Sweet Gummi Mary, I Did It Again!

Well. You're in for a treat. I was in for a better treat! Here. I'll share:

 

 

Yep! ANOTHER 'WIN ALL' symbol, for the second day in a row! This time I had treated myself to a $10 ticket. In fact, I had the urge to drive all the way to the Sis-Town Casey's to get this ticket. Glad I DID!

 

It was another $100 WINNER! I've been having a sweet streak of luck lately.

I'd like to think it will continue, but I know from experience that it won't!

More More More

I'm pretty sure nobody really wants to share in my further good luck announcements concerning my lottery tickets! But here it is anyway!

 

I got this $5 ticket at the Hillmomba Casey's on Sunday afternoon, along with two of the $3 tickets. One of the $3 won $10. This Ace of Spades I had written off as a loser, until I got to the very last number. Which was a WIN ALL symbol! Yes. It was exciting. Oh, and nothing on the back of this ticket was a winner. When I scratched off the prize amounts...

 

I had a $100 winner! 

Thank you in advance for your congratulations. I only post these pictures so you can win vicariously through me! Because I'm a giver like that...

Farmer H Has A Date With Gassy G Jr

Farmer H is grilling some sausages on Sunday. We invited The Pony. Not that he's a big sausage fan. Farmer H said he would grill a steak for The Pony if he wanted to pick one up on his way out here. Of course, he later admitted that HE, too, would eat a steak if The Pony had one, but that he wouldn't grill one just for himself.

Well, the point is moot now, because The Pony, after thinking it over, decided that he doesn't want to come out here after work Sunday. He also works on Monday. So there will be no steak for Farmer H!

Anyhoo... I bought the sausages several days ago. They're like a homemade kind, which I get at Save A Lot. Not the packaged Johnsonville kind. The date on them is Sunday, so that's why Farmer H chose that day!

I'm not doing any fancy sides this time. We have the roasted potatoes/carrots/onions that I made with bacon on Friday. And I'll dice an onion and add BBQ sauce to some canned beans, and shove them in the oven. 

It's not really a holiday cookout. Just supper.

Mrs. HM's Quest To Grab Her Package

Thursday was errand day. Meaning gas for T-Hoe, a trip to the bank, and mailing Genius's weekly letter with enclosed scratchers that I still needed to buy. AND picking up the package that the mailperson couldn't leave on Wednesday, despite scanning it to show DELIVERED.

I had every intention of stopping by the dead-mouse-smelling post office in Hillmomba, before moving on to Sis-Town and the main post office for further inquiry if needed. However... rain was pouring down as I approached the DMS PO. I had no desire to get drenched with four stops still to make. Besides, every time I'd tried to grab my package there in the past, I was rebuffed! Told to go do that over at the main post office. So I made the logical decision to continue past the DMS PO.

I got the tickets for Genius at the School-Turn Casey's on my way. It's only about a mile from Sis-Town. I parked under the overhang at the main post office, and went inside with my orange notice slip for my package.

A new guy was behind the counter. He looked about 18 years old! He was wearing regular street clothes. An older lady was working at the other end of the counter, perhaps supervising him. Or perhaps she'd been called down to deal with the customer ahead of me, who was having a problem with HER package. Older Lady called Irritated Customer over, leaving me to do business with New Guy. I couldn't help overhear the issue.

"For some reason, my mail carrier keeps leaving my packages at the house across the street. I don't know why. Our address is clearly on the packages I get. But they show delivered, and I don't have them. I can't get them from the lady across the street, because she won't answer her door. She keeps my packages!"

I don't know how that issue was going to be resolved. It's not like the carrier can force that neighbor to open her door, and surrender the misdelivered packages.

Anyhoo... I gave New Guy my slip, and asked if he would check my package.

"Where do you live?"

"Hillmomba."

"Have you tried that post office?"

"No. Because in the past, they've always told me to come here, and that's where my package was."

"Oh. Well. I guess I can check."

He disappeared into the back room, and returned shortly. 

"No. It isn't here."

"Could you call over to Hillmomba's post office, to see if it's there? Because if it isn't, I'll need to deal with it here, and I'll have wasted a trip, and you'll be closed by then."

"Oh. Well. I guess I can."

New Guy went over to the wall beside Older Lady, and got out his cell phone, and typed in the number of the DMS PO. He identified himself, and asked about my package, using the address. 

"It's over there. She will be there until 4:00."

"Okay. I don't think I'll have time. I have other errands. But thank you for finding out. I can always get it tomorrow."

Off I went to the bank, where I was the only customer! I had fast service for once. Then I doubled back, to the Sis-Town Casey's, for T-Hoe's gas. $4.11 per gallon! That's highway robbery! At least my regular pump was open. And I was next in line when I went in to pre-pay. So it didn't take too long. I thought I just might make it over to the DMS PO.

In fact, it was 3:56 when I pulled into their lot. I was going the wrong direction to park in front, on the street. I stopped next to the handicap ramp-maze and got out. Normally, I pull to the other side of the lot, into a normal parking space. But the sky was purple, and with only four minutes of business hours left, I figured I'd treat myself to a closer spot.

Of course some weird little man in an orange shirt came out of the loading dock area, and gave me a frown. Too bad, so sad, weird little man! Because I didn't have time to move. He walked around T-Hoe as I ducked my head against the just-starting rain, and looked out on the street. Maybe he was waiting for a ride.

Inside, the lady at the counter saw me coming. She was gripping my package!

"Are you here for your package?"

"Yes! Thank you! I was afraid I wouldn't make it on time!"

"Your package is so small! I don't know WHY the carrier said it wouldn't fit in the box."

"Maybe all the lockers were taken by bigger packages."

"Still, it should fit into a regular mailbox."

"Well, ours is made from a section of metal pipe. So maybe not. I hear that all the mail people hate it! From my son, who works for the post office."

"Oh, I remember my days as a carrier. Yes, we do get upset about some of the mailboxes."

"Well, thank you for having it ready. It's usually over at the main post office when I stop by here to ask about my package."

I went back out, gripping my packages, as she pulled down the metal accordion-like closure for her counter.

