Oops! I Didn't Do It Again!

Wednesday, I went in Country Mart to get scratchers out of the machine. Some to send Genius in his weekly letter I mail on Thursdays. Some for The Pony. Some for myself.

I stepped up to the right-side machine, and put in a twenty. I selected my $5 crossword, a new Break the Bank $5 ticket for Genius, and a $3 Gold Mine, also for me. Imagine my surprise when I looked at the balance, and saw $17! How was that possible? I had only put in a twenty! And I'd bought $13 so far.

Obviously, there had been $10 on the lottery machine when I put in my twenty. Again, I don't look to see if there's a balance on it before inserting my money. Just like I never went around sticking my finger in the coin return slots of pay telephones. There isn't SUPPOSED to be money in there. 

As I was re-bobulating myself, a lady came out from behind the service desk which is about three feet away. As she walked past me, I said...

"I don't suppose you noticed anybody getting tickets from this machine. There was money left in it. I put in a twenty, and look, I've bought $13 so far. [I displayed my tickets] But there's still $17 left on the balance."

"Well, I didn't notice anybody."

"I know there's probably nothing you can do about it. I don't care if you guys treat yourself to tickets with what's in there. I'm just saying, there must have been $10 on it when I put in my money. So I'm only spending what I put in, and leaving the rest. It's not mine."

"I wonder if somebody checked their ticket, and then hit YES instead of NO."

"I don't know how any of that works. I always put in money. Let's see. I'm going to take this $2 ticket. And this $5. And I'm done now. I tell you, these new tickets aren't paying me anything!"

"I know! They're not."

"Okay, then. I'm leaving that amount in there. Not mine. Just telling you."

I went out. She stood there looking at the machine. Again, I don't care what they do with it. I just wasn't going to spend not-my-money.

Even Steven must have approved. I won $20 on a $3 ticket, and $15 on a $5. The Pony won $4 on his $2 ticket. No word yet on Genius's tickets

Scary Stories To Tell Of The Mart

Becoming discombobulated in Country Mart because ALL OF THE BAKED GOODS WERE MISSING (including their tables and racks) is NOT the scariest thing that happened there lately. I'm not sure you're up to such horrific details. But maybe you're fans of scary movies. 

 

We just re-watched THE BIRDS last week. The Pony marveled at how bad the GCI was. Heh, heh! I told him that was not CGI. It was just the state of special effects back then. And back then, they sometimes left the most gory details to the imagination. Like when Annie's body (Suzanne Pleshette) was found on her porch, and you knew her eyes were pecked out, but Mitch (Rod Taylor) held his hand over her face so Melanie (Tippi Hedren) and those of us watching, couldn't see it.

Well. Get ready for Mrs. HM's frightening facts. Curl up on the couch, or perhaps turn up the heat on your OPC (Old People Chair), or drape yourself in velvet or a fleece throw. Get ready to cover your own un-pecked eyes if the tale gets too scary. I don't suggest popcorn or candy. This story involves FOOD.

It was last week. I was browsing at the deli hot counter, but only saw a couple dried-out paper-thin fish planks, and some fried chicken. Plus some tire-looking sides like macaroni and cheese, and mashed potatoes. I figured they'd all been there since lunch, and it was going on 4:00. So I headed around to the cold case. No pinwheels. No chicken salad sandwiches. There were some clear plastic boxes of chicken. No chicken tenders this time. Just some parts of fried chicken. 

I gave that chicken a look. No. It wasn't looking back at me. That wasn't the scary part. I picked up a couple boxes to peer under the label and see what pieces were inside. You may recall my bad experience pulling chicken off the bone to add to leftovers, and finding more breading than meat. So I wanted to guestimate whether this chicken was a good option. The first box I picked up held one breast and one thigh (or maybe a smaller breast). I considered it for a second, and then glanced at the price.

$14.87!

Are you still with me? I forgot to warn you to put the smelling salts on a ribbon around your neck, lest you faint and your head fall down to your chest. That's outrageous! A whole chicken, even a fried 8-piece chicken from the deli, does not cost as much as those two pieces! The 8-piece used to be $8.99, but I think it's $9.99 now. What in the NOT-HEAVEN were they thinking? Did someone make a mistake? Or were they trying to sell it by the pound? I bet lobster doesn't cost that much! 

I don't always look at prices. I'm certainly glad I didn't throw this in my cart! I looked at a couple other boxes. One had a breast, thigh, wing, and leg. I think it was a little over $7. That's stupid. You could walk around and get FRESHer fried chicken, a whole 8 pieces, for not much more. I did NOT buy any chicken that day. I went home and made myself a chicken bowl with leftovers.

Okay. I'm assuming you survived that heart-stopping moment. So we'll move on a few aisles, to the olives. I must have green olives on hand in case I find the pinwheels. My pantry only had one spare jar, so I went for more of the kind I got for $1. Only now they were $1.38.[That's not the horror.] Still, pretty cheap compared to the bigger jars, by ounce. They were the whole olive, with the pimento inside. Not crushed salad olives. I reached my hand to pick up a jar, and GASPED audibly. 

THE JAR IN FRONT HAD TWO LAYERS OF BLACK OLIVES ON TOP!

We're not talking about the black olives I use for nachos and taco salads. We're talking about green olives that are rotten! Some of the liquid was gone. I'm guessing the top wasn't sealed, and they rotted. But that would seem to require a long time. So I don't know what was going on with that jar of bad olives, but I definitely did not want to touch it. I used other jars to move it around, and select two good jars for myself.

No, I did not take that jar up front and complain. Let somebody else do that. You'd think whichever stock boy faces the shelves on that aisle would notice! It wasn't there the last time I bought olives, which was probably two weeks previous.

That concludes our double feature. I hope you weren't in the middle of a meal of fried chicken and green olives.

Weight Is In The Mind Of The Bag-Holder

I have a new grievance with Country Mart! Hiding the croissants is bad enough. But now the cashiers don't seem to understand how old people operate. It's not like Country Mart is sought out by physically fit and youthful clientele. It's an alternative for us elderly folks, who don't want to trek across a couple of acres to buy their food and necessities. Or wait in line for 20 minutes after gathering supplies.

 

It used to be old ladies who ran the registers. One was in her 80s, according to Farmer H. But I guess she retired, or is running wild in the streets of Hillmomba. Now there are young men. Either in-their-head, talking-to-themselves, perhaps-on-the-spectrum, but most-certainly-computer-gamers, young men. I'm not disparaging them. They have JOBS. They're AT WORK. They just don't understand old ladies.

Saturday, my checker was a strapping young man about 6'4", solid and stocky. He was over at the service desk, paying for an energy drink, but came back to wait on me. Of course after popping open his beverage and taking a sip. I don't begrudge him that. Everybody needs a pick-me-up sometimes at work. He was courteous and efficient.

But THEN...

He put all my items in ONE BAG! Correction. He put all my items in one bag and then double-bagged it.

I had just darted in for a few things. But they were all heavy. Mostly cans and jars.

 

2 cans baby corn

2 cans water chestnuts

1 can refried beans

2 jars Hoisin sauce

1 jar duck sauce

1 tub of pulled pork

1 plastic cup of mini Chips Ahoy cookies

1 plastic cup of mini vanilla wafer cookies

1 square plastic container of pinwheels

2 small cans of mushrooms

There was another customer behind me, so I didn't complain as I hefted that behemoth from the counter to my cart. When I got home, it was SO HEAVY to carry up the steps with my purse and 44 oz Diet Coke. I swear that thing weighed 30 pounds!

When I got inside, and after snacking the dogs, I decided to put that bag on the scale that sits beside FRIG II's freezer side.

