Mrs. HM Sincerely Flatters

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right? That makes Mrs. HM a sincere flatterer. Yesterday, I found myself replying to a comment using a quote from my second best old ex-teaching buddy Karen. She came before Mabel, but I have to have a rating system for my old ex-teaching buddies.

Anyhoo... Karen used to start out a reply with "So basically what your saying is..." and proceed to put words in your mouth that were not quite the gist of what you were trying to communicate. It was kind of funny, and we were not at all hesitant to mock her about it.

Another Karenism was "I know you like a book!" She didn't read us like the palm of her hand, though. My fourth best old teaching buddy, Jim, was a part of our trio. We did our monthly grocery shopping together after payday, driving 20 miles to a town that had a Shop N Save, rather than our local mom and pop grocery. As small-town celebrities, we preferred our privacy. The shopping excursion also included supper at Golden Corral. The buffet was good enough for Karen and me, but Jim also had to have the sirloin tips.

On weekends, we'd convene at each others homes on a rotating basis, to drink beer and play poker. It's not like there's a lot to do in a small town. Fridays were the poker games, and Saturdays were faculty parties at assorted hosts' and hostesses' homes. That's when Trivial Pursuit was a big deal. Good thing nobody answered a question with MOOPS.

Anyhoo... I was terrible at poker, which we played for Rold Gold Pretzel Sticks, while chewing on Rold Gold Pretzel Rods like they were cigars. Jim and Karen smoked cigarettes, and tried to teach me how, but I was a slow learner. Just like with poker. Another one of Karen's favorite sayings was a sing-songy, "When will she EVER learn?" after trouncing me at yet another hand of poker.

Jim was a bit more diplomatic, reserving his comments to "Take a red!" when somebody got all hyped-up about the unfairness of something he'd done. Jim liked boot-cut jeans because they made his feet look smaller. He'd spend $15 on the laundry, washing and drying his $10 Walmart tennis shoes. At least that's what we told him, listening to those shoes clunk for hours in the complex dryer outside the kitchen door of his townhouse. He also cranked the air conditioning so low in the summer that frost formed on the INSIDE of the windows.

Ah... good times.

One frigid Monday morning during the dead of winter, I got in my car for the drive to school, and discovered that my gas line had frozen. I didn't know exactly what was wrong until a tow truck came after school, but only that my car wouldn't start. Thank the future Gummi Mary, I was an early arriver. I went back inside and used the land line (the only kind of phone available back then) to call my buddy Karen to swing by on her way to work, and pick me up.

I was a bit perturbed when, later in the day, my principal said, "I see your friend Karen dropped you off this morning." He cut eyes at the athletic director, and they nodded like they were listening to a boom-chicka-wow-wow porn soundtrack. Sheesh! Can a gal not catch a ride to work with a friend without risking her reputation? 

 

I would have held a grudge against that guy, but he's the one who defended me over a not-so-stellar record coaching the volleyball team, saying "You can't make chicken salad out of chicken sh!t."

That's a saying I try not to imitate. It's not very flattering.

Farmer H Goes To Prison. Potentially.

Imagine my surprise on Thursday afternoon, when Farmer H said he thought he'd like to go to the Missouri State Penitentiary. Oh, come on! It's not what you think! Not for punitive purposes, but on a tour. The actual prison has been closed for a while. 

 

"WHY?"

 

"I just think it might be interesting."

 

"It's because you saw it when you came home and I was watching that show! Portals to Hell! With Jack Osbourne."

 

"I just think it looks like an interesting tour. It's only a few hours away. I could take The Veteran with me."

 

"First of all, do you think The Veteran's wife would let him go? Every time he plans something with you, he has to cancel. Like that time he was going to drive you to the hospital for your tests, and The Pony had to do it. Good think he had thought to schedule a day off, just in case."

 

"Yeah. Maybe I'll ask one of my buddies up at the storage units."

