gets deeper."

"Waist deep. And they'd have to get out and climb over the next low water bridge."

"Them cars was still there around 5:00. I don't want something to have happened to them."

"It goes out to the river. It would take a long time to walk back if they floated very far. If they didn't go home, their family would call the police and report it."

"I guess."

"I'd be more worried that they just gave a story about going floating, but were meeting up with somebody. Maybe got abducted, or ran away."

"Yeah, you never know these days."

I guess Farmer H could paint their pictures on his themed sheds over in Shackytown...

Don't Ask Me If I Can Spare A Square

Tuesday, I made a rare trip to The Devil's Playground. I've been staying out of there lately, because I don't like the Devil telling me which way I can walk down the aisles. Country Mart and Save A Lot let me roam free. But sometimes I want things that can't be found there. Like SLAW!

Anyhoo... we are down to five rolls of toilet paper at the Mansion. We have three bathrooms. Normally, I buy the 9-roll pack of Charmin. I've been unable to find that for several months now. Not that I've been actively looking with the intent of buying. I'd just bought some when the Stay-At-Home-Down started, and then I bought two four-packs for Farmer H at Country Mart.

Anyhoo... the shelves were pretty bare. Then again, it was the second day of the month, and people getting their money have likely been out shopping. I saw a couple of giant packs of Charmin on the bottom shelf. GIANT! Like, it would have taken up my whole cart/walker. I think it was probably 24 rolls. I didn't need that much!

I wheeled down to take a look at some boxes on an eye-level shelf. The first five of them were empty. I moved them out of the way, and saw six-packs of toilet paper in the boxes behind! I pried one out and put it in my cart/walker. Then I figured I'd take another. Off I went to the front of the store. Which was not an easy journey, because almost everyone in there had three or four children tagging along. Maybe it was a field trip for their home education...

Once up front, I piled my stuff on the conveyor. SLAW, and deli pizza, and romaine lettuce, soda, chicken patties, snacks for Farmer H, snacks for The Pony, snacks for me, Puffs with Lotion, and my toilet paper. I was putting bags in my cart/walker when the checker said,

"Uh. I'm sorry. But you are only allowed ONE pack of toilet paper."

"One? I thought the limit was two."

I just threw that out there, because Farmer H had said that it was a limit of two when he went there and the shelves were empty. I didn't even read the signs this time.

"No. The limit is one."

"Okay. I guess I should have bought the ONE pack that had 24 in it, instead of six..."

"I really hate taking away people's stuff."

"Not a problem. It's not your fault. It just doesn't make sense to me. I can't have 12 rolls, but I can have 24."

It will be a hot day in Hillmomba before I return to the Devil's Playground...

Figurative And Literal Bacon

Farmer H and The Pony have been bringing home the bacon. Mrs. HM... not so much. Monday, after Friday and Saturday with no mail, EmBee was stuffed to the gills. One envelope was from the University of Oklahoma. I got excited when I saw it had a see-through window on the front. I dutifully took it home for The Pony to open.

It was a refund check for $318! The Pony said he had been expecting it, as a refund of the meal plan money that he couldn't eat up, once the OU Stay-Off-Campus-Down went into effect.

Friday, Farmer H drove SilverRedO over to Back-Creek Neighbor Bev's house, because she had something for him. He's prefer to drive the Gator, but the dogs follow him in that, and Bev has chickens. Anyhoo, he returned to the Mansion with a big box containing a bag of potatoes, a bag of carrots, a bag of oranges, and a bag of apples.

According to Farmer H, Bev's husband Nick took a donation to a local charity, and they insisted that he take this box of produce. I've seen notices in the local online newpaper about these produce handouts at assorted locations. No qualifying conditions. First come, first serve. Free to anybody. According to Farmer H, Bev and Nick are on some new diet where they can't eat this stuff. Huh! What a diet, where fresh produce is forbidden!

Anyhoo... Farmer H and I would never go pick up a box such as this, because we don't need it. Other people do, and that would be less for them. But I guess since Nick made the donation, the people there wanted him to have the box, and he took it for goodwill purposes. Since Nick and Bev didn't want to waste it, Farmer H brought it home.

So now The Pony and Farmer H have brought home the figurative bacon, and I have not contributed. I'm sure they don't consider the sweat of my brow to be of any worth, making their meals and cleaning up their mess(es).

I showed THEM! I brought home the LITERAL bacon, and laid it atop a roaster pan of potatoes, carrots, and onions, for a delicious side dish for three suppers. With a little brow sweat as seasoning, while peeling and chopping the "vinchtables," as my little Pony used to call them.

Mrs. HM Is Flexing Her Atrophied Teacher Muscles

Sunday, I had to take my retired teacher muscles down off the shelf, give them a good dusting, inject them with a shot of adrenaline, slap them until they roused from unconsciousness, and kick them in their withered rumpuses so I could correct The Pony.

I don't take joy in correcting The Pony. He is a sweet soul, who would never hurt anyone ON PURPOSE. Through obliviousness, yes. But not on purpose.

As I walked from the kitchen to the living room, I saw a used bandaid laying face-up on the carpet. Let the record show that I had sliced my finger scarcely an hour previous, but that bandaid was wrapped around my left hand bad-finger. NOT MY BANDAID.

Let the record also show that The Pony had applied a bandaid to the back of his right hand after his triangle-tub soak the night before. He had a rug-burn-looking raw spot from (he said) hitting it on the roof of his car while reaching back for something while out to lunch. The Pony had been going back and forth to his room getting ready for a dip in Poolio. He had walked across that area at least 6 times in the past 30 minutes.

I let lost used bandaids lie. When I got back from town, it was still there. The Pony was in the La-Z-Boy.

"Uh, there's a used bandaid on the floor."

"I know. I saw it."

"Don't you think you should pick it up?"

"Not mine."

"Well, it's not MINE!"

"How do you know?"

"Mine is right here on my finger, where I put it."

"Well, I know it's not MINE, because mine is on the floor of my bedroom."

"Show me."

(((SIGH))) "All right..."

Off The Pony strolled to his bedroom.

"Um. You may be right. I don't see mine."

"That's my point. It couldn't belong to anyone else. Your Dad isn't home from the Storage Unit Store yet, and the bandaid wasn't there earlier this morning."

"Huh. I guess I'll pick it up."

"That's kind of what I expected."

Sweet Gummi Mary! I hope everything isn't a federal case around here. I'll be exhausted from my duties as judge, jury, and executioner, presiding over Pony cases in addition to Farmer H cases! However, I know better than to let a single alleged incident slide.

I didn't survive 28 years of teaching by being a pushover.