Perhaps It Was Pre-Karma, For Not Minding Your Business

Mrs. HM is not one for small talk. If I don't know you, I don't care about you. We're not buddies. You don't interest me. I especially do not crave your advice, nor your opinions of my actions.

Saturday, I was cashing in winning scratchers at the School-Turn Casey's. A chubby man in his late 20s, along with his chubby son of about 6, stepped up next in line. TOO CLOSE! Now that there are no six-foot spacing circles on the floor, people have lost their dang minds! I swear I almost hit that kid's round head with my elbow when I turned.

Let the record show that they were not bad people. Just overly familiar, and violating my personal space. They each had a fountain soda. They were dressed in Devil's Playground togs. Not fancy. I'm not resting my ample rumpus on the wide back of my sturdy high-horse, looking down my out-of-joint nose at them. I don't describe them to make fun. My kids grew up in Devil's Playground clothes. I merely describe them to describe them.

As I was telling the cashier the tickets I wanted to purchase, Big Chubs said,

"She'll have one of everything."

How dare he! Was he insinuating that I have a gambling problem??? Nah. Probably not. He seemed like an awkward type. Perhaps he thought he was being friendly.

"I WISH! I'm already spending $3 over my winnings. So I won't be getting one of each."

"This one time, I was in line behind a guy buying scratchers. It was out by [Extra Onions On My No-Onion Sonic Burger Town], when I was just a machinist. Now I'm a nurse. But anyway, the guy asked for three tickets. The lady told him 'There are only three left. Do you still want them all?' and the guy said, 'No. Just give me two.' So I said I'd buy that last ticket. They were the old $5 [some ticket I didn't remember] tickets. When I said that, the guy said, 'Wait. I DO want all three tickets. Give me that last one, too.' And you know what? IT WAS A $50,000 WINNER!"

"Oh, no! So close. I guess that guy was meant to win that day."

Sweet Gummi Mary! When will Big Chubs ever be that close to such a big winning ticket again? According to The Pony's answer to that rhetorical question: "Never."

 

Big Chubs and Little Chubs followed me out the door. Where he promptly set off the alarm on his car, and had trouble getting it shut off, while a lady at the gas pumps whooped and hollered and told him it had a good beat.

 

Some people are just born sad sacks, I guess.

Is A Reverse Lovely Lady-Mullet Possible?

If so, Mrs. HM is now sporting such a 'do. 

Several months ago, I asked The Pony to trim the scraggly ends off my lovely lady-mullet. He did an admirable job. Got the undercutting just right, so I could use a round brush to turn the ends under. Undercutting is done by pulling the hair out at a 45-degree angle, then holding the scissors parallel to the floor while cutting. So the top layer of hair is longer than the under-layers, thus allowing the curl-under.

This time? Not so much. We went to the corner of the back porch, down past the dog dishes, past POOLIO, to the corner rails at the end of the house. That was due to rain, and the amount of light coming in under the porch.

First of all, The Pony asked if he should hold the scissors in his right or left hand. SWEET GUMMI MARY! The Pony is right-handed! Unlike wonky Genius. So I would expect him to use his dominant hand when snipping around my ears with a sharp implement. Then he stood at my shoulder, pulling the air toward himself with a comb. Pretty hard to judge a 45-degree angle while you're looking straight on at the hank of hair you're about to cut.

"Your RIGHT hand, of course! And last time you stood at my back. So you could see that the hair was pulled out at a 45-degree angle."

"Okay. I'll move. We decided about 3 inches, right? A little longer than my first two finger joints."

"Correct."

The Pony seemed hesitant. Almost as if he had little interest in HELPING an old lady shear the scraggly ends off her lovely lady-mullet. There was a bit of sawing, and I felt a wad of hair hit my back. Upper ample rumpus area.

"Yeah. I'm going back in to get those kitchen scissors. These don't seem real sharp."

So he took back the gray-handled scissors with the little finger-hook thingy that I use for cutting my bangs in the bathroom mirror, and returned with the orange-handled scissors I mainly use for cutting paper, but had left in the kitchen.

"You're keeping the scissors parallel to the ground, right?"

"Yes, Mother."

On he went. Pulling out hair with the comb, then cutting. No sawing feeling this time.

"Parallel?"

"Yes."

"Parallel?"

"I am!"

"Just making sure."

 

"You said the same amount all around, right?"

 

"Yeah."

When The Pony declared that he was done, I reached my hand up to feel the back. 

"NOOOO! I don't have any hair left! Where did my hair go? I can't comb that under, because there's NO HAIR! It's only about two inches when I pull it away from my scalp!"

 

"You SAID the same amount all around! So I did! I cut off about three inches every time I pulled out the hair."

 

"NO! It was supposed to be about three inches off the length. Not every time you pulled the hair away from my head! It's like you cut it, and went back, and cut off ANOTHER three inches!"

 

"It doesn't look all that bad..."

 

"I don't have any hair in the back!!! It will take about three months to grow partway back! Hair only grows a half inch a month. Now when I win my big jackpot at the casino, I will look terrible in my picture!"

 

"They didn't even take your picture when you won your $8,600. Besides, maybe this will make you more likely to win, because you'll have a bad picture." 

Farmer H wisely made no comment on my hair when he returned to the Mansion.

"You didn't mention my hair."

"Well... you got it cut or something. I'm guessing The Pony did it?"

"Yeah. How could you tell?"

 

No way did The Pony hold those scissors parallel to the ground. It's like he held them perpendicular. He DOES know the difference! I don't have an undercut, I have an OVERCUT. So now the hair will flip out like That Girl Marlo Thomas. Where I have hair left.

Seriously. I have no hair in the back. It's like a stub. A blunt-ended stub. Like if I had a ponytail, and The Pony sawed through it and left the ends. From the front, it doesn't look TOO bad. 

 

People will probably stop me to inquire about the various hues of Dutch Boy Paint...

They're Indisposable

Sweet Gummi Mary! As I type this, I am on my deathbed! Well. Not exactly my deathbed. Not literally. I don't think such a piece of furniture is manufactured and sold. I've never see it on an episode of How It's Made when Farmer H watches. No, I guess it's more like I'm on my indisposed-rolly chair.

 

I am not feeling well. My stomach is rumbly. Not my eating stomach. My poop stomach. Heh, heh. The Pony hates it when I say that. It started about two hours after I ate my Burger King Whopper meal for lupper.

 

"Huh. That Burger King sure made me sick as a dog! I guess it gave me food poisoning. Wait. Food poisoning takes at least 24 hours to develop. So it's not the Burger King. What did I eat yesterday... Nothing much different from usual. Fake Honey Nut Cheerios for breakfast, with two squares of the Farmer H Meowy Christmas auction candy bar. Two slices of the Save A Lot frozen pizza I made for Farmer H. Some BBQ potato chips. And my pinwheels that were two days past the expiration date. Hm. You don't think..."