It weighed 6.7 pounds. Close enough... I'm sure it would have been nothing for that strapping giant dude to prance up the steps dangling that bag by a pinky-finger. But for old ladies, that's kind of hefty.

The Mansion's Fleabags Go Fer-Zirc

Sweet Gummi Mary! Some people are totally clueless in the ways of animals!

Remember our loaner dog, Zirc? Her people bought a camper trailer this week, and came to get Zirc on Friday evening. That's when Farmer H got us the bad Chinese. While I was trying to chew up my Hunan Pork that was sinew-and-squeal, a drama was unfolding in the front yard/field. Of course I was oblivious. Our fleabags bark the night away, so nothing seemed unusual. Farmer H had said Zirc's people were coming, so I thought the dogs were just barking their greeting. It's not like they scare off anyone but the FedEx drivers.

Anyhoo... for the two weeks that Zirc has been here, they've had no issues. The first couple nights they directed their fool-head-barking-off towards Zirc, as she lay on Farmer H's trailer. Jack and Copper Jack would creep up and look at her. But no chasing, no growling. Farmer H said that Jack would walk around her when he was over at the BARn, but that Juno and Zirc would both raise their hackles and avoid each other.

Juno is not a dog's dog. She's extremely jealous of other pets, and shoulders her way in between me and them. I think it stems from her being dumped at my mom's house as a puppy, almost starved to death, and then fighting for her food when we brought her out here with our then-dogs Tank the beagle, and Poor Dumb Ann, the black german shepherd. Even though we'd stand over her as she ate, those dogs liked to creep in and take a lick at her canned Puppy Chicken. Of course we babied Juno, holding her and making her a little house so small that the others could barely get a head in.

Anyhoo... Farmer H said that Back Creek Bev's husband went to get Zirc, and was running her around in the yard/field. I'm not sure if she was on her leash or off, but they were having a grand reunion, with lots of running and hollering and barking.

Well. That does not set well with Juno. She barks her fool head off every day when the pair of Jacks are playing in the yard. So she got started barking, not liking Zirc being here to begin with. And then Jack got to barking because of Juno. Then they both went after Zirc to show her that really, she does not belong here on their turf.

Farmer H said that both Jack and Juno were going after Zirc, but that Zirc was winning the fight, because she's a bigger dog. I also imagine she's smarter than Copper Jack, and feels less sentimental about not hurting my little Jack when he sinks his teeth into her muzzle and hangs on. Anyhoo... Farmer H didn't reveal how the fight ended. I'm pretty sure the humans just stood and watched, because who wants to reach their elderly papery blood-thinnered skin into three sets of gnashing teeth? Not this old gal, that's for sure.

Juno should not be fighting. She's a great-grandma in dog years! We got her when Genius was 16, a sophomore in high school. Juno is almost 11 years old! This is conduct unbecoming for such a frail old b-word!

Anyhoo... Zirc is now living temporarily at a campground. Back Creek Bev is not happy, saying people keep coming up and talking to them. Which is kind of what people do when they're camping... One lady had a little dog on a leash, and Zirc started barking at it. Bev told Farmer H that she told the lady, "That dog might bite you, so you'd better stop coming here." Yeah. I don't think they'll be at the campground long. They're already trying to put a contract on another house. So Zirc should not be our loaner dog any more.

Oh, No! I've Turned Into The UPS Lady!

Please forgive me, my little Jack. The squirming long puppy who once burrowed under my Lovely Lady-Mullet and around the back of my neck when I'd hold you up on my shoulder the week you first came to live with us. I didn't mean anything by it. Those words just slipped out. It was not intentional. Not meant to hurt your feelings. Not even a crass statement such as when the UPS lady blurted it out while carrying a box to the Mansion porch.

"Look at you! You're so FAT!"

So sorry, Jack. You are stocky! Not fat. Husky, even. Like your red heeler half. They are strong dogs with wide chests. Not whippet-thin. And of course your dachshund half puts you low to the ground, on those short legs. So when I look down on you, the perspective makes you look wide. You are not obese. I'm not calling Dr. Nowzaradan for a consult.

Yes, I am sorry I said that about my little Jack. Even though he DOES look larger than he did last week. He does not carry extra weight well. 

I figured the special meatball treats that The Pony bought for me, which turned out to be DOG treats, must be very filling. They are dense. It takes Jack a few minutes to eat his. Several bites, as the meatball crumbles. Even my Sweet, Sweet Juno has to chew hers, and not wolf it down in one gulp. She is not a dainty eater by any means. 

So convinced of the calorie density of these meatballs, I have been giving Jack the smallest one in my hand, and giving Juno TWO of them, because she looks frail in comparison, and she's a bigger dog.

Well. Jack is definitely a pound or two heavier. He's like an overstuffed sausage. And now Farmer H, who agreed that Jack was looking bigger, has solved the mystery.

"I know why your Jack is getting fat! He's eating baby rabbits!"

"WHAT?"

"I seen him. Just now. He came down the driveway with one in his mouth. Got is somewhere up there in our yard, or the other Jack's field. It was hanging out both sides of his mouth. About as big as my Mountain Dew bottle."

That explains it. Not the two meatballs a day, or the slice of bread when I don't give the meatballs, or the parts of the treat that Copper Jack doesn't eat fast enough, and my little Jack pounces on like an eel darting out of an underwater crevice to steal.

Jack's a working dog by both half-pedigrees. I'm pretty sure it's the badger-hunting dachshund half the makes chasing and killing the rabbits so desirable. I'm pretty sure he's not rounding up rabbits to move somewhere else.

The Sinew, The Squeal, And The H-Probe

I am more than a little bit peeved with Farmer H. He has a way of blasting best-laid plans to smithereens. No willy-nillyness to his madness. Farmer H can destroy a plan thoroughly, not simply disrupt it.

On Friday evenings, the Hillbilly family often gets takeout food. When The Pony was laid up with his broken ankle, he and I would go get it. Usually Chinese food from the new Wok N Roll place. We all had our favorite order, different from the items we get at our old Chinese place in Hillmomba. We like the crab rangoons better from the new one, but the egg rolls better from the old one.

Anyhoo... The Pony has worked the equivalent of 60 regular hours this week, though in actual hours it's a bit less, due to the time-and-a-half and double-time rules. He barely has time for a soak in the big triangle tub in the master bathroom when he gets home. A few nights it was only a shower in the boys' bathroom. So I thought it would be a special treat to have Chinese food on Friday night. The Pony perked up at the suggestion. Farmer H said he was fine with that.

"Now who's going to get it?"

"I don't know if I'll be off work early enough. So you can get it, Dad, at the old Chinese place. I like their Sweet & Sour Chicken. I haven't had it in a while."

That's because as far as we know, Farmer H has never been to Wok N Roll. Even though I found an empty bag from an 8-piece crab rangoon in the wastebasket about a month ago, and both he and The Pony denied it was theirs. Anyhoo... ever since The Pony was a kid, Farmer H has been getting our Chinese food in Hillmomba, beside my pharmacy. EVERY time he goes to pick it up, on the way home from work in the early years, and on the way home from shooting the bull with his cronies these days... Farmer H has called or sent a text asking what we wanted. Even though we always get the same thing. The Pony even left it on his phone, so he could just send it without re-typing.

You're starting to pick up what I'm layin' down, right? 

I called Farmer H from the driveway, around 5:00. The reason being the malfunction of my SiriusXM radio in T-Hoe. That's a story for another day.

"Where are you?"

"I'm getting the Chinese."

"It sounds like there's kids screaming."

"There is."