Friday, I was back over there at the DMS PO. After closing time. Just to mail two bills inside, to thwart any would-be mail-stealers who wanted to forge my checks. On the glass panel beside the outer door, I saw a notice in a clear sleeve taped to the glass:

All packages for HILLMOMBA ZIP CODE should be picked up at the Main Post Office, unless you receive a Notice 3849 from your carrier.

Good to know. At least it proves I am NOT crazy! That indeed, most packages are taken back to the main post office. Including those when the little orange postcard is left. Because I imagine that's a different form number than the slip I had this time.

They Know How To BRING A Package, But They Don't Know How To LEAVE A Package

I got an email on Wednesday that my package had been delivered. Yes. I was expecting a package. To be delivered by the USPS. I've ordered this item before, and it was delivered just fine. I did not anticipate any problems. The time was around 11:30 a.m. Farmer H stopped for the mail when he came home around 2:30.

 

"Huh. I guess you have a package. There weren't no key in the mailbox, but there was this note."

 

He handed me the orange notice that the USPS leaves for a package. Usually, it's a little postcard. This one was more like a piece of paper.

 

 

Yes, that's orange, even though it doesn't look like it on the kitchen table. You'll notice the interesting note left to explain why my package was not actually delivered. I have marked out my name and address and package-identifying numbers and symbols.

Farmer H was as puzzled as I was.

"NO KEYS, NO LOCKERS? What in the world does that mean?"

"I don't know. Maybe all four of the lockers were full? Earlier this week, there were no keys in the lockers. You know how they usually stay in there until someone gets a package, and then the key is put in their mailbox. Like Pony says, only the employees can get those keys out of the locker, once you turn the key and open it."

"It looked to me like all the keys were in the lockers now."

"Huh. Maybe everyone got their package out already. Or maybe the mailman didn't have the special key to get them loose."

I sent The Pony a picture of the note, and he, too, was baffled.

"Looks like you'll have to go pick up your package at the post office. Or fill out the back about a re-delivery, and put it in your mailbox. It might be at the Hillmomba Post Office, but I don't know."

"Every time I went there before, they told me it was at the main post office. I guess I'll try both."

Which takes us to tomorrow... because nothing is ever simple in Hillmomba.

Anarchy Comes To Hillmomba

Sweet Gummi Mary! Life in Hillmomba is not what it used to be. Chaos reigns!

Tuesday, I stepped into Orb K to pick up my daily $3 scratchers. I shuffled to the maze where the line wends through last-minute snack suggestions hanging on pegboards. A dark-haired lady was in front of me. I was careful not to crowd her, but not so uncouth as to give her a 6-foot berth. Nobody does that around here anymore. She was third in line. I was fourth.

Whoopsie-daisy! There went a skeletorious black-haired woman around me! To stand in front of me, beside Dark Hair. Oh. Maybe they were together. They could pass for sisters. From the back, anyway. I didn't get a good view of their faces.

We inched along, getting closer to our respective turns. Dark Hair and Skeletor both stepped up when a register became available. To my amazement, Dark Hair paid for her snack and fountain soda, and turned to leave. While SKELETOR PUT HER STUFF ON THE COUNTER TO PAY!

 

Seriously? Had Skeletor really cut line ahead of me? YES! Those two might have been together, but they were making separate purchases! That is NOT fair! One purchase, one place in line!!!

Oh, you know what Skeletor was buying? Three little airline-style bottles of whiskey.

If I ever see her in the Gas Station Chicken Store at 10:30 a.m., I am NOT giving her a dollar if she can't afford her alcohol!

A Dog Crawls Into A Jar

Farmer H spent Tuesday afternoon mowing the front yard-field. While I was in town, he sent me a text and a picture: "Your dog and a jar." Of course he didn't use capitalization, nor punctuation. I can't figure out what he did to the picture to make it so unflattering!

 

 

Poor Jack! He looks like he has no legs! Like one of those stuffed thingies that you lay across the bottom of your door to keep out drafts in the winter. From the looks of this picture, Jack could keep out a LARGE draft! Sure, he's put on a couple pounds over the past year. But I don't think he's as portly as this picture portrays him.

"That stupid dog! I looked over and he'd got ahold of that jar I used to give water to Back-Creek Neighbor Bev's dog when she stayed here."

"Jack didn't get his head stuck in it, did he?"

"Naw. He cain't get his head stuck."

"Is it plastic?"

"Yeah. He'll chew it up."

"It reminds me of that time the ex-ex-mayor's dog Susie got her head stuck in a giant mayonnaise jar while my mom was there babysitting. It was opaque, and stupid Susie couldn't see, so she was running around the yard, banging her head into trees."

"Jack's just chewin'."

Maybe, just maybe, Farmer H should pay more attention to what he does with plastic jars that he used months ago to carry water to a visiting dog...

Mrs. HM Dials Back Her Smugness

Oh, how the youthful have fallen!

 

I was in Country Mart the other day, in line at my favorite checker. He's the one who bags correctly, and had put down my age as 35 one day when I bought Farmer H's Wild Turkey 101. We had a cordial conversation. When I got back to T-Hoe, I checked my receipt to make sure my two 1-lb boxes of strawberries rang up at the sale price of $5, rather than the current $6.98 price of one 2-lb box of strawberries.

Well. My strawberry price was correct. However... my age was not even in the ballpark.

 

SWEET GUMMI MARY!!! I must have REALLY not looked my best that day!

I'm not sure he's still my favorite checker...

Farmer H, Greasemonkeying Around

Mrs. HM was not born yesterday. She did not just topple off a turnip truck. Nobody pulls the wool over her eyes. Farmer H continues to try.

 

When we have Chinese food, Farmer H eats his on a blue plastic plate. We've had them for over 20 years. They are like picnic plates, with a section for the main course, and two smaller sections for the sides. Every time, I caution Farmer H NOT to rinse his plate with cold water. You know what cold water does to the grease on plastic. It just turns it into grease with a wet coating on top.

 

Every time, I come to the kitchen to find that shiny wet plastic plate. Might as well just set it there greasy as to go to the trouble to wet it.