 

There goes my PS, rumbling again. I've visited the NASCAR bathroom three times. Good thing it's right next door to my lair! Now that I think of it, those pinwheels were kind of soft. Even though they'd been in FRIG 2 before I ate them. The yellow cheese was still firm enough, but the cream cheese layer was soft and squeezy.  I ate them anyway. It's not like I'm a stranger to expired food. I am re-thinking that meal. Amazingly enough, my rumbling started 24 hours after eating the pinwheels!

Yeah. You're right. I'm not going to stop buying those pinwheels. I just make sure to eat them before the date of expiration passes. As one of Mrs. HM's major food groups, those pinwheels are indisposable...

Shame Shame Shame Shame Shame. Shame On Me. Because I Didn't See.

I've heard that song two days in a row now. "Shame, Shame, Shame," by Shirley and Company. Even Steven does nothing without an agenda...

Thursday, in fact, I heard it before going into Country Mart to buy scratchers out of the machine. I first went to the machine on the left, and waited patiently for the one on the right to become available. A gal was buying tickets there, and talking to another employee about THE BIRTHDAY BOY, who may or may not have been an actual boy, but was for sure a co-worker of theirs whom they expected to see later to present him with a card that everybody had signed. 

The dude was the deli guy who gives me extra hush puppies for The Pony, even thought they ARE about 4 hours old, and not really suitable for sale at the time I get there. The gal went behind the service desk, and I stepped up to put my money in the lottery machine.

They had a new old ticket in this machine. A CashTastic, which I haven't seen in months. Of course I touched the screen to select one. I also got a crossword, a couple $3 mini crosswords, and a $2 Triple Dough and purple multiplier for The Pony. As I was scooping my tickets out of the tray, I was incensed to see a Black Pearl! I did not select a Black Pearl. I clearly wanted that CashTastic next to it. 

I was fuming as I went out the door. Just when I find something different, that dang old Even Steven thwarts my attempt to purchase it! Back in T-Hoe, I turned the tickets over to write an initial on the back, so I'd know where I got it. In case of a good winner, you don't want to keep buying off that roll.

What in the NOT-HEAVEN? There was my CashTastic! How could that be? Wait a minute... I had my crosswords, The Pony's tickets, the CashTastic AND A RANDOM BLACK PEARL!

I can only assume that the gal ahead of me had bought it, and it didn't fall out until my CashTastic nudged it on the way down the slot. You know how hard I tried to be honest last time I found money left in the lottery machine, right? And was told WE DON'T DO THAT when I asked if they could see if a person came back asking about it. Because I was ready to hand them a ten, since didn't want to steal someone else's money. Since they did not seem cooperative in the matter, I just left it there for the next lady, who was already waiting for the machine when I was done.

Anyhoo... I was already back in T-Hoe. It was 98 degrees. It was not my fault their machine jams all the time. I was not feeling like walking all the way back inside, to stand at the service desk and argue about the right thing to do with that mysterious $5 Black Pearl.

YES! I STOLE A LOTTERY TICKET!

I took the Black Pearl home with me. It was a loser. Just like my CashTastic. They say everybody has their price. 

Looks like Mrs. HM's price is $5.

You Don't Know What You've Got 'Til It's Gone (Because The Pony Ate It)

Remember when I showed you those giant jars of minced garlic I found in Country Mart? And then I actually BOUGHT ONE a couple months later?

 

WE ARE OUT OF GARLIC! 

 

I took this picture in November of 2020. It wasn't long after that I bought one, because The Pony requested it when the small jars ran out. Just a couple weeks ago, I saw this minced garlic on the shelves of Country Mart, no longer in a bin at the end of the onion shelf, but on the condiments aisle between the giant jugs of vinegar, and the pickle jars.

Wednesday, I went to Country Mart for the express purpose of acquiring a giant jar of minced garlic. I eschewed Save A Lot, where there were other things I wanted, because they don't have the giant jars of minced garlic.

NEITHER DOES COUNTRY MART!

I had the child-seat of my cart/walker full of other things on my list, but I couldn't find that minced garlic. I looked in the produce section, all around the onions. TWICE. Then I looked by the pickle shelves. I continued up that aisle, looking on the other side, around the pasta sauces and shaker jars of parmesan. I even went up the aisle with Chinese and Mexican foods. As a last resort, I went to the other end of the store, in the pizza-making supplies. Because whenever I can't find something, it turns up there. Like the Velveeta cheese! Don't ask me why. Only a psycho would put Velveeta cheese on a pizza!

Still. No minced garlic. Not even a small jar. At the checkout, I asked the generally unpleasant man cashier. He's a prissy high-horse-riding type. Acts like cashiering is beneath him. This is the nicest he's ever been to me. So I ventured the question.

"Do you know what aisle has minced garlic?"

"Uh. No. Donna? Do you know where the garlic is?"

"You used to have big jars of minced garlic. Like mayonnaise jars."

"That would be in produce. By the onions."

"I looked there. And in condiments and Italian and Chinese. I didn't see it anywhere."

"Well, that was a special purchase. So I guess we're out of it."

Sweet Gummi Mary! If I'd only known that, I would have bought two more jars that day I saw it had been moved to the shelves!

I hope the vampires haven't gotten wind of this. At least until I have time to buy a small jar for The Pony. I can smell it from the garage when I come home, after he's made himself a meal.

WOW-er Grapes

Yes. This tale is literally about GRAPES. It's not a bait-and-switch title. Not a clever euphemism for something else. It concerns actual grapes. I haven't been able to find my nightly oranges. The source seems to have dried up. The last couple of bags were not good. Not the weird little tangerine thingies, nor the navel oranges with more skin that fruit. Tough, not juicy. So I switched to grapes.

For a while, we had both green grapes, which were labeled Cotton Candy Grapes, and red grapes. Farmer H likes the green grapes. They're not bad. After reading their name, I DID detect a hint of cotton candy flavor. The Pony did not.

The red grapes are my favorite. Sweet, with a snap when you bite into them. They've been particularly good lately. The bunch I got last week at Country Mart were exceptional.

 

 

Look at the size of that grape!!! It's bigger than a quarter! That's my lucky scratching quarter voluntarily posing, for scale reference.

Those grapes are almost as big as plums! I take three bites to eat one. I'm not taking a chance on choking, down in my lair, unable to scream, due to a plum-sized grape lodged in my throat. Unable to give myself the Heimlich over the back of my rolly chair, because it would roll away!

Those grapes are so big, I could eat them with a knife and fork, like Mr. Pitt and his candy bar. [That's a Seinfeld reference, River.]

I hope Save A Lot has some of them. I was just in Country Mart today, and forgot to look. I still have a little bunch left for Thursday, but I'll have my eyes open for them Friday at Save A Lot.

The Complicated Communicator

I intruded upon a confusing conversation between Farmer H and The Pony when I returned to the living room Tuesday, after changing into my lair-wear, post-town-trip. It was about the renovations for Pony House. Farmer H was leaning forward in his recliner, so I knew he was making a point. The Pony sat on the long couch, a plate of leftover sink-sghetti on the marred coffee table.

"Will the door to the bathroom be on the living room side, or the hall side?"