Anyhoo... we had a chat about my radio, and that was it. I went inside, snacked my dogs, changed into my lair-wear, and turned on the TV to await supper. Farmer H sent a text that he was headed home. When he came in, he set the food in the kitchen, walked through the living room, and said he was going to tend to Zirc. To make sure she wasn't tangled. As he walked by he said proudly,

"I got the Chinese at Wok N Roll."

"Wait! What? You were supposed to go to the old one! We TOLD you that last night! The Pony wanted Sweet & Sour Chicken!"

"I got it for him."

"NO! He never gets that at Wok N Roll!"

Farmer H should know what we get. The order comes out of his mouth at the old Chinese. When we get it from Wok N Roll, he and I have trouble telling ours apart, so The Pony asks them to write on the container.

FARMER H GOT US FOOD WE DON'T LIKE FROM WOK N ROLL!

Here are our usual orders from each place:

HM-

OLD CHINESE: Hunan Pork with white rice and egg roll

WOK N ROLL: Garlic Chicken with fried rice and crab rangoons

PONY-

OLD CHINESE: Sweet & Sour Chicken with fried rice, a half order, not a dinner

WOK N ROLL: Black Pepper Chicken with white rice and crab rangoons

FARMER H-

OLD CHINESE: Hunan Chicken with fried rice and egg roll

WOK N ROLL: Hunan Chicken with fried rice and egg roll

So as you might notice, Farmer H got exactly what he wanted. But he got me and The Pony the order we get from Old Chinese. Don't think it doesn't matter!

I will have to discuss with The Pony how his meal turned out, since I was in my lair when he got home. I had tipped him off so he could process the travesty before he got home and saw his food.

"Dad went to Wok N Roll, and got you a Sweet & Sour Chicken dinner with an egg roll."

"There's probably not even much in their Sweet & Sour Chicken. It's on their kids' menu, not the regular one."

Mine looked like a regular Hunan Pork dinner, except for the pork. I had two baby corns, a couple broccoli sprigs, two or three bamboo shoots, a couple of tiny cubes of water chestnut, not the big coin shape we get from OLD CHINESE. There wasn't much sauce. It only clung to the other stuff, and wouldn't mix with the rice. That was the whitest tasting rice I've ever eaten. Only tasted like starch. 

As for the PORK... I have no idea what part of the pig they used! I'm thinking a mixture of sinew and squeal. It was like chewing MEAT GUM. So tough. Good thing there was only a few pieces. AND I had to make sure I was ready to swallow the whole thing, because it really couldn't be chewed properly, and once one end started down the esophagus, it all had to go, or I'd choke. Here's a couple pictures.

 

You may THINK it looks tasty, but you'd think differently when it was in your own mouth. See how the fibers run in all different directions? When I'd try to cut it smaller, my knife wouldn't go through the sinews, which stretched out until I sawed up through the stringy part. That looks more like chicken, but the taste and texture was not chicken. There's a couple smaller pieces of different colored pork if you look close. Not that dark mushroom. The other pork they usually put in the fried, rice, but this was TOUGH. You can see some of my dry white rice in the corner of the container. I turned that piece of pork over, so you could see the other side:

 

 

Again, it was a strange tough texture. I will never INTENTIONALLY order this Hunan Pork from Wok N Roll! I don't like their egg rolls, either. They're mostly the wrapper, and kind of tough.

Anyhoo... I asked Farmer H WHY he changed the PLAN. I wanted an answer, no matter how much I had to probe. All he had to do was say that he was closer to Wok N Roll, or that he really likes Wok N Roll better. Maybe add a sorry for getting the wrong foods, with an explanation that he didn't want to bother The Pony at work to check on the items we wanted, Any conciliatory effort would have shut my mouth, because what are you gonna do, the wrong food is already there, and it's not going to eat itself. But no. Farmer H got all huffy about it, saying 

"That's what you two ALWAYS get! It's the same thing. I didn't say I was going to Old Chinese."

See. He never listens. He thinks he knows it all. He had his nose in a Gunsmoke episode while we were telling him the plan. THEN, because he's got what he gets there anyway, he doesn't see a problem with Pony and I looking forward to our meal the whole day, and getting something else!

"Fine! I'm going to town, and I'll get yours at the Old Chinese! I'll eat all that myself!"

Oh, sure. Wouldn't he like THAT? He's so ridiculous with his indignation and flapping arms, saying WE are in the wrong for not being happy with our wrong food. I forbade him to act out his tantrum by going to town to buy more food. Not only because it would be wasteful, but because he'd probably get the wrong thing AGAIN, since in his fit of pique, he wouldn't be texting to ask for our orders.

Thing is, Farmer H was on the phone with me when he was waiting to order. Yet he made no mention that he was at Wok N Roll, nor did he ask what we wanted...

Still, even BAD Chinese food is better than NO Chinese food.

The Versatility Of Mrs. HM's Magnetic Attraction

During my Thursday errands, I arrived at the Gas Station Chicken Store during the time window when That Crazy Truck Man had blocked in T-Hoe out of spite for me parking in the handicap spot. Yes, I admit to parking in that spot without a handicap placard. 

 

As I've proclaimed before, I am guilty of such an act, but that still will not make me schedule a doctor appointment during this VIRUS-Y mess in order to request one. It's not like I knew he would show up on that day and time. It's not like he has any visible disability, or huffs and puffs from exertion. For all I know, he's using someone else's placard. Maybe his disability is uncontrollable passive-aggressive parking-spot rage. Anyhoo... I'm still guilty. Not deflecting. Just pointing out possible alternate scenarios.

 

The spaces on the street side of the store were occupied. My spot over by the moat that divides the Gas Station Chicken Store from Farmer H's pharmacy, CeilingRed's, was taken by a truck hitched to a trailer, parked sideways. Nobody was in the handicap space, nor in the space in front of it by the air hose. Not taking any chances on That Crazy Truck Man, I pulled through the handicap spot to the air hose space. It is NOT designated as an air hose space. There's room for another car in front of it, as well as room by the dumpster beside THAT unmarked space.

 

The good thing about parking in these two spaces beside the Gas Station Chicken Store is that nobody can park too close to the side of your car, keeping the door from opening all the way. I had just gotten out of T-Hoe and closed the door, and was in the process of putting my phone in my pocket, and clicking the door locks, when a lady parked a small black SUV in the handicap space. 

 

"Well," I thought, "good thing I wasn't in that space, because somebody needed it." I glanced at the license, but it was not a handicap plate. I started to walk past it to the corner of the building, but there's not quite enough room now, since the metal lockers holding the propane tanks have been put against the side of the building. I was walking between the rear of T-Hoe, and the front bumper of the black SUV to go around it, when the lady driving it put down her window. She was about my age, with black hair.

 

"Hon? I want to use the air hose."

 

"Oh. I didn't want to take up the handicap spot. There's room in front of me. You should be able to get your air."

 

"Well, I guess I can try that."

 

Thing is, she was perfectly polite about it. But I was not about to climb back in T-Hoe and find somewhere else to park. I do not exist on this earth to make the lives of OTHER PEOPLE easier. No. I am a person, too. I'd already slithered down from T-Hoe's lofty height, and had loosened up my knees to trek inside. Wait your turn, lady. Or go somewhere else for air. Why should I cater to your wishes? Mrs. HM is no virtue signaler:

 

I irritate my knees, so YOU can steal your free air more easily. 

 

Nope. I don't think so. Why should I move my vehicle from the space where you want to park? I was here first. Go around, or wait until I leave. 

When I came out, the black SUV was gone, and a white sedan was sitting at the air hose, with a lady putting air in the tire, and a man in the passenger seat hollering that it "only has 31 pounds." 