 

"You'll have to stay overnight. I'm sure it doesn't start until after dark, and you'll be tired. I wouldn't want you driving back on those twisty roads like that."

 

"The tour starts at 8:30 p.m. And goes until 4:00 a.m."

 

"WHAT? You mean it's like a lock-in. Like a ghost-hunters' tour. You'll definitely have to get a room, and kill time having breakfast until you can check in, and then get a good night's sleep before starting home." 

"I can do that."

"NO! I don't want you going! You might bring something back!"

"Like what? What am I going to bring back?"

"Some kind of entity! It might attach itself to you! I don't want something like that in my house."

"Ain't nothin' gonna 'attach' itself to me!"

"Like we don't already have enough unexplainable stuff happening around here."

Seriously. I don't care what you believe, but I sure don't want any extra negative energy coming into the Mansion. You just don't go looking for trouble, putting yourself on something's radar.

 

I only watched that show because I was flipping channels, and saw Missouri State Penitentiary. Of course I'm gonna watch a show about Missouri. Even if it's a creepy ghost-hunting Jack Osbourne show.

I can only watch something like that in broad daylight, though.

_____________________________________________________________________

I guess Farmer H was looking online at info like this:

https://www.missouripentours.com/ghost-and-paranormal-tours/overnight-investigation-with-msp-staff/

The Janitor, At The Urgent Care, With A Telephone

Remember last July, when The Pony broke his ankle, and couldn't catch a break? Well. It's happened again with his burned hand. The only difference being that his hand was of his own doing, and nothing at all related to work, so there's no salary and medical bills to recoup.

 

In the 3-part series on my not-so-secret blog, I related how the person who wrapped The Pony's burned hand at the urgent care did not seem to have even rudimentary knowledge of basic first aid. I could have done a better job of it at 12, after reading my dad's old Boy Scout Manual. In fact, I even wondered if perhaps the janitor, and not a nurse practitioner, had wrapped that hand. Not throwing shade at janitors--they could probably have done a better job if it, too.

The staff gave The Pony the ends of the gauze and stretchy-stuff tape for future wrapping. They asked where he wanted his burn ointment prescription called-in. The Pony named a CeilingReds over by The Devil's Playground. His reasoning being that he was delivering on that route the next day, and could pick up his ointment when he dropped off their mail. Of course you know what happened. THE OINTMENT WASN'T THERE!

So The Pony had wasted a whole day of work, still didn't have his burn ointment, and no time to call around to find out what happened to his prescription. I learned of it when he sent me a text at 5:30, when I was halfway home, and couldn't call or stop by the urgent care to inquire. The Pony was still on his route.

Anyhoo... on Wednesday, I got home and checked the phone messages. There was a call from MY pharmacy, NearMin, saying that they had a prescription ready for The Pony Hillbilly. Yes. It was after 6:00, their closing time, when I heard the message. I sent The Pony a text.

"WHAT? So they completely disregarded all the information I filled out with my burned hand? And didn't even listen when I told them where to send that prescription?"

"Well, it was the pharmacy who called here. And a couple times you did get a prescription there. But I have no idea why urgent care sent that prescription to the wrong pharmacy."

"I am not even going to bother with it now. My hand is healing, and I don't have time for this."

"You're not going to call and tell them you don't want it?"

"No. I'm not going to bother with it."

"Okay. I'll call them. Just so they know."

Which I did, the next day, and explained that it was sent to the wrong place, and a week had passed since THE BURNING, and it wasn't needed. They asked for The Pony's birthdate, then said they'd pull that prescription. Easy peasy. A rare job done right.

He'll Take What He Can('t) Get

The Pony was having a good day Wednesday. As his days go.

"Mail today is a mess, expect nothing but coupons or magazines. The plant in St. Louis is underwater so we didn't get the regular mail. Still have to walk everything just because we have coupons, but it'll be an easy day."

Good for The Pony, though disturbing to me to think that some of my mail, sent or on the way, might be underwater!