 

This time, I was sitting at the kitchen table when Farmer H tried his shenanigans.

 

"Don't you DARE run cold water on that greasy plate!"

 

"I'm not. I'm using hot water."

 

Farmer H turned on the water. It's a single lever, put in by Farmer H himself when he built the house in 1997. As with many items built by Farmer H, the water lever is a bit off. Meaning that where most houses built by reputable contractors have their cold water on the right, and hot water on the left... our kitchen sink requires the lever to be pushed RIGHT for the HOT water, and LEFT for the COLD water. Farmer H had turned on the water by pushing the lever to the left. 

"Nice try. That's COLD water!"

"Oh. Is it?" 

 

So quick to play dumb, our Farmer H. He is the one who put in that lever. And has been living here for the past 25 years using it. He also knows that it takes two minutes at minimum for the water to get hot when you turn it on. I have complained to him about it every time I wash the dishes.

After less than 30 seconds, Farmer H put his plate under the running water and started swishing it around.

"HEY! I know that water isn't hot yet!"

"Yes it is!"

"So if I come over there and put my hand in it, and the water isn't hot, you owe me a hundred dollars."

"What? That's crazy. I don't owe you no hundred dollars."

Said Farmer H as he quickly turned off the faucet and set his wet greasy plate beside the sink.

Did I mention that Farmer H might be seeking new accommodations in a structure commonly occupied by canines?

The Doghouse Will Be A Lonely Place For Farmer H

When Farmer H is in the doghouse, he won't have a bunk mate. Juno will stay FAR, FAR away.

On Wednesday, Farmer H got the most scathingly brilliant idea of dosing Juno and Jack with their flea and tick medicine. That thought never entered his head until I was elbow deep in the Save A Lot pizza, cutting it in half, draining a can of mushrooms, and dicing an onion.

"I'm going out to put the medicine on the dogs."

 

"Okay. Here. If you need to bribe them, I have these fish pieces from 2020 that I thawed out for them. Juno had one today, but Jack wasn't here for his treat. I think there are two left."

I knew right away that this would not end well. It wasn't long before the sounds of the process echoed through the metal kitchen door.

"Here Jack. HERE! No Juno! GET BACK! That's not yours! JACK! Come back here! See? It's food. That's for you. JUNO! GET! Okay. Now you go away. JUNO! Come here! Come on. You stupid dog! Come get your medicine! JUNO!"

I went to the door.

"Do you need my help?"

"If you think you can do anything with her. That stupid dog!"

"She's scared to death of you. You have to sweet-talk her. Come on, Juno. Come here, baby. That's a good girl. You're so pretty. Come on. That's it, sweetie. Stand right here. See? It's okay. That's a girl. Hold still. It will only take a minute. I'm so sorry. I know. Almost done. There! See? You're okay. Such a good girl. Now you'll feel better."

Farmer H barely acknowledged my help.

"If you don't need me for anything else, I'll go wash my hands and get back to getting your supper. You just need to have patience with Juno. She gets scared when you yell. Jack doesn't care. But Juno is sensitive."

I'm pretty sure Farmer H wasn't even listening to me. Every year it's the same thing when he goes to put those drops between Juno's shoulders.

The Battle Of Little Big Plate

Farmer H was getting on my last nerve even before the plate incident. He sprung it on me this week that we really need a Zero Turn mower. He had even been out shopping for them! You might recall, the LAST mower he bought without telling me! Took off in a fit of pique after a disagreement, and two days later went driving it by me as I sat on the front porch pew with the dogs! $1700 worth of mower!

The Zero Turn will cost around $4500, Farmer H says. He went to the John Deere dealer, and they had some on the lot, but wouldn't sell him one! Heh, heh! Such sweet justice! They said the dealership was closing, and those mowers were going to Poplar Bluff to a dealer there.

THEN Farmer H said he went to the local Family Center, and they had Zero Turn mowers for $3200. I don't know the brand of this version. Probably a knock-off, not paying for the name. Anyhoo... I don't know which hat he thinks I can pull this money from. We have spent all our expendable money on Pony House.

So I was already not in a good mood this week towards Farmer H. Yet still I made suppers for him, and bought him stuff to pack a lunch when working on Backroad Neighbor Bev's new house. PLUS we had some giant strawberries that I washed and cut the tops off so Farmer H could have a treat after supper. 

 

I even toasted a hoagie and made him a chicken sandwich with melted swiss cheese. With fries.

"Do you want a real plate?"

"No. One of them other plates is fine."

"Which other plates?"

"Put it on a little big plate."

"I'm not getting it. A small plate?"

"No. A little big plate!"

"Sorry. That doesn't make sense. A little plate, or a big plate?"

"Over by the bread! A little big plate!"

"Saying it louder doesn't explain anything."

"You cain't understand nothin'! I want a little big plate!"

"A paper plate? A thin paper plate?"

"NO. A little big plate!"

With that, Farmer H came to the kitchen, and pointed to the sturdy paper plates, the kind with colored trim around the outside, rather that the thinner plain white ones with fluted trim.

"Right here! THESE plates! The little ones stacked under the big ones!"

"Oh. Why didn't you just say 'the small cardboard plate?'"

"I DID tell you! I said I wanted a little big plate!"

Farmer H still doesn't understand how I couldn't figure out what he meant. After all, he described it so clearly. And so many times.

A Doghouse Condominium For Farmer H

I was about to tell you how Farmer H has been skating on thin ice, all the way to the doghouse. The initial incident happened on Wednesday, but he has been accruing my ire cumulatively over the past three days. Farmer H is not just headed for double-doghousing, but for a doghouse condominium.

 

Sadly for you, but gladly for him, I will most likely forget his transgressions before they are revealed here. I don't feel like starting now. We have been without electricity for 21 hours, and this is not a top priority. I WILL promise at least one tale of Farmer H hard-headedness tomorrow. The rest might end up on my not-so-secret blog in a few days.

 

For now, I'm enjoying my air conditioning, light, internet, flushing toilets, and a hot supper. Seems like only yesterday that was too much to ask...

Texts I Haven't Written, Never Meaning To Send

Hello, Pony. Remember us? 