"It's like this..." Farmer H held up a small cardboard box. "This is the bathroom. The door will be here."

"But is it on the living room side, or the hall side?"

"Here's the bathroom. The front door is over here. The bathroom door will be here." Farmer H said, holding the box in front of him and using his other fist as the front door, then moving it to point at a side of  the box bathroom.

"You're not explaining it. All I want to know is which side the bathroom door will be on. The hall, or the living room."

"Yes I am! You just don't understand. THIS is the bathroom. Here's the front door. The door will be HERE." Farmer H said, again moving around the cardboard box bathroom floating in mid-air, and using his fist as the front door of Pony House.

Now you know what I go through! But I'M the one who doesn't understand..."

"Dad. Just tell me where the door is! Hall side, or living room side?"

"There ain't no hall!"

"Yes there is. You have to have a way to get to the utility room, and the back door!"

"Oh. Well. That ain't no hallway! It's a passageway."

The Pony and I looked at each other. His eyes might have rolled audibly.

"Dad. A hallway IS a passageway. What do you call that area by the piano, to get from the living room to my bedroom?"

 

"It ain't no hallway!"

 

"It IS a hallway! You walk down it to get to my bedroom and bathroom."

"It's BIGGER that a hallway! This ain't no 32-inch hallway in your new house! It's a passageway!"

"But is that where the bathroom door will be?"

"Yes. I've been trying to tell you that, but you're like your mom. You two cain't understand NOTHIN'!"

We need an interpreter most days.

A Not-So-Subtle Message For Mrs. HM

What in the NOT-HEAVEN???

Monday, I had an errand over in Sis-Town, and stopped by Burger King on the way home. Farmer H and The Pony had that leftover sink spaghetti for their supper, so I didn't have to prepare anything. Of course nothing is ever as simple as Mrs. HM assumes...

"I'd like the Whopper combo without cheese. No lettuce. Make it a large combo, with a Diet Coke, no ice."

"I'm sorry. We're out of large cups. Is a medium soda okay?"

"Well, I want the large fries."

"I'll give you large fries."

"Will I have to pay the same amount as a large combo?"

"No. I can charge you for a medium combo."

"Okay. A medium Diet Coke with no ice will be fine."

I pulled around to pay at the second window. I guess they can't keep enough help to staff the pay window AND the pick-up window. So now they take your money at the pick-up window. It was the little lady who is always nice to me.

"I'm really going to miss my large Diet Coke!"

"Oh, I know! Aren't those large sodas good?"

"Uh huh. I drink mine all afternoon and evening."

She handed me my bag of food, which was already sitting on the counter, and then my tiny little medium soda in a cardboard cup that might have held 32 oz. I knew I'd have to top it off with a week-old half-bottle of Diet Coke from the bottom shelf of FRIG II, when I poured it into my regular 44 oz double-cups that I save for BK days. Off I went, cranky about my lack of elixir, but happy I still had a Whopper and fries as usual. When I got home and took them out of the bag, I was shocked!

Here's a picture when I got down to my lair:

 

BK was giving me the finger! The BAD finger! I swear, that's how my fries came out of the bag. No manipulation on my part. The longest fry was positioned like it was flipping me off! I can't blame the old lady who's always so nice to me. All she does is hand the food out the window. After taking payment. Somebody else cooks it. Another person bags it.

I guess they took offense to me expecting to get what I pay for. Or else it was a total coincidence...

I CAN'T Make This Stuff Up

Since he got his walking boot for his broken ankle, The Pony has been clomping around the Mansion like a graceless Clydesdale. I can hear him making his way from bedroom to bathroom to kitchen to recliner to big triangle tub in the master bathroom. Every now and then, there's a heart-stopping THUMP! I am concerned that The Pony may have fallen, and hurt his ankle, and thus prolonged his return to work!

Turns out The Pony is just clumsy. We've know this since before he could walk. His round head was like a magnet for corners. He turned a tall potted plant/tree over on himself, and lay trapped until we found him. Flipped his little yellow plastic banana car over while riding it on the wooden platform beside the playhouse thingy my mom and dad gave the boys.

"Oh no, Mom. I wasn't hurt. I just hit my boot on the piano as I was leaving my room. It really reverberates! No. That time, I hit it on the side of the bathtub, and almost knocked loose one of those panels dad built in, to get to the pipes. Oh. THAT one was when I hit the stool at the cutting block. This boot just sticks out farther than my toes. I'm not used to it."

"Huh. You've only been wearing it THREE WEEKS now..."

Anyhoo... on Sunday night, The Pony came to the kitchen to assist with supper. It was Spaghetti Night. That's a thing around here now. Remember when Farmer H bought 24 BOXES of spaghetti noodles? And said we'd keep four, and he'd give away the rest? We still have them. I decreed that every week, Farmer H and The Pony will have a Spaghetti Night. TWO! They're okay with that. They like spaghetti. 

Anyhoo... The Pony usually makes garlic bread, but he was afraid he'd use up all the minced garlic. So they had frozen garlic toast. He did add to the canned sauce. And stirred. And handed me things like the silver metal dipper thingy with teeth and holes in it. Neither of us knew the correct name.

When it was time to drain the noodles, I asked The Pony to carry the big pan the two steps (for him) from stove to sink. The colander for draining was already down in the sink.

"It's kind of heavy for me. But if it feels like TOO MUCH for you, don't do it! I'll do it myself. I sure wouldn't want you to stumble and scald your GOOD leg."

"I'm pretty sure I can get it." CLUMP. CLUMP.

The Pony set the pan on the edge of the sink, and tilted it to pour out the water. 

"Huh. That's the least cloud of steam I've seen when pouring out the pasta water. My glasses are still steamed up, though. Just a minute. Gotta let them clear. Okay. More water out. I WILL have to stop again, to adjust my hands on the handles, for turning it over and letting the noodles out."

I was standing off to the side. By the wastebasket in the area under the counter where my DISHWASHER would be. If I had one. I watched as The Pony tilted the pan and let the noodles slide out into the colander. AND TIP THE COLANDER OVER, WITH SPAGHETTI NOODLES DRAPED ON THE EDGE AND INTO THE SINK!

"I can't believe you! Move! I'll get it!"

The Pony was still holding the hot pan as I found that silver metal dipper thingy with teeth and holes in it, and scooped the noodles back into the colander.

It seems like The Pony is always only a few seconds away from disaster...

Quirks Gonna Quirk

The Pony had a good day with 2nd Bestie. They met in town, and proceeded to drop by Pony House, then on to Steak N Shake. After which they spent time catching up, watching assorted videos on their devices.

 

Let the record show that The Pony took 2nd Bestie one of Farmer H's auction candy bars. You know, the ones in the wrapper that said "Have a Meowy Christmas." I'm pretty sure 2nd Bestie did not look askance at it, even with this being late August...