Anyhoo... it's about time The Pony got a break, after burning his hand last Wednesday night. He hasn't had a day off since then. And with it being so hot, the matter of hydration could be life and death. Which makes it doubly unfortunate that he broke one of his metal water jugs a couple weeks ago, and one of the plastic jugs I gave him just a couple days ago.

Tuesday, I was in town when I got a text asking if I'd been to town yet. By the time I was able to answer, I could be of no help to my little Pony.

"In town now. At Country Mart in a couple minutes."

"Darn. Already stopped delivering and drove over to the ice thing for water. Mine spilled around 4:30. This thing does not have good water. It's too purified and has that weird taste, plus it's not cold. And it sprays pretty wide. Soaked my hand wrapping, so I just took it off. A little sun shouldn't hurt it too bad."

"Can I get you something?"

 

"No. I already moved and got it. Going back over to finish now."

 

There's a new ice dispensing shack over by Casey's. Farmer H had told The Pony how he could stop by there for water if he was delivering in Hillmomba. How water there only costs 25 cents, rather than paying over a dollar for a bottle of water at Casey's. All he needs is a jug for the water to pour into. At least he got some water, though not cold and not tasty.

 

I found  two jugs for The Pony in Country Mart. I'll deliver them Thursday on his day off. One is just like the jug that broke, and the other is only a quart, but it is sturdier, and has a handle, and better than no jug. They were the last two on the shelf.

Only In Hillmomba, At The Hands Of Farmer H

Farmer H had a doctor appointment on Tuesday morning, for a fasting blood draw, to check levels of something to determine how long a new medication might be prescribed. The office called him Monday afternoon, with the reminder, noting that it was indeed a fasting blood draw.  

I don't micromanage Farmer H's appointments and meds. He's an adult. A non-compliant adult. He went off to his appointment on time, and mowed The Pony's yard (for pay), and came home to float around in Poolio while I went to the store.

After supper, Farmer H came to the kitchen for his dessert. Sometimes he has a handful of the little round Christmas ball Lindt chocolates that he got a while back at the auction, before the weather was hot enough to melt them. Sometimes he has cookies, sometimes an individual snack pie. But this time, he went to the stack of papers he'd put on the table, telling me that "we" need to fill them out to see if he can get a break on the high price of his diabetes meds (!) 

Anyhoo... Farmer H lifted up those papers and took out a flat box and opened it up to take out a donut! Not just any donut, but an APPLE FRITTER! Which is equal to about three regular donuts, in my opinion!

"Hey! Why do you have donuts?"

"You can have one. There are still two left. I took them to the girls at the doctor's office this morning."

"And for yourself, too, of course."

 

"Yeah."

 

Wait a minute. I thought that when you took donuts to somebody, YOU LEFT THE DONUTS! Otherwise, it's like taking a Marble Rye to a dinner party, and then taking it home with you, necessitating that you steal one later from a frail old lady, and try to get it back inside the apartment with a fishing pole. [Sorry for that reference if you're not a Seinfeld aficionado. Here's a 4:58 clip]

 

There were six apple fritters in the box when Farmer H bought them. I guess he opened it up, and held it out to the "office girls," and then closed up the box and carried it out with him. There were three left when he brought the box in the Mansion. So I guess maybe two "office girls" had a fritter, then Farmer H had one. He's not known to stop at one.

 

The only other alternative is to imagine that he bought TWO boxes of fritters, or a box of donuts and a box of fritters, and left one at the doctor's office. That means this morning Farmer H ate three fritters, then one after supper. 

 

Not sure which scenario is the most disturbing.

The Pony's Identity Precedes Him

After a long hot day of work on Saturday, with his burned hand on the wheel, The Pony drove himself to Steak N Shake for supper. You know how I see signs that mean something to me? Looks like The Pony has inherited that tendency.

 

!!! Look at this !!!

"Sweet Gummi Mary! That's a sign of SOMETHING!"