 

It's ME. Your mother who loves you like no other. 

 

And your former bedroom, still containing a myriad of accoutrements that surely you are having trouble doing without. 

 

And the kitchen pantry, where I stubbed my toe trying to reach a bottle of ketchup so thoughtfully arranged at the back of the shelf by your long arms when you reorganized for me.

We really miss you. It seems like only yesterday that you moved out, promising to text every day when you got home from work, and come out on your next day off, to get that bedroom sleep-in ready, and finish the job you started on the pantry.

We REALLY miss you.

Of course I would never send such a text, what with The Pony being such a lover of HELPING PEOPLE, a virtual Brother Teresa. I certainly wouldn't want to hurt his feelings. Or seem like a nag.

I truly miss my little Pony.

A Mini Streak Of Luck

Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. Two days in a row, I was a winner! A big winner on a little ticket.

 

You know I love my crossword tickets. This is the $3 version. I play them every day. I was elated when I finished this one on Sunday. Pretty sure I won $60 on it! Usually I win $3 or $6, and sometimes $10. They're fun to play. So I scanned this winner with my MoLottery app, and it congratulated me on winning $110!

Of course I had to look over that ticket again. I'd thought I had seven words, and the Bonus Word at the bottom. But in reality, I had EIGHT words, plus the Bonus Word. 

Yay, me!

Then the very next day, my OTHER $3 favorite gave me a good win:

 

I rarely win more than $6 on this ticket, and was SHOCKED to uncover those amounts for a $60 win! I was happy at first, knowing I had three wins, and expecting a total of $9. 

Of course on Tuesday, I didn't win anything on my $3 tickets. No streak lasts forever...

Better Days Are Relative

I was not having a great day on Monday. First cat out of the bag, I noticed that the bandaid over my leg hole was peeling loose on the bottom side. Farmer H had not overlapped the stick-down plain bandaid enough over the 2x4 bandaid. In fact, Farmer H had snuck off to bed at 8:20 p.m. on Sunday night, without telling me, and without putting on a new bandaid. So I had to find another stick-down regular bandaid to try and patch it, and only a tiny size 2 inches long was in the bathroom cabinet.

It didn't help that I had to clean up Sunday night's supper dishes, which involved the Auction Bacon and a giant black and white speckled roaster pan. I soaked up the bacon grease on bread for the dogs, who conveniently were absent when I got home with a plan to treat them.

 

As I was getting in the shower, I discovered my FOURTH attached tick! It was on the back of my left forearm, which I saw while turning on the shower. It was NOT there when I left for town. I did not see the dogs. The only mechanism for tickloading that I can think of is when I leaned on the back of the short couch checking TV programs before getting in the shower. This one left a raw chunk in my arm when I ripped it loose. It must have just got on there, since a lot of blood flowed out. (These must be the stupidest ticks ever. To attach on a shin, heel, and forearm. Only the beside-belly-button tick was in a normal site sought by ticks.)

Farmer H had a worse day, though. He went to work on Back-Creek Neighbor Bev's electrical hookup out in an area remoter than Hillmomba. For his trouble, Farmer H was bitten by Bev's dog! He said it wasn't a deep bite, but still a bite. Heh, heh. Like son, like father. At least Farmer H knew that Bev's dog had her rabies shot.

THEN Farmer H came back home to get the push mower, and drove back to Pony House to mow the yard. The Pony pays Farmer H, same as he would anybody else he hired to mow the yard. The Pony was off today. Which was a stabbing bone of contention for Farmer H.

"I fell down while mowing the yard. I laid there for...well...the mower was off for 15 minutes, and The Pony NEVER EVEN CAME OUT TO CHECK ON ME!"

As if The Pony would notice the lack of mower noise. Or would know instinctively that Farmer H had fallen, rather than assuming the the mowing was complete.

Anyhoo... I think Farmer H wins this Bad-Day-Off.

Darn Country Livin'

It's Sunday night, and The Pony and I are trying to observe a total eclipse of the Blood Moon. I've seen a total lunar eclipse before. It was spectacular, if that's what you call a dark spot where the moon should be. I DO consider it spectacular, with my science-teaching background and nerdy VALedictorianship.

You'd think I have a better view, what with The Pony being in town now, with the accompanying light pollution. But no. The Pony has been keeping me updated on the eclipse happenings, while I am unable to watch it!

Oh, the clouds from earlier are gone. I should be able to see the moon and the impending eclipse. Except for NATURE! The eclipse is happening so early in the night that the moon has not yet risen above the TREES! The Pony has no such problem. After all, his giant pecan tree is just a trunk now, laying in his yard, waiting for the wood-salvagers who have spoken for it to come with their saws.

According to The Pony, the orange glow which would have been starting around 8:45 was less than spectacular. I wouldn't know. I saw it during my LAST total lunar eclipse, and it was grand.

I'll keep watching. The TOTAL part is scheduled to occur at 11:11. Of course, how will I know if I see it? Since it will be the absence of seeing the moon's radiance. I'll be checking later as well. In case I can catch the moon reappearing out of the earth's shadow.

I love anticipating a good earth-sciency phenomenon, even if nature itself thwarts my viewing.

Apparently, Mrs HM Does Not Provide Enough Sweetness In Farmer H's Life

When Farmer H left for the auction Saturday evening, I asked if there was anything he was looking for. He said no, that it just depended on what was for sale. Of course he sent me a picture of his bargains.

 

I replied: "That's a lot of candy." I'm sure you would agree.

 

The brand-name Reese's candy was $17.50 for 60 bars. I'm not sure I've tried this version, called the Peanut Butter Lovers flavor. I guess the outer coating is more peanut butter flavor instead of chocolate.

 

Turns out this case of chocolate for $9.00 is also brand-name! It contains bags of individually-wrapped chocolate balls, labeled Lindt and "Nusscreme." I think it is Christmas candy, from the wrappers.

Anyhoo... Farmer H returned home and set his treasures on the kitchen table that I had cleaned off for Mother's Day dinner. It's a losing battle. He went through his pocket, looking at his auction tickets, and said:

"Nine dollars for them chocolates. Six dollars for light bulbs. Fifteen dollars for dancing Elvis. And she forgot to charge me for the Reese's!"