 

The Pony also took her a bag of spicy snack mix that we did not like. I bought it for The Pony right after he broke his ankle, but he declared it not really his thing. I tried it. Too spicy for me. I think the name on it was Southwest Spice Mix. It had nuts and pretzels and cracker thingies. Farmer H gave it a try, and said it didn't really have much taste, and he was fine without it. So... rather than waste it, I said:

 

"You might want to give that snack mix to 2nd Bestie. I'm pretty sure she won't mind that it's already opened. At least it's in a bag, and not rolling around on the floor of your car."

 

"Yeah. She might like it."

 

Before you gasp at the horror of giving somebody USED snack mix, let me remind you that 2nd Bestie gifted US with those pumpkin-imprinted sugar cookies, carried in a plastic nut container, back in late January. I hope our snack mix does not upset her delicate constitution, seeing as how it is NOT YET EXPIRED.

 

"Did 2nd Bestie like the snack mix?"

 

"She looked at it, and said, 'Hm. This looks like the snack mix my mom and dad eat.' So I'm pretty sure they'll like it. She put it in her purse. With the candy bar I gave her."

 

"The candy bar! I bet it's a melted mess! It was so hot today."

 

"Well, she left her purse in my car, and I had the air conditioning on most of the time."

 

"How did she like your house? Did you go walk around it and try to look in?"

 

"No. We just drove by. She said, 'It looks like a $23,000 house. I guess some paint might help it.' So she liked it."

 

Those two are equally matched in quirkiness, I think.

The Acetaminophen Ramekin

Let the record show that Mrs. HM's outlook on life has not changed. Sure, it's still jaded and suspicious, but I have not abandoned all hope. I am mentally stable. So if Genius or The Pony should catch a glimpse of my ramekin of acetaminophen, they should not take it as a sign that their impending inheritance is on the fast track. I am merely refilling my lair supply of painkillers. I still have plenty of ibuprofen, but ran out of acetaminophen. 

 

I am resigned to the constant knee pain, and don't take these OTC painkillers every day. But I DO need them when I get a sinus headache, which only gets worse and worse for a day and a half if I don't take something.

Friday, my sinuses were whooping my rumpus. Kicking me in the shins. Giving me an Indian burn and a titty-twister. Frog-punching my arm, flicking the back of my ear, and giving me a wet Willy. Topping it off with the Three Stooges two-fingered eye-poke, then dragging me around with those two fingers inserted into my nostrils. Sinuses were not happy!

The temperature was 84, with 97 percent humidity. That feels like 102 degrees! That heat slapped me in the face the minute I stepped out of the 74-degree Mansion. It took my breath away. I don't know what the barometric pressure was, but I felt my forehead start either expanding or contracting from within.

T-Hoe's air conditioner, set on 72, blew onto my face for the drive to town. But each time I left T-Hoe, the oppressive heat slapped it again. I'm sure that's what set off the headache. Right now it's 1:55 a.m., and I'm relatively comfortable, after an aspirin, an acetaminophen, and an ibuprofen throughout the day.

Let's hope tomorrow is kinder to my sinuses, who will then be kinder to me.

Pony Progress

The Pony had a follow-up appointment with his long-sought-after podiatrist on Thursday. They x-rayed his broken ankle, and said it is healing normally. The Pony told Farmer H, not MRS HM WHO WAITED ON HIM HAND AND HOOF FOR TWO WEEKS, so I barely overheard. Something about the x-ray showing white bands between the bone fragments, which is a sign of the bones starting to knit together. 

 

The Pony had a form (printed by MRS HM, a 45-minute ordeal on her cantankerous printer, and the form the form was in, that being a picture taken of it with The Pony's phone) that the podiatrist filled out, forbidding regular work duties for the next three weeks. He has another appointment then. He took that form by the post office, and left it with the counter guy to give to his manager. I certainly hope The Pony took a picture of the completed form before turning it in!

Friday (today, as you probably read this), The Pony's 2nd Bestie is coming to town for a visit. They plan on meeting up in town, going to feast on either steak or Steak N Shake, then watching some shows on their devices. Probably in The Pony's car, scamming free wi-fi.

I asked The Pony if he had cleaned out his car in preparation for her arrival.

"Let's just say it's cleaner than the time she found the cookie on the floor..."

I hope 2nd Bestie is up-to-date on her tetanus shots. You never know what might be lurking in The Pony's car. Hopefully nothing alive. This will probably be their last reunion until the Christmas break, since she's headed back to college over the weekend.

Oh, and The Pony is kind of bummed that we do not yet have the keys to "his" new fixer-upper. Farmer H is picking up the cashier's check on Friday, and the closing is on Monday morning. The Pony is planning to show 2nd Bestie the outside of the house anyway.

The Regular Pinwheel Lady Must Be On Vacation

Trouble in paradise! Or at least in Country Mart, at the deli counter, where I buy my delicious pinwheels. I think the Pinwheel Lady might be on vacation. Hopefully, she's not out with a raging case of hepatitis! 

 

The pinwheels I bought two days ago are not up to par! First of all, they are SQUASHED! Flattened! Not at all round like a pinwheel should be. Imagine a jelly roll. That's what a pinwheel should look like. What if your jelly roll was flat? Uh huh. See what I'm talking about? It's wrong!

I'm always happy to see pinwheels in the deli case. Of course I buy them, (after a quick check of the expiration date; I'm not an idiot), no matter what their shape. I'm only giving you TWO this time, to make a point.

 

You'd think the regular Pinwheel Lady could cut the pinwheels more uniformly. Here we have a big pinwheel, and a little pinwheel. Like a hermit crab with a big claw, and a little claw. Nothing for Goldilocks to enjoy. Nothing JUST RIGHT. If I offered you a choice of these two morsels, you might prefer the large one. Oh, you'd probably TAKE the small one, to be all high-horsey and selfless, but you'd COVET the large one. Perhaps your high-horsey selflessness would pay off:

 

Aerial views can be deceiving! The large pinwheel is mostly air and lettuce, while the small pinwheel is chock full of meaty-cheesiness. Again, I would prefer a happy medium. And for my pinwheels to be ROUND. Another thing... whoever made this batch did not follow the same order as the regular Pinwheel Lady. The one who told me "another man" comes in the store and buys a lot of pinwheels, like I do. 

These pinwheels have the cream cheese sticking the meat to the tortilla, instead of the cream cheese being between the two layers of tortilla. I don't like that, because I can't unroll a layer of cream-cheesey tortilla to eat on the side, with BBQ potato chips. It's virtually impossible to pry the tortilla away with some cream cheese, because that meat sticks to the cream cheese like glue.

The Pony says I'm crazy, taking those pinwheels apart. He's a fine one to talk, that package-ripping, letter-opener-challenged little psycho! I'll eat deconstructed pinwheels if I so desire. Which I do. Even though it's a chore when the pinwheels are flat, irregular, and stuck together wrong.

If It Weren't For Bad Service, He'd Have No Service At All

In our continuing saga of getting The Pony's workplace broken ankle treated, and acquiring his rightful benefits...

The good news is, Tuesday The Pony saw that his pay had been entered into the online system.

The bad news is, the amount was only for one week. He's been off work for four weeks.