"Yeah. The stoplight so I could get a pic was lucky too."

We'll see what develops in the life of The Pony...

A Tree Grows In Ponyland

Remember that pecan tree growing beside Pony House, that cost $3250 to cut down and move? And then the tree-trimmer guy left Farmer H holding the bag for the final trunk?

You might THINK it's gone... but you have no idea how much that pecan tree wants to live!

The Pony sent us a picture a couple weeks ago.

 

A seedling is growing out of the splintered trunk. The Pony wasn't sure it's an actual pecan tree, but it's definitely a tree. Of course Farmer H declares it's not.

"I was over there mowing grass, and some of the clippings must have blown on the trunk."

Yeah. I know. That is NOT grass.

If A Tree Fell In A Forest And No One Was There To Hear It, Farmer H Would Give It A Stern Talking-To

When I got back from town Saturday afternoon, in the 107-degree heat, I carried in an 8-pack of Gatorade that had been riding in the back seat of T-Hoe because I couldn't carry it the day I bought it. Farmer H has a way of making himself scarce when there are groceries to be carried.

 

Farmer H was in Poolio when I left. I can only see about half of Poolio as I walk to the kitchen door with my arms full. I had given up any hope of getting help. Not that I needed it Saturday, with just the heavy, heavy Gatorade.

 

As I walked in, I called out to see if Farmer H was in the Mansion. My purpose being to find out if he wanted some of our eggroll hoard along with the sandwich he was having for supper.

 

"Hey! Are you in here? HELLOOOOO?"

 

No answer. I continued around the end of the counter to set the Gatorade down along the wall. In doing so, it hit two empty 12-pack cardboard cartons that once held Shasta Diet Cola. I had just told Farmer H on Wednesday to put them in the very full trash bag as he bagged it up. Once out of the wastebasket, there's room galore in that large trash bag. He'd said he was going to burn stuff, and he'd burn them.

 

Of course that did not happen between Wednesday and Saturday. The Gatorade hit the bottom box, which toppled both of them under my feet.

 

"RASSEN FRASSEN FRIGGIN BOXIN' BOXES! I HATE THOSE FRIGGIN' RASSEN FRASSEN BOXY BOXES!!!"

Well. From the living room came such a clatter of gnashing teeth and harsh words that I was taken aback. Farmer H launched a lecture on my terribleness and complainyness and foul-mouthedness that I haven't heard in... well... a couple of days.

"I don't know why you're lecturing me."

"Because of your foul mouth and complaining. I'm sick of it. All you do it run me down!"

"How is this about YOU? Am I not allowed to express myself? I hollered to see if you were in here, and you WEREN'T! Now you're making up what I said, and making it about YOU! As far as I knew, I was in the house ALONE! But I'm not allowed to express myself when I trip on boxes? I guess when you're in Pittsburgh visiting Genius, I also have to stay mute, because you might hear me, all the way from there? You are the most controlling man I ever met in my life!"

"I AM NOT CONTROLLING!"

"But according to YOU, I should never be able to express myself unless it's in a manner you approve of! Explain to me how my yelling in what I thought was an empty house gives you a reason to lecture me! I DID holler for you to see if you were in here, and you chose not to answer. Yet you heard everything ELSE I said when I thought I was alone. Explain to me how I was supposed to know you were here!"

Of course that clammed up the lecturer. SOME PEOPLE are so unreasonable!

Mrs. HM Is Firmly Convinced That Only 1 Person In 100 Knows How To Do A Job Correctly

Sweet Gummi Mary! Incompetence reigns! I am so glad that I don't live downwind from a nuclear reactor. I'd be glowing and setting off Geiger Counters to sound like participants' teeth chattering at a Polar Bear Plunge in January!

I won't even go into the misfortune of The Pony after his latest accident, let down by Convenient Care personnel in the application of bandages, prescribing of medicine, and then the disappearance into thin air of that medicine at a pharmacy. That's a tale for my not-so-secret blog, probably starting on Sunday.