"You're going to pay her, aren't you?"

"Yeah. Next time I'm up there."

I think Farmer H will pay. There's been times when the auction didn't pay him all the money for what he sold. And he got it from them the next time he was there. I guess auction people are a trusting lot.

Just what Farmer H needs... more sugar in his life.

The Pony Is Like A Warm-Weather Santa

 I got a text from The Pony mid-week.

 

 "Just delivered these yellow Crocs to E--- J---."

 

 

OH MY GOSH! I have to get some new Crocs! Even though the label says this pair is orange, they look yellow to me! My current Crocs are dark blue. Before them, I had two pairs that were red. I miss the bright colors. They're easier to catch Farmer H wearing them! I'd have no problem sneak-wearing Farmer H's own Crocs. They are camouflage! But nobody wants to scoot their tootsies into a shoe that has been on Farmer H's stubby feet.

This delivery went to the office of our financial advisor, right on Main Street of Sis-Town. Those Crocs were for the office manager, or our financial advisor. Not the grown man our age who used to manage our investments, but his daughter, who took over his business.

There's just something cheery and summerific about a pair of yellow Crocs...

I'm Pretty Sure...That's Questionable Wound Care

Remember the hole in my leg from CasinoPalooza? The jagged gouge caused by slamming my own leg with the door of A-Cad at the Lee's Chicken in Genius's College Town? It has been three weeks. So I figured it's probably mostly healed. It stopped leaking clear fluid on the Friday after the Tuesday injury. I've kept it covered, with triple antibiotic ointment on a 2x4 inch bandaid.

 

Farmer H is not enthusiastic about changing the bandaid for me. Even though I get everything opened and ready to slap on my leg, and make him wash his hands with GermX first. So my leg was only getting changed every third day. Oh, I still showered. I didn't scrub the wound. Just let the water run over it. Afterward, I'd dab at it with clean squares of toilet paper, to absorb any waterlogging.

 

Farmer H told me every time he put on a new bandaid that my wound looked good.

 

"It's getting a scab. I think you should let it stay uncovered, to heal."

 

Even though he said it was already healed!

 

So... I took the bandaid off on Wednesday, and left the leg-hole uncovered for my trip to town. After all, that's the advice I was getting from the person who can SEE it.

 

Anyhoo... you know that I can't see the back of my knee/calf area where the wound is. But on Wednesday, I took a picture with my phone after I got home and changed into sweatpants. It LOOKED okay. Until I zoomed in on the picture! It's got raggedy edges. A darker spot that could be the beginnings of a scab. One little tuft of what I assume is fresh skin growing out, very pink. The rough outer edges are a bit yellowish. It's not oozing anything, so I hope that's just the dead skin that hasn't rubbed on clothing or bedsheets to slough off after the injury.

Anyhoo... I gave Farmer H a lecture about his Florence Nightingale skills. He still swore that the wound looks good. I showed him the picture. Zoomed in. He agreed that the edges were questionable in that closeup, but swore it must have just happened, because it didn't look like that every time he put on a new bandaid.

Uh huh. Sure.

Anyhoo... I washed the wound with soap and water, then dabbed it dry and let it air dry further. THEN I had Farmer H put on another fresh bandaid. I told him we are going to change it EVERY DAY, and I'll wait until he gets home for my shower and leg-scrubbing.

Farmer H put on the 2x4 bandaid as usual. Then put on the regular size bandaid along the bottom edge of that 2x4, to keep it from rolling up on the bottom edge when I thrash around in bed. 

YOUCH! 

 

"What are you hollering about? I just was making sure that bottom bandaid was sticking."

 

"NO! You poked right on the injury! HARD! Right in the middle of it!"

 

"I did not. It was the edge of that bottom bandaid. You're crazy."

 

"I felt it at the deepest part of that hole in my leg! You are NOT supposed to push on an injury that's under a bandaid!"

 

Farmer H still denied such behavior. 

 

I'm pretty sure he's trying to kill me. After torturing me first.

The Return Of The BackCreekEighbors

You may have noticed that I have not mentioned our Back-Creek Neighbors for a while. That's because they have been traveling the countryside like roving Romani in their camper, not a caravan.

Back-Creek Neighbor Bev has strict requirements for where she will reside. They sold their house behind us, partially due to fear of Crazy Stick-Road Man, partially due to Bev not feeling up to par, due to electrical fields or something. I don't know her exact issues.

Anyhoo... Bev and Nick have been looking at properties for a while, and moving from campground to campground in their camper. They took their dog back with them after leaving her with us for a week. Every time they found a property, they'd have Farmer H go take a look at it with them, to advise on whether it was a good deal, and how much it would cost to make the improvements they wanted. Most of those deals fell through.

Until now. Farmer H checked it out for them. Wednesday, they asked for him to come to the final walk-through with the realtor. It's quite some distance from the Mansion. Farmer H said he would go, but that they'd have to pay him for his gas. It's getting really expensive for him to drive SilverRedO to their consultations lately. They said they'd pay. They also had asked Farmer H to put in electric for them at the new place, in the event they followed through and bought it. He agreed. They've always paid him for his work.

So... the walk-through was at 3:00 on Wednesday. Farmer H didn't get home until 6:00. By 8:00, he had a text from Bev asking if he would be putting in her electricity on Thursday!!! 

"No. You don't own the property yet."

"I can't go for four days in this heat without air conditioning!"

"The closing isn't until Friday afternoon! I can't do any work on a property until you own it!"

"Didn't Nick schedule you to put in the electric on Thursday? We're pulling the camper down there on Friday. I can't deal with this heat without air conditioning!"

"I will be there on Monday to put in your electric. I can't just do work for you at the drop of a hat."

Thing is, Bev has taken all this time, looking at 20 or more properties, and NOW she's in a hurry to have things done yesterday!

I'm pretty sure Farmer H will have to take measurements and discuss materials with Nick on Monday, then go purchase them, before he can get started on the electricity. Plus he'll have to call whatever company provides electricity in that neck of the woods, to have it shut off or turned on or both. Bev would be better advised to stay where she is until the electricity is done.