So in leaving that handicap space free, I inconvenienced two air pumpers. If I had parked in the handicap space, somebody in need of it would have shown up. If I'd been over by the moat, a trailer-puller would have had no place to park.

It's like picking the wrong line at the bank or grocery store. It's a knack I have. My magnet pulls in the worst possible scenario.

People In Not-Heaven Want Blood Money

A couple weeks ago, Farmer H had a routine doctor appointment. The 6-month kind of appointment, where they do blood work to check the basics like glucose and cholesterol and whatever else you might be taking meds for, to see if the meds are killing your organs. He has been going to the same office for over 30 years. They've had their own lab on site for three or four years now. The office has a contract with this lab. No need to send people off the premises for a blood draw.

Monday, Farmer H got a Not-A-Bill statement from his supplemental insurance company. The one that all his Medicare stuff goes through. A bill for $485, for blood work. The statement listed several specific items the blood was tested for, and an explanation for the denial. I can't remember the specific wording. Something about it not being an approved test, so the insurance would not pay.

Farmer H read the Not-A-Bill statement. It did not make sense to him. He's never had to pay for his routine 6-month blood work. He called his insurance company on Tuesday. The Gal said she worked from home, and she'd need to let Farmer H talk to someone else, but they were not available. She gave him a phone number, and a big long code number for the specific person. 

 

This Person said, "Oh, they're testing you for cancer?" Farmer H replied that NO, they were not. It was routine blood work. This Person said that they'd never seen such a code, and the closest thing to it was a test for cancer. She said the test was approved by THE UROLOGIST that had caused Farmer H to be billed $991 for anesthesia for his medical procedure many months ago. Even though this blood test had nothing to do with them. This Person said she would check into it, and call Farmer H back.

Also on Tuesday, Farmer H took the Not-A-Statement to his doctor office. The staff said they were aware, since they had gotten that same statement, with the reasons for refusing payment. They'd already sent off a response, and another billing. They told Farmer H NOT to pay a bill if he got one, because he didn't owe it.

Wednesday, Farmer H heard from This Person at the insurance company. He spent an hour and 15 minutes on the phone. The insurance rep called the on-site lab facility while she had Farmer H on the phone. They put her on hold for a while. She tried to explain the problem. She ended Farmer H's call by saying that she was FAXING that on-site lab the SPECIFIC INSTRUCTIONS of what to do to fix the matter.

Nobody can do a job right these days. Or else somebody is not very good at scamming. 

I say that because...

Farmer H said a buddy of his had gotten eye surgery at the facility where Farmer H had his medical procedure, and this week he got a BILL FOR $991 for his anesthesia! Farmer H said he'd call him with the phone number to get it fixed, since he'd spent months of effort before THAT issue was resolved.

Farmer H Discovers That A Zirconium Requires Protection

We all knew it would happen, didn't we? All of us besides Farmer H. Who declared that loaner-dog Zirc was just fine staying on his trailer, barking her fool head off all the live-long day, eating her breakfast and slurping up the water provided by Farmer H each morning before he left for town. Yep. Zirc was just fine. Until she wasn't. 

As I left for town late Sunday afternoon, I encountered Farmer H in SilverRedO coming down the driveway. He stopped to talk to me.

"Have you seen Zirc?"

"No. Why? I heard them all barking earlier."

"She ain't there. She was there this morning when I fed her. But she hasn't been here since then."

"Maybe she's backed up beside one of your sheds. That's how I saw her when I tried to give her a treat. Like she could protect herself from Jack and Copper Jack. Even though they were just looking at her."

"Maybe. I'm going over to the BARn. She might be over in that area. She came over there with me once."

"She's probably over at her old house. You might want to take the Gator. Or drive over, so our dogs don't follow you."

"I might. If I can't find her."

"Why are you so worried about her NOW?"

"Bev called. Her and her husband are bringing out a bag of dog food for Zirc, and they were going to pet her."

"Oh, well. I TOLD you this was going to happen. They'd better not blame us!"

"Nah. They're gonna drive around and look. I already told them I haven't seen Zirc since this morning."

Well. You're not going to believe this (actually, you ARE, because you have more common sense than Farmer H), but when he went over to Zirc's (and Bev's) old house, Zirc was laying on the front porch.

"Bev said they saw her, but her husband said, 'That ain't her.' When I pulled in, I said, 'Yeah. That IS her.' They got out and called her, and Zirc ran over and started jumping up on them. I came back to get my truck to bring Zirc over here."

I saw all of them out the front window as I was waiting on my chicken to bake for supper. Farmer H said that he tied up Zirc so she can still get on the trailer, and get under the trailer, and even get inside his Schoolhouse Shed if she wants. He says she must be pooping in the grass, because there's none on the trailer. That's what he SAYS. Because I told him he'd need to pick up Zirc's poop if she's tied up in that one area.

 

Farmer H is sure that OUR DOGS took Zirc over to her old house. To get rid of her! Like, "You obviously don't belong HERE. You need to go back where you came from. C'mon. We'll show you."

 

I said that's preposterous. Zirc knew the way to her old house. Dogs know that stuff. Like turtles know what beach to go lay their eggs, and salmon know where to go back to spawn. It's through the earth's magnetic field, I think. Or some say the stars. No way did our dogs go persuade Zirc to follow them down across the creek. She just felt more comfortable, and decided to go roaming away from the trailer while they were off doing something else.

I hate to have a tied-up dog. I'd rather not have a dog at all. It's not fair to the dog. A dog needs to be a dog. Running free. Not in a pen, not on a chain. That's incanine!

Farmer H says that Bev thinks they've found a house to rent, and will probably be back to get Zirc in a few days. That was Sunday. This is Thursday. We'll see...

Good Deeds, Everyday Deeds, And Neutral Deeds

If Mrs. HM continues down this path, she might just need to jack up her high horse to new heights, schedule some cosmetic surgery to have her nose lengthened for better looking-down, and open some social media accounts to tout her worthiness!

Sunday, I was in the Hillmomba Casey's to buy scratchers. SO MANY people in line. One guy got there the same time I did. He motioned me ahead, but I told him no, I was getting lottery, so he could go first.

"Okay. But I'm buying lottery, too."

Dang it! But I still kept my end of the deal.

"Heh, heh. You'll probably get the winner."

I was pleased to see that he bought a PowerBall draw ticket, which I don't buy. So no harm, no foul. I gave the clerk my winners. She was the old lady clerk who's missing a few front teeth. She looks like her bones are creaky, but she's always nice to me. As she was ringing them up, the scanner double-beeped. She cleared her entry, and did it over. She pushed my tickets across the counter, and said,

"That's $15. After your winners, we're even."

"Um. Are you sure? Because I thought I was spending $20. I have this five all ready to pay you. Are you sure the $5 crossword rang up?"

She checked the receipt, and it had not. So she scanned it again.

"That's it. I didn't want to cause you to be $5 short."

That's Mrs. HM, honest as the day is long. Never consciously taking what isn't hers. Except for an occasional dollar out of the lottery vending machine...

Anyhoo... on Monday my good deediness continued. Farmer H came home at noon, all sweaty from carving up a giant fallen tree limb over at Pony House. Then he mowed some of the yard/field in the 85-degree heat. So when he came in around 2:30, asking if I was getting ready to shower, I told him he could go ahead of me. He had plans for the early auction. Even though it meant I might not have water as hot as I liked, I put Farmer H's needs ahead of my own, and set about washing the two big glass pans that I'd baked chicken in the night before. Because I'm selfless like that.

After Farmer H left, and I was on my way to the shower, I saw a SPIDER on the kitchen wall. A little spider. Definitely a spider. Not some freaky pincer-ed scorpion. I grabbed a paper town, and PINCHED that spider to death! No spiders allowed in the Mansion. He should have read the unwritten rules. I did not open the paper towel to make sure the spider was dead. I squeezed it as tight as I could, gave it a twist, and buried it in the wastebasket.