Anyhoo... the amount was what his official letter had informed him. Pay for 35 hours per week. Which is fine, since The Pony is not guaranteed any amount of hours as a CCA. He'd been working 50 hours some weeks, but 28 one week. So overall, it seems a fair deal, if you look back at all 10-11 weeks he'd been employed, and took the averages.

The Pony is not happy that he's been off for so long, and his pay just went in. I think payday is this upcoming Friday, or the next. I reminded him it took twice this long to get his pay and reimbursed expenses from training. There will probably have to be a grievance filed to sort out his back pay for the early weeks. But there IS an official process to do so.

At least The Pony is no longer in limbo, wondering if his paperwork got filed. Now the question is whether it got filed correctly...

Sometimes, Mrs. HM Can't Leave Well Enough Alone

After yesterday's incident with the blood soap, I asked The Pony what Bestie thought of the picture and recommendation of the soap for murderers. He said she hadn't gotten back to him yet. Hope she wasn't trying to clean up something without that soap!

"Did you send that picture to 2nd Bestie, too? Or is she not an alleged murderer?"

"Oh, it's her kind of thing. She might have seen it on my page."

"So you didn't get all excited about taking a picture of that blood-removing soap to send HER. I guess her interests might be more along the lines of cleaning up the scene, like removing their food from the refrigerator. And taking it home with her to eat!"

"Oh, no. That food, even if expired, would be way too fresh for 2nd Bestie!"

Whom, you may recall, is famous (to me) for eating a year-old chocolate chip cookie off the passenger side floor of The Pony's car.

Why Would This Knowledge Be Necessary

Mrs. HM suffered another injury of unknown origin on Saturday. I stopped by the short couch on the way to the shower, and leaned over the back, talking to The Pony, who had taken up residence in the recliner while Farmer H was at his Storage Unit Store. When I got to my destination, I was shocked to see BLOOD on the upper right chestal area of my comfy cotton purple pin-striped lair-wear shirt. I went back to the living room.

"Pony! Look at this!"

"Oh. Wow. What did you DO?"

"I don't know! It's on the front. And on the right sleeve. I guess maybe it's this bite thing on my forearm. The scab must have come off and I didn't know it, while I was leaning on my elbows on the couch back."

Of course I changed into a town shirt after my shower. But when I got home, I put that same bloody shirt back on. It had dried by then. I would probably slop some supper on it anyway. No rush to put on a clean one too soon. The next day, before shower, The Pony saw me wearing the shirt.

"Oh. I see the blood has darkened on your shirt."

"Yeah. I doubt it will come out. I should have treated it with something right then. OH NO! I'm afraid my shirt might be ruined."

 

Heh, heh. Let's just say that this shirt, and Old Baby Blue, my tattered sweatshirt which has been retired, after blog-told indignities involving Farmer H, have a lot in common. Though not a Farmer H connection, thank the Gummi Mary! Purple Pin-Stripe has a large hole along the seam under the left arm, and is almost sheer from threadbareness. Even seeing the stripes is hard.

"Here. I'll put a little soap on it to loosen up that stain for washing."

I was standing at the kitchen sink, and pumped some of the soap my sister the ex-ex-mayor's wife had given me for Christmas. I just set it out a couple days ago, when one of the other soaps Sis gave me ran out. This one is Bath and Body Works Kitchen Lemon.

It's a foaming soap. I dampened the stain with a few drops of water, and rubbed some of the foam on it. 

THE STAIN DISAPPEARED!

"WHOA! Look at that! I wouldn't believe it if I wasn't standing here watching it! That blood just disappeared!"

"I KNOW! I can't believe it either! Usually, it gets a little lighter, and I let it set for a while, then wash it, and most of it comes out. I've never seen this come so clean so soon!"

"I was about to ask if you wanted to open a bottle of your Diet Coke to put on it."

"Yeah, that works, too. Especially when I'm out somewhere, and drop food on my shirt. This is AMAZING soap!"

"I guess it's the kind they could recommend to murderers, for getting out their stains. Here! Let me get a picture! I'm going to send it to Bestie! Is that okay?"

"Sure."

Yes. I know. The Pony prances to the beat of a different drummer. It wasn't until later, in my lair, that I got to thinking about this scenario. When I was back upstairs getting supper ready, I hollered to him in the recliner.

"Hey! Pony! WHY would you want to send that picture to Bestie, and tell her how great it is at getting out BLOOD? Is there something you're not telling me? Is she contemplating murder? Is she going to be a defense lawyer? Does she write about murder? Does she read about murder?"

"No reason. No. No. Don't know. Don't know. Maybe."

Again with the different drummer.

Living with The Pony again is like being in an episode of Big Brother. Expect the unexpected.

C'mon And Take A Slow Ride...On My Office Rolly Chair

Not only is my internet slooowwww... but I've having trouble staying at the keyboard of New Delly. I sit down and pull up to my corner desk area as usual, but before you can say SWEET GUMMI MARY, I find myself at arms' length. I have to grasp the edge of the fake-butcher-block countertop that my desk is made of, and pull myself back to the keyboard. It's especially bothersome when I'm turned to the right side, where I keep my bubba cups, to scratch my lottery tickets.

 

The Pony has pointed out before that my clear plastic chair mat has grooves and humps in it. From 20 years of baking in front of my underdesk heater, which is now kaput. I guess that might be the reason I keep slip-slidin' away. It happened before, and then got better. I've tried to turn the mat this way and that, push it farther under the desk. With limited success.

 

I feel like I'm sitting on the deck of the Titanic as it tilts to sink into Davy Jones's locker.

 

Maybe I just have more time to contemplate my predicament, what with waiting for pages to load on new Delly. It took 30 minutes to type brief replies to 3 comments! That is not efficient!

 

The good news is... after 2:00 a.m., New Delly seems to run normally. If I didn't know better (which I'm pretty sure I DO), I'd say The Pony has been streaming shows and eating away at my innernets. He says I'M the one who's using all the innernets! By watching my conspirators spout out their disinformation! Well. I've been doing that for four years while he was away at college, and did not have this slow-down. Let's look at the new variable in this equation!

 

Anyhoo... it's going to be a long, slippery slope until midnight of the 24th, when my internet resets for the month. And probably longerer and slipperyer until I figure out how to stop rolling backwards in this runaway rolly chair.

Tales From The Stall: When It Pains, It Sores

This Pony tale is hush-hush! Don't go repeating it to your nosy neighbor or town crier. It involves The Pony's place of employment, which we certainly don't want to jeopardize, what with a $23,000 house hanging in the balance.

Thursday, when interrogated on whether he needed to be doing anything to get his continuation of pay started continuing (it's only been a month since his unfortunate ankle-breakage), The Pony said it was all up to his superiors to get that entered into the system now. Farmer H is always asking about the OTHER ankle-breaker, wondering if her benefits have kicked in ahead of The Pony's. So far, they have not, except for getting a real doctor's appointment right after her break.