Farmer H had his own difficulties. Off he went, bleary-eyed and gassy-tailed, cash in hand, to the city office to renew his business license. I know the paperwork was in order, because I filled it out myself.

"A couple weeks ago when I went in there, they told me the lady I needed to see was at the bank. So I got the paperwork and brought it home. Now today, I go back at 11:00, and they said that lady was not there. So I asked when she'd be back, and they said in a half hour. I told them I had somewhere I needed to be at 11:30. [Heh, heh, the Senior Center to get his $3 lunch] 

 

I went back at 1:00, and they said that lady was gone for the day. The gal I talked to said that lady is the only one who can handle the business licenses. She told me to leave my paperwork there, and then when I come back, my license will be all printed and ready, and I'll just have to pay the fee. What do you want to bet that lady will be out of the office when I go back?"

I'm a betting woman, but that's not one I'm willing to make!

I had my own problems with a pharmacy. I dropped off my new insurance card [fiscal year for schools starts July 1] on Wednesday, telling them to make a copy so it would be ready when I called in my refills. 

The next morning, I got a text that 1 of 3 prescriptions was ready. Huh. I didn't call in any prescriptions. So I called and asked if they were doing all 3, but was told it was too soon, and they couldn't be refilled until the 25th. Not a big deal, because I have enough to last past then.

Friday, I got in T-Hoe at the Gas Station Chicken Store, and saw a text that 3 of 3 prescriptions were ready for me. Huh. Only the 22nd, and I hadn't called in refills. I was headed right past the pharmacy on my way to Country Mart. Only two blocks away. So I went straight there. Indeed, all of my prescriptions were ready.

When I went to write down the receipt in my checkbook register over on the parking lot of Country Mart, I saw that it was $4 more than the last several months. Because they'd charged me for my generics, also, which should be free now, since I met my insurance deductible during my Unfortunate HospitVALzation. AND my insurance info from the school had assured us that our deductible would transfer to the new policy.

Now I have to decide who made the error. The pharmacy people? The insurance people? The school personnel? Not sure who I'm going to call first...

Oh, and then I went in Country Mart for bananas, a bottle of horseradish mustard, a bottle of tartar sauce, a roast beef sandwich, a turkey sandwich, and two pieces of cold fried chicken. That dang fool new cashier, old enough to know better, bagged my purchases in a most unusual manner.

She put the mustard and tartar sauce bottles in the bottom of a bag with 4 pounds of bananas. It was very heavy to be draped on my arm, cutting off circulation in my thin old-lady skin. AND she put the lightweight sandwiches and chicken in a bag by themselves, but TIED THE LOOPS SHUT! So it couldn't be draped on a thin-skinned old-lady arm!

People these days are nutty fruitcakes. And I don't mean in a delicious kind of way.

I'm Pretty Sure Farmer H Was A Little Disappointed

On Tuesday night, I fell asleep on the short couch. Oh, not lying down like a normal person. Sitting. One minute I was watching TV, at 4:50 a.m., waiting to see if the Naked and Afraid couple made it to their extraction point in Ecuador. It was Fernando, and that vegetarian gal, Dani. Both were on the show for their 3rd time. 

Welp! I'll never know, because I woke up at 6:30 a.m. It was light outside. Farmer H had already left the Mansion. I was a bit perturbed that he hadn't even stopped to wake me as he walked behind the short couch. Of course this was mentioned later that afternoon, when I had to bump up the "This is the time of day we discuss the most recent thing you've done wrong" session, due to Farmer H's plans to attend that Beauty and the Beast play at the local junior college.

"What in the Not-Heaven? You just walked out and left me sleeping on the couch?"

"No. When I came out of the bedroom, I saw you there, with your eyes closed and your mouth hanging open. I thought you might be dead."

"So you just left me there???"

"No. I put my hand in front of your mouth, and felt some air on it. Then you jumped. So I knew you were still alive. THEN I left."