When I came back from town, there was a BIGGER spider hanging in front of the kitchen door. Not ON the door, but suspended, as if in a webby hammock, dangling in front of the door. He was black, with orange stripes on his legs. Pshaw! That's an outdoor spider. I had no interest in him at this time. I pulled the door open, swinging him towards the outer wall of the Mansion, beside The Pony's window.  So I figure my spider karma is currently neutral.

I'm such a shining example for people contemplating good-deeding...

If Only I Could Pin A Note On His Shirt Saying He's NOT ALLOWED To Have Sweets

Farmer H is what the French call "les incompetents." NO WAIT! That's what the Home Alone boy's sister called Macaulay Culkin's character, Kevin. Farmer H is what the nurse practitioners call "non-compliant." He does not follow their instructions for taking care of himself. His last office visit revealed his A1C to be 7.3. In the past, it's been around 6.8. And previously 6.2. To hear Farmer H tell it, his old doctor was thrilled to death that it was in the sixes. Well. Nobody is thrilled now. 

Anyhoo... Farmer H said she wants him to talk to one of those (I can't even remember how he mangles the name, but he means endocrinologist) to tell him what kind of diet to eat. I'm pretty sure a regular dietician can tell him that, but they don't get as much money for it. Besides, Farmer H KNOWS what he's supposed to eat. It's not like I haven't reminded him for 15 years. In fact, he doesn't even have to be so dang strict with it, if he would only CUT OUT DONUTS AND CANDY BARS that he sneaks every day.

Seriously. Farmer H eats more sugar than Augustus Gloop and all those Willy Wonka kids combined. I daresay that he eats more sugar than a junkie could mainline into an uncollapsed vein. Yet he wants to point the finger and blame everybody else. Like the nurse practitioner, who should be more thrilled about that reading of 7.3. Or ME, who he berates whenever his blood reveals his sticky secret, saying that "I can't eat THAT! You know I'm not supposed to have carbs!" Like when a baked potato is served with a steak big enough to choke a horse. I guess those donuts and candy bars and 36 Christmas themed chocolate bars (that disappeared in ONE WEEK, aside from the five I laid out for myself, and finished last week) and Christmas cookies and chocolate covered raisins and individual ice cream cups are SUGAR FREE? 

Anyhoo... I haven't been buying Farmer H his treats, save for the individual ice cream cups, for months. He keeps bringing home auction treats. AND I know he gets donuts every morning. And a candy bar every time he stops by Casey's for gas or to use their bathroom. He can't be like The Pony, and buy a Hot Nut Tube. Always gets the sugar.

Well. Look what I discovered on Sunday morning:

 

It was sitting on the cutting block, while The Pony ate chicken tacos with garlic and spicy oil for his breakfast at 9:30. He SAID because he FORGOT to eat it for supper last night. Let's not even get started on that issue. Anyhoo... The Pony said,

"Have you tried Dad's brownies? He bought them at the auction last night. They are not good for him at all! He really shouldn't be eating them! But he already had a piece last night. I'm having one now, with my tacos."

"Huh. I did not know that he bought them, since this is the first time I came upstairs since he got home. I'll probably try a piece tonight with my supper. Not my garlic taco breakfast..."

"They've got the mini marshmallows, and chocolate chips, and caramel!'

Turns out Farmer H paid $7.50 for that pan. It's very heavy. He said some young girls brought baked goods to sell. The first item went for $35! It was some kind of strawberry shortcake cake, maybe? I forgot. Then their other three items went for $7.50 each. They probably didn't make much money on those, after considering their cost to make them.

Anyhoo... I don't know how to break it to Farmer H and The Pony that they are not eating "brownies." That's a Mississippi Mud Cake if I ever saw one! My mom used to make them all the time. Very dense, and very sweet. She had a different icing, and the marshmallows under it so they melted when she poured it on. But the taste is the same. And it's still just as bad for Farmer H.

The Pony Gets Back On The Horse

The Pony went back to work on Monday, after 8 weeks healing his broken ankle. In effect, getting back on the horse that threw him. Maybe I'm naive, but I expected The Pony to have a grace period. Like perhaps a week or so of physical therapy. He had six weeks of it with his broken elbow, when he was a child! Not a working man. At the very least, I expected a bit of time for conditioning, to exercise and build up his stamina and get that ankle used to more activity that thumping around in a walking boot a day or two a week to enter Steak N Shake.

Nope. The podiatrist checked the x-ray on Thursday afternoon, asked The Pony when he felt like returning to work, and released him for Monday. At first, I thought the PO was easing The Pony back onto the schedule. I thought wrong.

Monday- 3 hours, because they needed the already-spoken-for LLV they had mistakenly assigned him.

Tuesday- OFF, getting podiatrist paperwork to file for a Workman's Compensation Reconsideration.

Wednesday- 6.5 hours, shared a route with a worker who has a time restriction.

Thursday- 11 hours, normal day.

Friday- 10.5 hours, switched out van with LLV given to someone by mistake, reloaded deliveries.

 

Saturday- 10 hours, had to help other routes. 

The Pony's pay periods start on Saturday, end on Friday. So he's got about 30 hours for his first week back. It affects the double time pay, because he can't get it until a certain amount of hours per week. Except for daily hours over 10. It's confusing, but he understands it.

Anyhoo... The Pony discovered that while he was off, HIS OFFICE STARTED SUNDAY DELIVERY! He's not on the schedule for this Sunday, but all the other CCAs are. He says right now, they are all getting at least one day off per week, but that could change due to the upcoming holiday season. He also said that people tell him Sundays are easier, because it's only packages that they deliver for Amazon.

So... it's not a case of "Out of the frying pan, into the fire." It's more a case of "Out of the pantry, into the Great Chicago Fire." The Pony is right back in the thick of it. He's a bit tired, but otherwise holding up remarkably well.

It Almost Makes Me Want To Wear A Name Tag Everywhere I Go

I had to describe somebody today. And The Pony described them right back to me. It was kind of like a Humpty Dumpty With a Melon Head was trying to meet up with a Hipster Doofus, and a Guy With a Horseface and Flaring Nostrils, and a gal with a Face Like a Frying Pan, Big Wall of Hair to see a movie.

I had taken the packet of The Pony's RECONSIDERATION documents to the main post office for mailing. The gal behind the counter did not instill confidence in me, as far as this very important paperwork getting to its destination. She was like a compulsive talker who missed her Adderall and Ritalin dosages, and instead snorted some cocaine and meth.

She was talking on a cell phone when I entered. I was the only customer.

"Oh. I'll have to call you back. Sorry. I didn't mean to make you wait. I have a lot going on right now."

"Hmm."

I don't know what you say to that. All I wanted was to get postage on those documents, and send them on their way, hopefully trading them for five grand. For The Pony, of course. Hyped-Up Chatty was turning this way and that, handling a couple things behind the counter.

"These two bills are ready to go, and I need to pay postage for this big envelope."

Hyped-Up Chatty tossed my two small envelopes into a bin of mail sitting on a cart. I've seen them do this before. She pulled the big manila envelope across the counter and looked at it. Then turned and started weighing a lumpy meatloaf-looking package that appeared to be wrapped in duct tape. It was on a flat scale. Had been sitting there the whole time. She fiddled with it, then left it there.

Next, she grabbed a similar manila envelope, and moved it from the computer  over to a cart next to the cart holding the mail bins. And left it. Took The Pony's manila envelope, moved the meatloaf, and put it on the scale.