Anyhoo... Farmer H heard at the barber shop that a guy he knows has a wife who works a regular route here in Hillmomba, who broker her arm recently. And is getting the runaround on her benefits as well. I think it must be standard policy to drag it out. Think of all the interest that can be accrued nationwide if pay is stalled for all the injured! Not that banks are paying much interest these days, but on a large scale, it could amount to something. Anyhoo... that's just my theory.

However, The Pony had a tidbit of information since we last quizzed him on the topic. A sad tidbit. 

"Oh, Mom. That other lady with the ankle? When she went in to sign the papers to get that advance on her pay until they get it put in... I guess she had to go upstairs to the manager's office. Maybe he has to sign off on it. Remember how I told you about those stairs? Well, when Breaker was leaving, she FELL on those steps, and hurt a toe on her good foot. I guess she'll ask the doctor about it. She has an appointment tomorrow."

That's adding insult (and injury!) to injury. Poor gal. The Pony told me shortly after his own breakage that he knew he couldn't walk up those steps on crutches to talk to anyone, because they were so steep and creepy. I secretly thought he was being overly cautious. Looks like he was just stating the facts. That staircase must be like something out of a horror movie. Hazardous to the health of two employees who broke their ankles just walking along the street...

My Screams Might Have Been Heard Across The Pond

Mrs. HM had a bit of a shock on Thursday. I had showered and picked up a passel of winning scratchers to cash in, and was headed out the door for town. The time was 2:30. On my way past the kitchen table, I remembered that I'd left HIPPIE doing an update and restart. That takes forever. I sat down to log in and then shut down. 

Of course the land line rang as I logged in. I swear that's not a coincidence. It happens a lot. I let it ring, as usual. We've been getting a lot of scammy calls lately. The main answering machine is in the master bedroom. If all is quiet, I can hear the message sometimes. At least the handset in the living room will announce CALL FROM... and either say a name, or say the number. It was a 512 area code, so I let the machine pick up.

EEEEEEEK!

Out of the corner of my eye, and with my full eyeballs as I turned, I saw THE PONY RUN ACROSS THE LIVING ROOM TOPLESS! I don't want to think about it, but he might also have been bottomless. Surely not... at least the kitchen counter blocked that portion from my view.

That was such a shock! The Pony is not at all like Genius, who would wander around the Mansion in only a pair of boxer briefs, cooking and TV-watching and sprawling on the long couch commanding me to make him a sammich. The Pony has always been more modest. I can't remember the last time he was shirtless, but it would be measured in years, and involve POOLIO.

I think The Pony might have screamed back. 

"I thought you'd left already!"

"What are you doing?"

"I was trying to get to your bedroom to hear who the call was from. In case it was important."

"No. Just a scammer, I'm pretty sure. I sat down to close HIPPIE after an update. You surprised me! Thank the Gummi Mary, Old Baby Blue is down in the basement, lying on the couch arm, and was spared this sight! What's that noise? Is that the TV?"

 

"Yeah. I just turned it on. I'm over by the thermostat. Turn your head! I'm going back to my room."

 

"Don't worry! It's TURNED!"

 

Lack of inhibition is not something The Pony inherited from Farmer H.

Humor Is A Slippery Slab

Tuesday night, I got a curious text from The Pony. I was in my dark basement lair, and he was "cleaning up" after making his own supper. Which consisted of a can of biscuits, expired by approximately two months, and butter and strawberry jam. Okay. So he only ate 5 of the 8 biscuits. And he doesn't really like strawberry jam, but we were out of grape jelly.

"Uh. Ignore the picture of the butter I sent. Whoops. That was a joke for Bestie. Accidentally emailed it to you."

"Is it inappropriate???"

"No. It's. Butter. That I bit off the block of."

"Okay. No dairy pr0n."

"What-what did you think I was going to do with the butter?"

"I thought you might have a caption or comment with it."

Seriously. What kind of PSYCHO sends his friend a picture of BUTTER? I guess the answer would be, "The Pony kind of psycho." 

 

He's a well-known Butterton. Like those old commercials. He would drape himself in butter if it was socially acceptable. One of the most crushing disappointments of his life occurred during Thanksgiving dinner of his 3rd grade year, when he passed around a baby food jar filled with butter that he'd made in class, and instead of just trying a bite, WE ATE IT ALL! Perhaps that incident damaged him for eternity.

 

 

Anyhoo... I still hadn't looked at the picture the next day, when the subject came up again, since we were having a baked potato.

"It was just a picture of my Kerrygold butter. We were talking about how much I liked butter earlier, and I said I loved it so much that I'd take a bite right off a stick of butter. So I put my teeth on my block of Kerrygold, and sent her a picture, as a joke."

Looks like he did more than 'put his teeth on' that butter! Seems like jokes were funnier when I was The Pony's age.

With Help Like This...

Just what I need: a spammer trying to help me with my writing! So helpful she was, going all the way back to a post from January, on my not-so-secret blog. THIS ONE, about my scarf that my mom gave me, that threw itself down those 13 rail-less basement stairs. 

Here was the advice:

Don't forget another good way of simplifying your writing is using external resources (such as WritePaper.Info ). This will definitely make your life more easier

You know what would make my life more easier, Ms. Spammer?

NOT GETTING SPAM COMMENTS ON MY WRITING!

Seriously. As if I am going to take advice from someone purporting to help make my WRITING LIFE MORE EASIER!

Ms. Spammer, I not-so-cordially invite you to take a long walk on a short pier. Or better yet, to make a fast descent down my 13 rail-less basement stairs. And learn to use a period while you're at it, and close up that space in your last parenthesis.

Here's What Two Dollars Can Buy You At The Auction

 Actually, two dollars will buy you EIGHT of these!

 

Don't let the appearance put you off! They were nice and smooth chocolate until I put them in FRIG II. That's because the genius who is Farmer H had left them in the car since Saturday night! At 92 degrees! Not good for a bunny, chocolate or otherwise! When he carried them in, showing them off, I said, 

 

"Oh, I'll take one."

"Uh, you might want to let it cool off first. They've been in the car."

"I didn't mean for NOW! I meant for tomorrow when I'm sitting here playing Candy Crush. I'm ready to go to town now."

"I got six of them! For TWO DOLLARS!"

"Um. There are seven boxes."

"Huh. Then I got more than I thought. We ate one at the auction. It's pretty good."

It's brand-name, too. Not that Palmer brand sold at the Dollar Store, that's so fake it barely has a chocolate taste. AND the date imprinted on the end is Aug 1, 2021. As The Pony said,

"That's practically like it was made yesterday, for OUR house!"

Heh, heh. We're not too proud to eat expired chocolate bunnies in August! I wish I had taken the picture before I chilled the bunny. It looked perfectly normal. So far, I've eaten off the ears. Tasty...

Let's Hope They're Not Hungry Enough To Eat A Horse

Farmer H has been lax in his flea-bag duties. Every morning, he feeds the dogs. It used to be on the back porch outside the laundry room. Since the squirrels took over the self-feeder Farmer H put there to lessen his flea-bag duties, he's been feeding Jack and Juno on the side porch. Their dry food is in the garage, in a little plastic trash can with a lid. I might have mentioned how much they liked the new dog food, which had assorted colored kibbles like the cat food they used to love.