It's Like They Never Go Shopping For Their Own Food

I don't know how so many of the Country Mart cashiers can be so clueless about the bagging of groceries! Only ONE has bagged my food in the manner I would have done it myself. I complimented him on his bagging skills. And the next day, he asked me how I was doing, on his way behind the service desk, as I was at the right-side lottery machine.

The older gal who checked me out on Tuesday was friendly and polite, but she lost her freakin' mind when time to bag. I only had four items: a clear plastic 2-lb container of giant strawberries, eight bananas that weighed 3.89 lb, a clear plastic container containing a roast beef sandwich, and a loaf of Bunny Bread.

OGC (Older Gal Checker) put my bananas in a large plastic bag, then deposited the 2-lb container of strawberries on top. Then hefted that 6-lb (almost) bag across the counter to me. She put my sandwich in another bag, with the bread on top.

NO NO NO NO NO! 

Nobody wants to carry a 6-lb (almost) bag and a 1-lb bag. Balance them out! But even worse, nobody wants their bananas gouged and bruised by the corners of a 2-lb plastic box of strawberries!

When I got to the car, I took those strawberries out. I put the loaf of bread on top of the bananas. So soft and forgiving of their fragile peels. Then I put the strawberry box in the bottom of the other bag, and the smaller rectangular clear plastic box containing my roast beef sandwich on top of it. They were quite stackable. And both COLD from their respective departments.

Was that so hard? I think not.

I guess most of those Country Mart checkers have one really muscular arm from carrying heavy bags, and think bananas are supposed to be bruised when you get them home.

Dogs, Cats, Chimps, And Even Magpies Can Do It...But Not Farmer H

Oh, Farmer H! Every day I learn that you know less.

 

Monday, I warmed up the Mother's Day BBQ pork steaks in the oven. A half for each of us. I opened FRIG II, and set out the potato salad and deviled eggs. I sliced an onion, and a dill pickle for Farmer H as he requested. I carried the remaining rolls from the kitchen table, and the butter dish. I put all this on the cutting block, along with a spoon for the potato salad. I uncovered the rolls, and opened the deviled egg container. I also set out a sharp knife, and a fork, for Farmer H. He was planning to eat in the living room.

 

ALL FARMER H HAD TO DO WAS FILL HIS PLATE AND GRAB A BEVERAGE.

 

It started out well enough. Farmer H said he'd use a paper plate, so took two of the sturdy kind from the kitchen counter. He forked the piece of pork steak that I had taken out of the oven and set on top of the stove. He moved his plate to the cutting block, and cut up his own meat. YAY, Farmer H!

 

I saw him adding his sides. But the next thing I knew, Farmer H had opened up the pantry door, and was gazing inside!

 

"Um. Is there something else you're looking for?"

 

"Yeah. A cup."

 

"What do you mean, a CUP?"

 

"To pour in my sparkling grape juice. A red cup."

 

"The SOLO CUPS?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"There's a whole pack right there on the floor of the pantry. But we still have some on the cutting block."

 

"I don't see none."

 

I moved the circle of foil that had been on the pan of rolls. It was leaning against a stack of red Solo cups that we have kept in the same place on the cutting block for over a year. Over TWO years. 

"Oh. I didn't know them was there."

Seriously. There's a concept called object permanence. Human infants understand it. As do dogs, cats, chimps, and magpies. If they see an object, then you cover it up, they KNOW that it's still there.

Farmer H is an entirely different kind of animal.

Somewhere In Here, There's Irony

Farmer H told The Pony he was grilling steaks on Mother's Day. A couple days later, he told ME. Because I had to procure the steaks, you know. Not a problem. I can pick out steaks for Farmer H and The Pony. Oh, and Farmer H had thoughtfully added, "And whatever you want for yourself."

 

I decided on pork steaks for myself. I love a good BBQ pork steak. And I knew Farmer H could cook more from the package, and we'd have more meals with our leftover potato salad and deviled eggs. Country Mart had a sale on meats. The pork steaks were $2.68 (heh, heh, I typed that first as $268) per pound. Which was even cheaper than their chicken. 

 

For Farmer H and The Pony, I selected Kansas City Strip steaks. Yes, they were expensive. $10.98 a pound. But still, at $19.54 for the two of them, they were cheaper than the (smaller) 2 for $22 sirloins they had on CasinoPalooza. Plus, I didn't pour hot herbed butter on The Pony's leg!

 

 

Those are good-lookin' steaks! Really thick. Which brings me to our irony.

My pork steaks were in a four-pack. They were quite large. I couldn't tell there were four in that package. I thought there might be five. As Farmer H opened them at the cutting block, we were discussing how many to cook. Remember, I wanted enough for at least a meal for the two of us the next day, or maybe the next two days.

"Are you going to cook three of them?"

"I think I'll just do two. They're really big, HM. I don't think you'll want a whole one."

"Yeah, Mom. Most people would only eat half of one of these."

Heh, heh! Did you see the size of those two Kansas City Strip steaks that Farmer H and The Pony each polished off at one sitting, leaving only a bone for the dogs? Let the record show that my half pork steak, while similar in size, was one-third the thickness of those KC Strips.

I'm pretty sure there's irony in those two supercarnivores telling me that a pork steak would be too much meat for a normal person.

Anyhoo... the pictures of the cooked meats are on my not-so-secret blog.

One Good Mistake Deserves Another

 The Pony was having a bad work day on Saturday. I sent him a text to cheer him up:

"Your dad just sent me a text: 'I'm leaving for suction.' Heh, heh!"

I had a reply within minutes:

"Haha you sent that to me"

"Dang it! Now I have to type it again for The Pony!"

So I did. And explained my predicament.

"Even funnier, I sent it to DAD instead of you. Like a manager-cake faux pas."

I think Farmer H enjoyed the wrong message more than the manager enjoyed the picture of The Pony's cake. I think Farmer H enjoyed The Pony's cake more than my text! Even though he was not meant to have either one.