"I get to see my baby tonight. I'm going to pick him up. My sister is coming to help me get things ready."

"Oh..."

Again, what do you say to that. Her BABY? Did she mean her husband? A paramour? A new kitten? A literal BABY that she might be taking care of?

 

"Do you want tracking on this?"

 

"Yes. I need tracking."

 

"Then I will have to send it as a package. It will cost more."

 

"That's fine." 

"He's 23, but he's still my baby. I was supposed to get him in January, when school was out."

Hyped-Up Chatty typed up something on the computer.

"Is there anything flammable, liquid, or hazardous in your package?"

"No. Just paper."

"Push the red button for NO. That will be four dollars and fifteen cents. I can't wait to see him. It's been so long. So I'm really busy trying to get things ready."

Sweet Gummi Mary! Hows about you shut your piehole and get down to business and concentrate on what you're doing with my package?

Hyped-Up Chatty took my $5 bill and gave me change. She tossed that package in a bin on the second shelf of the cart. Then she gave me a receipt.

"Here's the tracking number, and here's a link for a survey."

Lady, you'd better HOPE that I don't fill out that survey.

When The Pony got home, I told him of my experience.

"Do you know who was working the counter today?"

"Not sure."

"She was a blond lady."

"Three of them that work the counter are blond. In fact, they ALL are. Except Rick. The guy. There's one I really don't like. Her voice so strident."

"She was polite enough. But she couldn't pay attention. I hope she knew what she was doing."

"Was she short and kind of chubby, with curly blond hair?"

"No. She was tall, like a scarecrow, with stringy blond hair."

"Did she have a bird face?"

"I don't known if I'd call it a bird face."

"There's another one with a square face."

"I know one that's been there a long time. She's got short blond hair, not curly, about 40, kind of medium. I really like her."

"This one with the bird face I can't stand. Just... no."

"She did have kind of a pointy face. Not square."

"That was probably her."

Yeah. I hope nobody goes home trying to describe ME. I'll wear a name tag, or a uniform shirt with a number, or a sweater with a big 'L' like Laverne DeFazio to avoid that.

Zirconium In The Ruff

She's HEEEEERE! Our temporary loaner dog, the big white long-haired pooch that looks like Copper Jack, according to Farmer H's description. Her alias is Zirconium. We have yet to be properly introduced.

When Back-Creek Neighbor Bev's husband delivered Zirc, Farmer H tied her to our glider over by the chicken pen. He said if it rained, she could get under the swing. I said the ground would still be wet. Farmer H said, "She's and outside dog, HM." Still. That's incanine to expect a dog to lie on wet ground. Lucky for Zirc, it didn't rain. Even so, I shamed Farmer H into letting Zirc off her leash when he came back home around 8:00 p.m.

 

While he was gone, I went out on the porch to get a look at Zirc. She didn't much like me, barking her fool head off in protest, even though I sweet-talked her by name. I didn't even get off the porch. No need to agitate her while she was tied up.

Through the night, I heard our dogs barking at Zirc, and Zirc barking at them. She's yapping her fool head off right now as I type this at 11:30 p.m. on Thursday. Zirc has a shrill bark, similar to Juno. I know it's Zirc, from the direction of the bark. According to Farmer H, "She hasn't got off the trailer."

At first I thought, "How sad." Believing he meant the trailer that Bev's husband left out here for safe-keeping, and she wanted to be where she last smelled his scent. But no. Farmer H meant HIS trailer, which he has parked blocking Shackytown Boulevard.

 

 

I think Zirc looks very Yellow-Lab-ish. I think Shackytown Boulevard looks very junky, from Farmer H's assorted "treasures" across the street. The maroon chicken pen, the white metal building that held hay for the goats, where Jack likes to dig in and sleep in the winter. And the blue barrels Farmer H used to make an outdoor shower when Genius's Solar Car Team stayed here on their cross-country race.

 

Anyhoo... Farmer H took the pictures for me. They're almost the same, but this second one adds 10 pounds and five years to Zirc's appearance.

 

 

Sorry, Zirc. I should have stopped with the first one! Obviously, Zirc HAS gotten off the trailer. There's no poop on it. She must feel safe there, above the other dogs as they come to look at her. In fact, I caught Zirc off the trailer on Wednesday, when I drove down into the BARn field, there at the end of Shackytown Boulevard. I could see Jack and Copper Jack milling around, and when I got out of T-Hoe, I heard and saw Zirc.

She was backed up beside the Railroad Car shed, barking her fool head off at the pair of Jacks. They stood a respectful distance, gawking. When they saw me, Jack came running and jumped his short long body against my leg for petting. Copper Jack circled behind me, to keep an eye on me. Because obviously, I can't be trusted, even though our interactions consist of me tossing him treats, and never trying to get close or pet him.

Anyhoo, when I left home, I'd cut some of those dog meatballs in half, and put them in a baggie, intending to lure Zirc with tasty treats. But no. I tossed out samples for the Jacks, and Zirc took that opportunity to run for the trailer. Only Juno was trotting toward me, scraggly bur-fur flopping in her self-created breeze. Zirc slunk beside the Schoolhouse Shack, and they barked at each other. 

 

Zirc glanced back at me, and I tossed a treat, but she didn't see it. I'm sure one of the Jacks ate it later. Most likely my little Jack, because he has a fantastic nose. While Copper Jack seems to be blind in the olfactory department. I can toss that dog tidbits on the back porch, and before he finds them, my Jack has eaten his own, and run to gobble Copper Jack's as well.

I hope our dogs start getting used to Zirc, but more importantly, that SHE gets used to THEM. So she can run with the pack, chasing the herd of squirrels that infest the back yard and porch. And the rabbits in Copper Jack's rightful yard/field. We have two spare dog houses on the opposite end of the house from Juno's mansion. Out of her sight. Zirc is welcome to take up residence in one. She'll be fine if she takes the route along the front porch, and doesn't pass Juno...

Magnetic Personality, Gravitational Pull, Or Stalkers With Ulterior Motives

Mrs. HM has an unofficial fan club. A plethora of people clamoring for her attention. Not just the usual five or six daily scam callers. They are not total strangers. Just semi strangers. I don't know them personally, but they're from my college. That's right. College. Where I attended over 30 years ago. I'm pretty sure they're not my classmates.

WHY would these current students want to talk to me? They call. They mail me postcards. They send emails. WHY am I so in-demand? Are they trying to make new friends? I'm pretty sure they don't want to chat. Or inquire about my health. I assume they might want to update my current address, phone number, and email. But they already have that, right?

WHY would they need that info? To CONTACT ME, of course. But why would they want to contact me? Here we go again.

I'm pretty sure they want money.

Seriously. Are they going to find me a job through their alumni services? I don't think so. They want a donation. Good luck with that. It's a public university. I do not feel obligated.

Almost As If Something In The Mansion Had Been MISSING Us

More shenanigans around the Mansion this month. We've had a respite this summer. Only a few late-night/early-morning THUMPS upstairs in the area of the boys' bedrooms, and their bathroom. I'm so used to those, they're not even worth reporting.

You may recall that we took a three-day trip to Oklahoma casinos. Left on Tuesday, August 31, stayed two nights, and returned the evening of Thursday, September 2. After being trapped in A-Cad and a hotel room with each other for three days, the Hillbilly family went their separate ways. The Pony soaked in the big triangle tub in the master bathroom, Farmer H mowed the yard/field, and Mrs. HM descended to her dark basement lair, where she leaves the light on now.