Yeah. That's my Prince Charming. I'm pretty sure he was disappointed at my survival. And that's why he chose to eat Taco Bell on the way home from the play at 10:00 p.m.

Is The Epoch Of Pretty-Sure-ness Giving Way To The Era Of Certainty?

Perhaps you recall that I've been pretty sure Farmer H is trying to kill me. Numerous times. But tonight, at 10:30 as I type this, I'm almost certain.

 

Farmer H left at 4:30 to attend a play at the local junior college. It was Beauty and the Beast, and one of The Veteran's young daughters was a cast member. Farmer H thought it started at 5:30, and wanted to get there early. Which is what he'd been told by The Veteran.

 

Turns out the play didn't start until 7:00! So there was Farmer H, having skipped supper because he said he'd eat when he got home. At 8:20, he said the third act had just ended, and there was one left to go! He said he'd pick up something to eat on the way home.

 

I was a bit concerned, because Farmer H should not be skipping meals, and should make better plans to take his medication on a more regular schedule. By 10:20, I was wondering where in the Not-Heaven he was! Were the curtain calls taking a long time? Was he having a 7-course meal? Then I heard the dogs barking to announce his arrival.

 

"Where have you been?"

 

"That last act didn't start until 8:40! And the whole thing wasn't over until 9:30!"

 

That didn't really explain it, because it's only a 15 minute drive. But I guess maybe there was a crowd, and traffic took a while to clear on their mile of exit road, and then there's a stoplight to contend with to get on the highway, and some construction that entails a detour.

 

"What did you have for supper?"

"Taco Bell."

I'M GOING TO DIE! 

 

If you don't see any updates, you'll know that I was killed overnight by Farmer H's butt, thanks to his accomplice, Taco Bell.

It's going to be worse than Genius and the White Castles...

Mrs. HM Goes To Country Mart, And Almost Gets A T-Bone

I did, in fact, go to Country Mart on Tuesday, and bought hamburgers that were on sale, for Farmer H to grill. The thought of a T-Bone never entered my mind. Not buying a steak, nor being involved in that type of car crash. You might be catching on to what happened...

 

As I started home, I was stopped at the 4-way intersection. There are stoplights. Working stoplights. The roadway was recently re-paved, and for about a week, the new lines have been painted back like before. Gone are the little tape thingies sticking up out of the blacktop. The lanes are again marked correctly, with bright yellow and white paint.

This is a wide intersection. It takes a while to get through, but the lights are timed right, and with the lines once again in the correct places, the sensors under the road control the lights, giving time for all lanes to have their proper turns.

On my left was Dairy Queen. On my right, the Liquor Store. Catty-corner from DQ was the Gas Station Chicken Store. And the fourth corner is an embankment leading up to a car dealer.

I sat first in line, waiting for my LEFT arrow, to head out the lettered county highway back towards the Mansion. The intersection is so wide that I could see the other lights, for the cross traffic. I saw them turn yellow, and then red. A few seconds later, my left turn arrow went green. I pulled T-Hoe into the intersection, making my left turn, as the line of traffic across from me also started making THEIR left turn.

I'm always wary here. Sometimes people try to squeeze through the yellow light. But the yellow light was long gone, replaced by red. I had my green arrow. Still, I sensed something amiss. I slowed T-Hoe as a gray SUV came barrelling from my left, through the red light, just missing T-Hoe's front bumper by about 5 feet.

Of course I laid on the horn to show my displeasure as a warning! That gray SUV could also have plowed into the cars across from me who were pulling into the intersection to go to THEIR left.

Do you know what that ignorant wench driving the gray SUV did? She WAVED AT ME! Seriously. With her left hand on the steering wheel, she flapped her right hand at me. Which was holding a cell phone. So I guess she was a distracted driver, showing me that she'd been talking on her phone. Surely she wasn't taking MY picture for honking, the way that phone was flapping.