Mrs. HM, The Efficiency Expert

For the past two nights, we've had torrential downpours. Sometimes thunder. It starts around 2:00 a.m., occasionally interrupting my TV reception! By 8:00 a.m., it's over. But the water is still there, to be dealt with. As in taking an alternate route to town, due to water over the bridge.

I'm so happy that our routine was disrupted many years ago, so the county roads department could tear out the low-water bridge down by Mailbox Row, and put in a better bridge. Wider. Higher above the creek. Now we don't have to take an alternate alternate route, way up to the highway and back down to town. Even if the creek comes out of its banks, and floods our gravel road, that bridge is still passable. IF you can get down the gravel road to it.

So for two days, I have turned LEFT when I get to Mailbox Row. Rather than RIGHT, to go up over the hill where Farmer H put SilverRedO in a ditch on the morning he was supposed to pick me up from my Unfortunate HospitVALzation.

I parked on the bridge and took a picture on my way to town Thursday:

 

Look! We have whitecaps! Also, a tree about to topple into the brink in the next few floods. If a tree falls into a creek and nobody is there to hear it, does it make a sound?

The creek has been way higher than this. It was nowhere near leaking out onto the gravel road. But it DID rise to about 4 feet over the other low-water bridge. Farmer H took a picture there, but didn't send it to me.

You want to know the best thing about MY picture? IT ONLY TOOK 5 SECONDS! That's right. I sat in T-Hoe, put down the window, and snapped that photo. I did NOT have to set up a tiny tripod on alternate sides of the bridge, nor wander around for over an hour. AND I wore my regular town clothes, and not jeans, a white t-shirt, and a black leather vest. 

Maybe I could give photography lessons to select CREACHERS...

Trying To Tip Me Over The Edge, Perhaps?

A few nights ago, I was minding my own beeswax at the kitchen table, perusing the innernets on HIPPIE, when I heard a text come in on my phone. Shockingly enough, it was from Farmer H, who was sitting in his recliner in the living room. When I opened the text, I found THIS:

 

"Bring back any memories"

What in the NOT-HEAVEN???

Way back in 1978, I had a bright yellow Chevy Chevette, 4-door hatchback, with stripes on the side. In 1981, I had a wreck in it. Could have died, actually, when I ran off the road due to a BUMBLEBEE IN MY SHIRT POCKET, got my Chevy back on the road, and rolled 3 times down the middle, ending up driver's door down, in a ditch on the other side.

What kind of PSYCHO would send me a random picture of a similar car, with that question about memories???

Farmer H. That kind of psycho. He could just as easily have found a picture of my favorite car of all time, my 1980 cherry-red Toyota Corolla 4-door sedan. 

But he didn't.

Farmer H Goes To War

Farmer H drafted his paid helper to wage war against the attic squirrels of Pony House. He bought six bars of Irish Spring for $5.00 at the Dollar (and 25 cents) Store. They shaved the soap and scattered it all willy-nilly around the inside of the attic.

Panic ensued when they encountered a puffy-tailed enemy INSIDE the attic as they were working. The Buddy scared it, and the squirrel was sprinting through the other side of the attic, toward the area where Farmer H was standing on a ladder with his head poked up in the ceiling. Farmer H SCREAMED, and the squirrel turned and ran for the front section of the house.

Farmer H went down the ladder, and went outside. The Buddy had also come out of the attic, and was standing on the roof. They saw the squirrel sitting on the eave. It ran down to go back in the hole it had come out of, but The Buddy was in the way. So the squirrel jumped towards the ONE LIMB they could not cut off the tree in the front yard.

The limb was too far away and The Squirrel turned in mid-air to try and grab onto the side of the house. The aluminum siding was too slick, and The Squirrel slid, clawing futilely, down the side. Farmer H and The Buddy wired a metal plate over the hole in the eave. 

The Pony said he didn't hear any sounds in the attic when he got home from work, but he saw one squirrel on the roof. 

I don't know why I keep thinking of Bill Murray and that gopher in Caddyshack...

The Pony Is Squirrelly

The Pony heard more noises in Pony House on Tuesday. They were not supernatural. They were entirely natural. TOO natural. He heard a squirrel scampering about in the attic, above the door of his Master Bathroom.

Farmer H is eager to solve the problem. He was afraid the squirrels would come back. I still say to pay a professional exterminator like Orkin, but Farmer H says they don't deal with squirrels, but only with insects and mice. What's the difference in a mouse and a squirrel? Just a fluffy tail, I think. I don't really know if Farmer H is correct. I'm pretty sure there are pest control professionals who deal with squirrels.

Anyhoo... Farmer H went looking for those ultrasonic thingies to repel squirrels. We have them in our Mansion for mice. Not that we ever had an infestation, but we do have the occasional field mouse who gets in when the weather turns cold in the fall. And we've had some in the attic. Since Farmer H plugged in our ultrasonic thingies to repel them many years ago, we haven't had a mouse in the house. Only that baby mole in the basement workshop, where there is no ultrasonic thingy.

Lowe's was out of the ultrasonic thingies for squirrels. Or else they didn't say they'd work for squirrels. So Farmer H told me to order one online. Which I did, but I don't know if it will work. $19.99 is cheap enough to give it a try.

While I was researching repellers of squirrels, I found out that squirrels abhor the smell of IRISH SPRING SOAP! Who knew? Not this ol' gal, that's for sure. So now Farmer H is going to get some Irish Spring and some pantyhose. Not to clean himself up and go out on the town, but to shred some soap and hang it around the attic of Pony House. Here's the article.

 

It may or may not work, but it's worth a try. Funny how Farmer H did not volunteer to take his Irish Spring from home. Neither of us has pantyhose, so he would have needed to buy that, anyway.

When Is A Helper Not A Helper?

The answer to that riddle is: When the helper is Farmer H!

I called Farmer H from town, to see where he was. He said he was sitting in his recliner, waiting for the washer to be done so he could put his clothes in the dryer.

"Oh. I got us some fried chicken for supper at Country Mart, and some mashed potatoes with gravy for you. Will you be able to help me carry in groceries when I get home? I can't set the chicken on the chair, because the dogs will get it. I'll have to close the car up if I leave the chicken until last, because they'll get up in the car and get it."