I stay up late. That's no secret. I have my routine. I usually write Genius's weekly letter on Wednesday nights, and mail it on Thursdays. Since we had been gone, I wrote it Thursday night. I get started, then sidetracked by the innernets, then go back to it. It's usually done by 2:00 a.m. I hit PRINT for the color printer in the basement workshop. It's the only printer that has worked for almost two years now. My HP LaserJet at my right elbow in the lair has been cantankerous. It started when I put in a new ink cartridge that was not manufactured by HP. I don't know if that has anything do to with my problem, but that's when it started. I get a message that says SPOOLING ERROR or something like it.

Anyhoo... I've adapted to using the color printer, although I print the letters in black and white. It's not as easy as having the printer at my right elbow, where I can reach out and grab the letter. I have to walk into the workshop and see if it did, indeed, print. This old printer that Genius brought home after getting a deal on it from a college office has a mind of its own. Sometimes, I have to turn it off, then on, and wait for it to run through its set-up. And it prints. Sometimes it just takes a long time. So around 2:00 a.m., I print the letter, and around 3:00 or 4:00, before going to my OPC (Old People Chair), I go to the workshop for the letter.

So... on this Thursday night, September 2, I had printed Genius's letter around 2:00 a.m. It was shortly after 3:00 a.m., perhaps 3:20, when the HP LaserJet at my right elbow whirred to life! I was shocked! What in the NOT-HEAVEN??? Slowly, I turned my head to look at it. And out came a printed piece of paper! I picked it up to see. I haven't tried to print anything on that LaserJet in over a year.

It was a Duty Status Report that The Pony had given me to make a few copies on AUGUST 18, the day before his second podiatrist appointment. He emailed it to me, I printed a few on the workshop color printer, and they came out too dark, because he had taken a scan of it with his phone. So I took one of the pages I printed, and put it on the LaserJet, lightening the exposure thingy, to make copies. The LaserJet works fine for copies. 

Anyhoo... THAT WAS BACK ON AUGUST 18. And now, on September 2, that LaserJet randomly came to life and spit out ONE copy of that Duty Status Report!

Let the record show that I was playing Candy Crush at the time. Not working in my email. I wasn't even logged in to my email. I had not tried to print anything except my WORD document at 2:00 a.m. that was Genius's letter. It was as if the LaserJet had a mind of its own! Just randomly decided to spit out a page that I had copied two weeks prior! I hadn't been missing any copies at the time, either. All that I copied came out. The original was NOT left on the glass. NOTHING was on the glass.

It was quite creepy.

_______________________________________________________________

And another thing... last Thursday, September 9, The Pony had a podiatrist appointment at 1:30. I was in no hurry to get to town for my magical elixir. Farmer H was working over at Pony House, and I had time to myself to play Candy Crush at the kitchen table on HIPPIE. I was having a great time. 

 

Around 2:20, I heard a noise in the living room. Not so much the living room as the passageway (according to Farmer H) that is the hall to the boys' bedrooms. The area that is not hall, not living room. Just before the piano that came out of my mom's house. The area by the stair rail overlook where my scarf threw itself over the side. I'd heard that sound before. I associated it with The Pony. I stopped playing Candy Crush for a moment, and looked that way. It was the area I couldn't see, on the other side of the wall behind FRIG II.

I know what it sounded like! THE VELCRO OPENING ON THE PONY'S ANKLE BOOT!

So creepy. But I knew for a fact The Pony wasn't in the Mansion with me. I was alone. The Pony was at his appointment over in Bill-Paying Town. Or maybe eating a late lunch at Steak N Shake. So creepy.

_________________________________________________________________

As The Pony is my witness, there was ANOTHER incident on Monday afternoon, September 13. The Pony had been sent home from work because they didn't have an LLV (Long Life Vehicle) for him to drive. He was doing whatever he does in his room. I was again Candy Crushing at the kitchen table. I don't recall the time, but I'm pretty sure it was between 2:00 and 3:00 p.m.

I heard a loud crash. More than a thump, but not like anything broke. Just a loud crash of an unsolid object hitting a hard floor. I muttered, "What did you DO?" Thinking it was something The Pony had initiated, but not worth the breath of hollering through the wall to get his attention.

The Pony's bedroom door opened, and he walked to the kitchen opening.

"What was THAT?"

"I don't know. I thought it was you."

"It was NOT me!"

"It sounded like your room area."

"Not in my room. Maybe in Genius's room. I'll go look... no, nothing out of place in here. I'll check the bathroom. OH! Found it! You know how I keep my stuff in that bag on the back of the sink? Well. It threw itself off on the floor. After sitting here for months, no problem. Just threw itself off. I was nowhere near it. I was laying on my bed with my computer, playing computer games."

Yeah. The Pony's bathroom just has a pedestal sink, not a vanity. He keeps some of his beauty products sitting there, things from when he moved back here, that he doesn't use regularly.

At least that was a real object that fell and made a real noise. I'm not concerned about what spurred it to fall at that moment. The other noise, and the sudden copy printout, worry me more.

It's almost as if something missed us while we were away on our trip, and is letting us know. Either a welcome, or a warning...

Like A Passel O' Visually-Challenged Men Describing An Elephant

We are getting a new dog. At least temporarily. Like a foster dog. A loaner. It is not a responsibility I take lightly. Farmer H has made the decision. Even though he casually mentioned the idea to me, and I decreed that I wanted no part of it... Farmer H agreed to the request.

Back-Creek Neighbor Bev is moving again, and has sold her current house without a new place to reside. She is boarding her cats, but not her dog. She asked Farmer H to keep the dog for her, because the dog "does not do well in a kennel." 

 

I am concerned about the reaction of our own fleabags, and that of Copper Jack. Also, since this dog used to live back over the creek from us, I figure she will go right back to that house, thinking her humans will be there. I don't want people out here assuming she's a stray, and trying to run her off, at the very least. I told Farmer H he needs to put something on our enclave's Facebook page about the dog, saying she lives here for now. So in case they think she's lost, or in case she gets into some mischief, they'll know who to contact.

She has a name, but I will call her "Zirconium" as an alias. Zirc for short. According to Farmer H, our dogs get along with Zirc. They would sometimes follow him to Back-Creek Bev's house, and play with Zirc, or eat her food, to which she did not object. She's an outside dog, at least 5 years old. This is where the description devolves.

"Is she a little yippy dog like Marley. They hated Marley!"

"No. She's as big as Juno. Maybe a little bigger."

"What kind of dog is she?"

"I don't know. She's white."

"Long hair, short hair?"

"Long hair. She's a setter."

"A white setter? Like an English setter? Does she have spots? They're bird dogs. My dad had one."

"No. Not any spots. Just plain white."

 

"Does her tail curl over her back? My grandpa had a Keeshond. White with long hair, curled tail." 

 

"No curly tail."

 

"Is she white, white? A setter? An Irish setter is red. An English setter is white with black spots."

"She's like Copper Jack. With long hair."

"I'm not sure what Copper Jack is. I'm thinking a mix of boxer and yellow lab."

"She might be kind of yellow-white."

"But long hair... is she a Golden Retriever?"

"I don't know, Val. She's a big white dog with long hair."

I should have asked how much she weighed. Maybe she's a Great Pyrenees! Anyhoo... Farmer H thinks Bev might be bringing Zirconium to the Mansion on Tuesday. He'd better be home to accept her! I told him he'll need to pet her in front of the other dogs, and give our dogs treats, so they will associate the arrival of Zirc as something positive, and TASTY!

Juno will go batcrap crazIER, having a new "intruder" to bark at 24/7. I think Jack will accept Zirc, because she's a new female for him to stick his nose up her nether regions. Copper Jack? I don't know. He mostly just barks.

I'll try to get pictures of our new temporary pet. Until then, use your imagination. I have to.