I noticed last week that the level of dog food in the can was getting low. Every day when I leave, I give the dogs a tiny bit for a snack. Less than a fistful apiece. Copper Jack, too. I figured Farmer H would be getting more dog food soon. Yet no receipt for such was left folded tightly, in my glasses case. Sunday afternoon, Farmer H came through the kitchen door after Storage Unit Store-ing, saying:

"I'm moving the Acadia back into the garage, and going to get dog food."

"WHAT? It was out yesterday. They must be starving!"

"I cut up that old Oberle sausage this morning. I gave Juno 6 pieces, and Jack 4. She ate all hers and tried to get his!"

"Yeah. That's how she is."

"So they're not hungry. They're fine."

Farmer H returned before I left for town. He said he spilled the dog food while he was pouring it into the plastic trash can. 

 

"They was eatin' on it. So they're not starved."

 

As I walked out to the garage, I saw a pile of brown dog food pellets. Juno followed me from her dog house, and stepped gingerly around the pile of pellets. Not even sniffing them. Looking hopeful.

"No. There's not any of the other stuff. This is what he got. I'm not bringing you any out of the garage. You'll get a pizza crust when I get back, for your treat."

 

I'm sure she heard: "WAH WAH WAH. Treat."

 

While in town, a storm hit. A downpour! I was soaked like a sewer rat. My pants legs soaked up half the water on Country Mart's parking lot. Like litmus paper, only they didn't change color. When I got back home, I called Farmer H to come out to the garage and carry groceries. 

 

"Why did you get THAT dog food. They don't like that. They liked the colored pellets."

 

"I didn't go all the way to The Devil's Playground. Only to Family Center."

 

"They don't like it."

 

"They'll have to eat it, or go hungry."

 

He was already in the house as I went up the steps carrying only a bag with BBQ chips for ME, and Puff Corn (like Cheeto Puffs, only butter flavor, not cheese) for The Pony. Jack ran over to the dog food pellets and sniffed, turning up his nose. They had gotten wet in the blowing rain, but were not even soft like that old Gravy Train kind of dog food that was meant for adding water.

I hope Jack and Juno and Copper Jack are not hungry enough to eat a horse. I'm pretty sure the horse that ran through our yard feels the same...

I'm A Little Bit Jealous Of The Pony's Luck

The Pony just might have a lucky bone in his body, though it's definitely not the ankle bone. He has chosen to play a draw game instead of the $5 scratcher I usually get him. He picked Cash4Life, a $2 game where you try to match five numbers and the Cash Ball. It's basically like PowerBall, but with five numbers instead of six. The grand prize is, are you ready for this...

$1000 a Day For Life!

Somebody won it last week, and Farmer H heard about it and told The Pony, which is why he picked this game. Second prize is $1000 a Week For Life. The odds are astronomical. 1 in 21,846,048 for the grand prize. And for second prize, it's 1 in 7,282,016. I never win on draw games, and have only played a couple times a year, when the PowerBall jackpot was high enough to be a news topic.

Anyhoo... The Pony also plays the Easy Match on this ticket. Which means for an extra dollar, you get five chances to match a number shown on your ticket. So I agreed to buy The Pony two of these tickets, at $3 each (including the Easy Match option). 

The first day, The Pony won nothing. It was not unexpected. I was a little sad for him, because he'd talked about it all day, and could hardly wait until 8:00 for the drawing.

The second day, The Pony completely forgot about the drawing. I asked him the next morning if he won anything, and he said, "Oops! I'll go get my tickets." He brought them into the kitchen, and looked up the winning numbers on his phone.

"Oh. It looks like I've won $2! I had one number and the Cash Ball. I'd better scan it. I'm using your phone. The app didn't transfer when I got my new one, and I'm not looking it up. WHAT? I won $10! It looks like I had TWO numbers and the Cash Ball!"

"You are so lucky on those draw games. I can't win a thing. What are the odds of winning $10 on it?"

"1 in 83."

"Yeah. You're kind of lucky."

"Today, get me FIVE of those tickets. If you'll still buy two for me."

"Yeah. Okay."

When the Casey's lady printed out the tickets, one of them made the WINNER music go off. She told me which ticket it was. In the car, I saw that the Easy Match had matched three numbers, for a dollar each. So The Pony had at least won $3 this time. Lucky dog. I didn't tell him. I let him discover it for himself. 

After the drawing, The Pony sent me a text.

"I think I won $2 on the drawing tonight. I'll check on your phone in the morning."

Good for him. I can't win a thing on those draw tickets...

Unlike The Old West, In Hillmomba, They're NOT Free For The Taking

We almost had a free horse on Sunday. I was walking to the garage for my town trip, and met Farmer H on his way in from his Storage Unit Store. He said, matter-of-factly, 

 

"There goes a horse."

"WHAT?"

"Across the front yard. Look"

I barely had a glimpse when Juno took off through the yard. Silly dog. She's not a herder. She IS a barker. We hollered at her to come back. She'd stop and come toward us, and then put on another burst of speed to rush up to the road.

"There she is. See Juno, through the trees? In front of the sinkhole."

I did not. But as I drove by, I saw her sitting sentry. I also saw the horse. Down the road, with either do-gooders or horse thieves trying to capture it.

 

 

I crept along in T-Hoe, slow enough not to spook the horse, yet getting close enough so that it didn't want to come back this way.

 

The neighbor horses had come over to get a look. This was a fine equine specimen. Muscled and sleek, not a ratty old nag. It was wearing a halter, and dragging a lead rope. You don't leave them in the field like that. It had obviously escaped from a handler. One of our up-the-road neighbors was visiting with our down-the-road-neighbors, and came out to sweet-talk that horse. It was a bit fractious. He got the lead rope, and held it right under that horse's chin. Not letting him have his head loose. The horse twitched his tail, and stomped a back foot, but didn't kick or rear.

 

The capture was a success. That lady was passing by, and stopped as if she could help. The guy took the horse down to the neighbor's house, and they put a picture of it on our enclave's Facebook page. By the time I got back home, the owner had reclaimed the horse. It had come from a house across the creek behind the Mansion. So it had run through the woods to get here. I figured it would have been fine, and eventually have headed home, but Farmer H said if it got down to the blacktop road, it might have started up it. 

Good thing Jack and Copper Jack were off in the woods somewhere, doing whatever they do. A loose horse would be good sport for those two.

Mrs. HM Is So Lame

Yesterday I suffered an injury getting dressed after my shower. No, I did not slip on the tile of the master bathroom. We have three rugs in there. The middle rug, beside the big triangle tub, was the scene of my accident. I was partially dressed, and walking toward the walk-in closet to get my pants and shirt. 

OWWWW!!!!

Something sharp pierced my right heel! It hurt like a needle had skewered my foot. Each step was agony. As I pulled on my pants, the fabric brushed against that part of my heel, and I felt the sharp implement wiggle a bit. Once dressed, I stepped into my CROCS. Still had the sharp pain. 