PAUSE.

"Yeah. I can."

 

Farmer H did not sound at all enthusiastic about helping me. I guess that's where The Pony got his lack of desire to help people.

 

Anyhoo... when I parked T-Hoe in the garage, I waited a minute for Farmer H to come through the people-door. And waited. No Farmer H. I can't call or text from the garage, because the metal roof blocks the signal. I lose radio reception in there, too.

I reached into T-Hoe's rear and pulled out all four bags. The chicken went on my arm first. Then my purse. Then the Hawaiian Pretzel Slider Rolls with slaw. Then the 2 lb bag of lemons, and romaine lettuce. Then the bananas and potatoes.

As I bumbled through the people-door, there came Farmer H, plopping his rumpus in the metal chair on the side porch. He stood up and reached for some bags.

"A lot of good that does me now. I already have them all on my arm. But you can take the heavy ones, the bananas and lemons."

Farmer H swore that he was sitting there waiting for me to get home. That he had not seen me come up the driveway, because he was ON THE BACK PORCH PEEING.

Farmer H is not a dependable helper.

Not-Heaven's Angel Begone!

When I left for town on Saturday afternoon, I was greeted by an unwelcome sight down by Mailbox Row. A gray-haired man with a ponytail, wearing jeans, white t-shirt, and a black leather vest.

IT'S CREACHER SEASON!

Yes, the creachers have returned to our creek beach. This one wasn't lolling about on the gravel road shoulder, but he had his MOTORCYCLE parked there! Right by the now-stove-in Bus-Waiting Shed. This CREACHER was pacing along the low-water bridge that spans the creek. When he saw me stop T-Hoe (to put on my seatbelt before pulling out on the blacktop county road), CREACHER went to kneel down by his tiny tripod.

CREACHER had a 2-foot-high tripod with a mounted phone or camera. That's very low for a tripod. Maybe it was a tripod made to travel on a motorcycle, heh, heh. It just looked very fishy to me. Why would anyone be taking pictures of our creek? It's low. Maybe 3-4 inches deep. And how do you take pictures while pacing around? If it was a video, why did he need to go kneel down and act like he was doing something?

Anyhoo... I abandoned my plan of getting out for the mail, and went on to town, where I spent about an hour in assorted convenience stores, the post office, and Country Mart. So I was gone about an hour and twenty minutes before I steered T-Hoe down the hill to the mailboxes as I came home. 

SWEET GUMMI MARY! The CREACHER was still there! This time, he had his tiny tripod set up on the other side of the bridge. He was still pacing around, side to side. What in the NOT-HEAVEN was this CREACHER doing here?

I am suspicious by nature. In the late '80s, I was burglarized in the city of Springfield by a ring of thieves who stationed a watcher at the corner, to walkie-talkie info to the breaker-inners when a certain car left the area. It was a dead-end street where my apartment was located. I came home to fine the door had been pried open by a screwdriver, my VCR and new videotape of ALIENS missing, and the sliding door in the kitchen wide open. Police said that was the getaway plan. Up and over the patio fence, after balancing the VCR on the corner. That perhaps I returned too soon, and the perp was in a hurry to leave.

 

Anyhoo... I wondered if this guy was part of a thief ring, just acting like he was taking pictures. Or maybe he was waiting to make a meth deal. I don't see any advantage to hanging out there, pacing, for over an hour. Any pictures or videos could have been finished in that time.

 

No way was I getting out for the mail. No Siree, Bob! Even though Mrs. HM would be harder to haul away on a motorcycle than in a white raper van, I was taking no chances.

 

I detest a creepy CREACHER.

Still Pretty Sure, In Case You Were Wondering

It's no secret that I'm pretty sure Farmer H is trying to kill me. He has a variety of methods that he's attempted over the years. Some are more likely to leave evidence than others. NOW Farmer H seems to have bought a gently-used brain at the auction, and is using it to fine-tune his relieving-Mrs-HM-of-life techniques!

You may have read about my unfortunate leg-hole injury on my not-so-secret blog. That happened on Tuesday, April 19. The wound has been gradually healing, in the manner of an injury where flesh is gouged out of one's lower leg. It's not as if there was a flap of skin to cover it, or two sliced edges to grow together.

I cannot see this injury on the back of my upper calf. I can FEEL the area, but I'm not going to poke a finger into my leg-hole. I can feel it enough to remove the 2x4 inch bandaid over it, and the regular bandaid Farmer H applied to the lower edge of that one, to keep it from peeling off when I slide my leg around in bed.

Because I can't apply my own fresh bandaid, I am at Farmer H's mercy to tend my wound. I get the bandaid ready, slathered with triple antibiotic ointment, and make Farmer H wash his hands with GermX before touching anything. I would prefer to have my bandaid changed once per day, after my shower, when it gets wet and is easier to peel off.

Farmer H has been out of the Mansion at these times. So I've been getting my bandaid changed every 3rd day. It stays sealed up. The wound hasn't leaked anything since the Friday after the injury. So it stays sealed with the ointment and its own juices. HOWEVER...

I made the mistake of letting Farmer H peel off the old bandaid the first time. He must have read up on torture techniques, because he SLOWLY pried off that sticky bandage! Sweet Gummi Mary! I told him to just RIP IT OFF ALREADY! That's why I do the removal myself now.

Farmer H swears that the hole is healing. That there's nothing yellow on it. I have to take his word for it. If The Pony was here, he'd take a picture to show me. 

Every time Farmer H changes my bandaid, he says,

"It looks healed. I think you could just leave this off. Let it get air. So it can get a hard coating."

"They heal from the inside out. You don't really want a hard coating, because that can get knocked off, and have to start again. Or it can hold in stuff that needs to get sloughed away. Remember when I had that big blister on my leg? I took care of it myself, and it was healing fine. Then you told me to let it air out. Within four hours, it had a yellow film over it! I had to put the ointment on and cover it again for several days! YOU are not a good judge of wound care!"

Seriously. I'm pretty sure Farmer H is trying to kill me, by doing absolutely nothing.