The Bone Of Contention, Hillbilly Mansion Style

Farmer H and I usually have supper around 6:30 or 7:00. That might change as the days grow shorter, but during summer, Farmer H likes to work outside, or take a dip in POOLIO in the evening. The Pony prefers to immerse himself in the big triangle tub in the master bathroom around 6:00. So he often eats his one meal a day in the afternoon, unless I am preparing something especially delectable.

As I mentioned in the comments a couple days ago, I stretched our takeout Chinese food from Friday into four more meals. After adding goodies like baby corn, water chestnuts, mushrooms, diced onion, and Hoisen sauce, I needed some meat to keep it from being just "filler," as Farmer H says. I dearly wanted to slice up the leftover pork steak that Farmer H grilled the Sunday of Labor Day weekend, but I refrained. Even Mrs. HM won't eat a 7-day-old pork steak. Not even one that's been in FRIG II all week.

My plan was to stop by Country Mart for Farmer H's weekly bananas, a jug of his Zero Calorie Tea, and some Vidalia onions. I could get a few chicken strips from the deli counter to cut up in the Chinese leftovers. Well! The Country Mart deli ain't what it used to be. They had chicken strips, but they were the size of my pinky finger! Almost as if they'd cut their regular chicken strips into halves or thirds before frying.

I went to the cold case, and found a few of their old-style chicken strips from the day before. I bought it, and a pack of cold fried chicken, figuring that would be enough to add to four servings of Chinese. When I got home, I saw that I had bought a very special chicken! It had one breast, one thigh, and 2.5 wings! The wings were useless to me. Too much work to get a little meat. So I gave them to Farmer H, who'd been planning on getting a burger at the auction. I also gave him one of the four chicken strips, since it was mostly breading.

I cut up the remaining chicken strips, and pulled the meat off the bones of the fried chicken. I'm sure you will not be surprised that I got as much breading and bones as there was meat. I set this aside in a container for the dogs' treat the next day. I added all the meat to the rice mixture, made myself a supper serving, and apportioned three dinners for us for Sunday night. No green peppers for Farmer H. No green peppers nor mushrooms for The Pony. 

Sunday around 2:00, The Pony came out of his room to warm up his meal. He added some spicy oil, which smelled really good, and opened up my head. He warmed the remaining Crab Rangoons, since I said I'd make frozen ones, along with a couple egg rolls from our frozen free Ponytail Guy stash, for myself and Farmer H.

The Pony graced me with his presence at the cutting block to dine, rather than carrying that spicily-oiled Chinese food onto my carpet by the marred coffee table. I was at the kitchen table playing Candy Crush. I could hear The Pony crunching away on those delicious Rangoons.

"HEY! I got a bone in my Chinese!"

Oops...

The Pony came to the table, waving a thin bone the size of my pinky finger. Only thinner, since my pinky finger bone is encased in flesh and skin. It was like half a wishbone. That little bone at the corner of a chicken breast.

"Oh. I guess I missed that when I pulled the chicken off the bone last night. Sorry."

"You know how I hate bones! I won't even eat real chicken, because of the bones! I was chewing, and thought I had a really crunchy sliver of bamboo shoot. Then it wouldn't chew up, and I pulled out a BONE!"

"That will forever be a bone of contention, I guess..."

Didn't stop The Pony from strapping the old feedbag right back on.

The Pool Of Prospective Employees

Thursday, I saw an unusual sight when I pulled up to the drive-thru mailboxes at the main post office to mail Genius's weekly letter. These mailboxes are at the corner of the parking lot in the back of the building, where all the USPS vehicles are parked when routes are done. The mailboxes are on a street with hardly any traffic. It is common for people (like ME) to drive on the wrong side of the road to deposit their mail into the mailbox. Otherwise, you have to have somebody riding on the passenger side of the vehicle to reach it.

 

There are two mailboxes. One used to be for local mail, and the other for out-of-town mail. The way it's been done for years now, all mail travels to Casino Town, 90 miles south, for processing, then the local stuff comes back. Seems kind of inefficient to me, but that's the government for you!

 

Anyhoo... as I pulled up, I saw paper flapping from both mailboxes:

 

 

No plastic sleeve, no lamination. Just a sheet of printer paper taped to the side of the mailbox. Good thing it wasn't raining! There was a paper on each mailbox, on each SIDE of the mailbox. You can see it hanging there on the other side, too. When I went back on Friday to mail the Sprint bill, and a rebate offer for materials Farmer H bought for Pony House... this paper, and the other one from this side of the other mailbox, were GONE! I guess somebody didn't want to enable the scofflaws driving on the wrong side of the road to mail their letters and bills. Or else somebody ripped them down to take with them.

So... if anything happens to The Pony's job, I suppose he could apply for a Rural Carrier Associate. Not this one, because the deadline is nearing. But it's a thought. I'm pretty sure his job is okay. He went off probation during his injury time. So he should be an actual City Carrier Assistant now, eligible for the uniform allowance, and able to actually purchase uniforms to look the part.

I showed The Pony this sign, and he said, 

"Oh, they have them everywhere! There's one in the bathroom inside the building."

Heh, heh. So it seems to me that the pool of prospective employees the local post office is targeting for hire are: 1) people who drive vehicles to mail their letters and bills, and 2) current employees of the local post office who have a functioning bladder and bowels.

 

Oh, and some good news from The Pony concerning MAW, the middle-aged woman who started training and probation at the same time he did, who was let go during probation for not being fast enough.

 

"Oh, Mom. I heard from MAW this afternoon. She is working at the [Town 20 Miles West] Post Office, as a CCA, and says she's done most days by 3:30. That the route they gave her is shorter than our routes. She said that she was really out of shape, after being off for six weeks."

 

Yeah. I like to hear good news concerning the post office.

Nothing Gets Your Mind Off The Denial Of Your Workman's Comp Claim Like Chinese Food!

The Pony went BACK to the podiatrist's office on Friday, concerning the matter of one single box ticked with the wrong information. Or at least an explanation of WHY, in case the podiatrist considered it the right information.

THE PODIATRIST WAS OUT! 

He was in another town, so now The Pony has to go back on TUESDAY. Even though he's returning to work on Monday. So he had to tell his supervisor that he needs to go to work late on Tuesday, to settle his doctor paperwork.

It's always something...

The Pony made a stop by The Devil's Playground for some quick breakfast foods on work mornings. He had some little fruit cups and applesauces. THEN, he treated himself to lunch at the new Chinese restaurant.

 

That's Black Pepper Chicken. The Pony wanted to take pictures because he said it looked so bright and tasty in the sunlight streaming across the table. The Pony's leftovers are in FRIG II right now, including all the green peppers, which he's saving for my leftovers.

 

And of course Crab Rangoon. The Pony brought home dinners for me and Farmer H, too. I had the Garlic Chicken, and Farmer H had Hunan Chicken.

The Pony has no qualms about sitting down to eat in a restaurant by himself. Neither does Farmer H. Nor did my dad. I guess maybe it's a man thing. I've only eaten by myself ONE TIME, when I was living in Mountain Grove, Missouri, and made the hour trip to Springfield to return (and get more) audio visual materials from The American Heart Association. 

This was so long ago! When teachers actually used the films and filmstrips in their classroom! I was teaching Life Science, and got some good stuff on health and the body systems there.

Anyhoo... I ate at a steakhouse chain like Bonanza or Ponderosa. Nothing fancy. Just a chop steak (glorified hamburger patty) and the salad bar. I was not comfortable eating by myself, but it was better than not eating, or sitting in my car (bright yellow Chevy Chevette with a thin side stripe) with a McDonald's hamburger.

I also took myself to a movie that evening, and bought myself a popcorn and soda. 

I stopped short of holding my own hand...