I hobbled to the living room and called for The Pony as I continued into the laundry room to drop a small load of laundry.

"Pony! I stepped on something that is in my foot! I need you to take a look and see if you can pull it out. I can't bend and twist my knee to look at it myself." I leaned on the washer and lifted my right leg out behind me. "It's at the back of the heel, about midway, at the junction of the tough heel skin and the wrinkly skin above it."

"Huh. I see SOMETHING. A red place. But I don't see anything."

"Run your hand over it. Maybe you'll feel it. Sorry to subject you to this horror! OWW! Right there!"

"I don't feel anything. But there's a place in the skin where it's kind of peeled back. Like something WAS in there, but came out. It's red, with a little skin flap."

"I swear it feels like it's still in there."

"Where exactly did it happen? Okay, I'll go in and see if I can find anything."

"It feels like maybe a staple from Dad's prescription sack receipt."

"I didn't see anything like that. But here's a TOENAIL!"

"NOOO! Do NOT bring that out here for me to look at! NO!"

"Or maybe it's a fingernail..."

"I don't care. That should not have pierced my tough heel skin."

"And there's this stick/splinter thing, that looks like the end is broken off. It's the size of that little hole in your foot."

"Okay. Does it look like a cedar chip?"

"No. Just a little stick. I'll throw it away with the toenail."

"Thanks. It hurts SO MUCH! I'm not sure I'll be able to walk in and get my scratchers and 44 oz Diet Coke!"

I said to The Pony with a broken ankle...

My Fledgling Has Flown The Recliner

Now that he has a boot, The Pony is like a baby who has learned to walk. He lurches around in a manner too fast for safety. Yesterday afternoon he whacked that boot on a kitchen stool under the cutting block. It's not like he felt anything. The boot is sturdy, with a lot of padding.

He has picked up and moved from Farmer H's recliner back to his bedroom. I am mourning my again-empty nest. The Pony only comes out for food, bathroom, and soaking in the big triangle tub in the master bathroom. He says it's nothing personal. He's perfectly happy living in one room (which certainly comes with gracious amenities). 

 

He bears us no ill will, but does not like watching Farmer H's TV shows, and doesn't want to unplug all his chargers to move his electronic gewgaws back out to the public area. He has to crawl under his bed, he says, to plug in those chargers in his room. I'm pretty sure that's a partial truth. I think there's a lot of junk in the way under the bed, and he can probably stick his arm down between the bed and the wall to plug in.

Anyhoo... as you probably predicted, The Pony did not get his continuation of pay put into the system to get a paycheck this pay period. So it will have to go two more weeks (don't think I'm holding my breath) at the earliest. There will have to be a re-adjustment back to the time it should have begun. 

The Pony is fortunate to have the soft hammock of Mom and Dad's support system to fall gently into. The other broken ankle does not, being an adult woman with bills to pay at the beginning of the month. She is NOT happy. The union rep said she can come in and sign up for an advance on the money she is owed for this time she's been off so far. I guess it's like a loan against your wages. There better not be interest!

The Pony is kicking up his heels, and enjoying his newfound mobility. He is resigned to waiting on compensation.

The Hand That Blocks The Playful Rues The Bird

The Pony went out to lunch with his cousin Niecy on Monday. They went to Colton's Steak House, over in Bill-Paying Town. Of course The Pony had a ribeye. He brought home part of it for later, which turned out to be Tuesday morning at 6:30. I was on my way to bed as he was warming it in the oven. When I got up around noon, The Pony pranced over to the table where I sat with Hippie, and waggled his BAD finger. The bird. On his right hand.

"Oh, Mom. You know how we can't seem to have any luck lately? Well, it continues. I was almost done with my steak, and the last three bites were all gristly. [Don't feign surprise. They went to COLTON'S, not RUTH'S CHRIS!] I tried to eat it, but I had to spit out one bite after I couldn't chew it any more. I went out on the front porch, where I heard the dogs. All three of them were out there playing around.

I had a piece of steak for each of them. Poor Jack got the worst one, the bite I already chewed--"

"That probably made it more tasty for him. And he has such a tiny mouth!"

"Anyway, I gave a piece to Juno, and I was trying to give a piece to Copper Jack, and keep Juno away from him. He got all excited and grabbed it out of my hand, and his teeth scratched my finger."

"So Copper Jack BIT you?"

"Not really a bite. He was trying to eat the steak, and my finger was still on it."

"I hope he doesn't have rabies! If you start foaming at the mouth, don't come at me!"

"I came in and put a bandaid and triple antibiotic ointment on it. I didn't get my prescription ointment for my knee, because I was trying to get it to stop bleeding. I mean... it wasn't really bleeding a lot. I was holding pressure on it with my one hand while I used the other to get the bandaid open. I washed it with soap and water first. I'd show you, but we only had a couple of those big bandaids left..."

"Eww! I don't want to see it! Leave it covered. I guess you'll be all right. He's not a mean dog, but you never know when there's food. Juno will do that to you in a heartbeat! She is so afraid somebody else will get her share, and their own rightful share, that she will snap at the food whether your hand is in the way or not!"

Farmer H said, "Copper Jack BIT you?"

"No. Not really a bite. Just scraped my finger getting the piece of steak in my hand."

"Eh. I'm not afraid of him having rabies. He's over here all the time."

I suppose the Mansion has a magical force-field that prevents rabies from flourishing...

Farmer H May NOT Be The Worst Driver Out There

When I came out of the Gas Station Chicken Store last week, I observed a driver more reckless (or uncaring) than Farmer H. Such insouciance for the rules of the road was magnified exponentially with this driver, since his vehicle was many times larger than A-Cad.

 

I shudder to think what it would be like to ride in a big rig with Farmer H! I'd probably be throw out of the cab with such a magnitude of sweaving. Or maybe I'd lie down on the bed behind the seats. STRAP myself down, perhaps. Like in an ambulance. And give myself a morphine drip to stay calm. Oh, the pipe dreams I have! We all know that I'd never make it up those steps on the side of the truck. I'd better not show this picture to Farmer H. I'm sure he'd want a big truck to put his name on!

 

No. He is NOT merely parked at the light, awaiting his turn to proceed through the intersection. If you look closely, you'll see that this truck is is taking up the regular lane, the left-turn lane, and the oncoming traffic lane. And maybe the entrance to the liquor store! Here. Let's look at a wider angle:

 

Behind the truck is the liquor store. That truck driver was coming down the road beside the liquor store, and turned onto their lot, and came out on the main street to wait at the traffic light. Not sure that is any easier than getting in the left-turn lane from the road he was on. In fact, I think this maneuver is more difficult. But I don't drive a semi truck. Only T-Hoe.

That gray building over the cab of the truck is my pharmacy. The orange-roofed building is Dairy Queen. Across the moat is the striped roof of Farmer H's pharmacy. Country Mart is over behind my pharmacy. That's my world. A nicely-condensed business neighborhood to service my addictions.