Sweet Gummi Mary! She had to have driven 100 feet since her light changed to red. No excuse for not stopping. It's not like she could have made the light and squeezed by.

When I told Farmer H, he said, "At least she wasn't flipping you the bird!" Which is a whole other story that The Pony likes to bring up, about another ne'er-do-well woman who took my turn when my light was green and hers was red. Ironically in front of a hospital...

Anyhoo... I'm glad that I'm an attentive driver (ouch, almost hurt my arm patting myself on the back), and did not have to sit in the middle of the intersection in 95-degree heat, waiting for the Jaws Of Life to peel open T-Hoe like a tin can to get me out.

More Professionals Who Can't Be Professional

Last week, The Pony asked to go to the casino on Thursday, his day off. Farmer H thought he had an appointment that day to get his eyes dilated. They do it every 6 months at his exam, because of his glaucoma, and only having vision in one eye. We were all set to wait until after the appointment. Farmer H drives himself, and says he has no problem seeing after the dilation, while wearing those weird Batmanlike black plastic wraparound sunglasses. 

Anyhoo... the night before, Farmer H was looking at his phone, mystified because he hadn't gotten his appointment reminder phone call, and saw that his appointment was actually for MONDAY the 18th, not Thursday the 15th. So it all worked out, I notified The Pony at the last minute to get here earlier the next morning.

 

Sunday night, Farmer H was still mystified as to why he hadn't gotten his appointment reminder call. I checked the landline for messages, but there was nothing from the eye doctor.

 

"Are you SURE you have an appointment?"

 

"Yes, HM. I put in in my phone so I wouldn't forget it. It's at 9:00 on the 18th. But they always call."

So now as I type this, it's Monday afternoon, and Farmer H sent me a text from his eye doctor's office at 11:43.

"I'm still at the eye doctor. They forgot to put me down [heh, heh, the fun I could have with THAT statement!] but she looked on my last appointment and saw I was supposed to see him in July so got me in anyway. Always takes long time here"

Well. It could have taken an even longer time, since they didn't write down his appointment.

There are many things I accuse Farmer H of, but messing up this appointment is not one of them. No way is Farmer H creative enough to put an actual appointment TIME in a mistaken notice of an eye appointment on July 18.

Furthermore, you know that WORKING HIM IN while he was there was an admission of guilt on their part. I rest my case. Medical offices don't just "work you in" if you show up on the wrong day. In fact, they deny you service and charge your insurance anyway if you're more than 15 minutes late for your scheduled appointment. 

You might want to make a note in YOUR phone! The day FARMER H WAS RIGHT!

A Flash From The Pony's Cocooning Past

With The Pony taking a day off to commemorate his unfortunate ankle-breaking, a comment by Blog Buddy River reminded me of a previous time when The Pony cocooned himself. I'm sure I've told this story before over my past 17 years of blogging, but I don't think anybody is going to peruse 6,205 posts on my Hillbilly Mansions alone to find it.

I'm pretty sure it was a during those weeks when summer vacation has grown old, and the young 'uns are fidgeting for something to do. It couldn't have been a mere weekend during the school year, because I never had time to myself then.

Anyhoo... I was in my dark basement lair, tapping away at whatever pre-New-Delly computer I had back then. The boys were upstairs. I'm guessing that Genius was around 8, and The Pony around 5. Just old enough that they could be left in another room to play with their toys or watch cartoons, and not drink bleach under the sink or draw on the walls with a Sharpie.

I could hear them above me, thumping and chattering, so I knew they were both still alive. Then it got quiet. DANGER SIGN! 

Genius came galloping down the steps.

"Mom? I think maybe The Pony hurt himself."

"WHAT? How's that? Where is he?"

I was already on my way, being a bit more sprightly back then.

"He's in his room and he won't talk to me."

"What did you DO?"

"Nothing. I didn't do anything. We were just playing, and he ran in there."

 

The Pony was in his little car bed, rolled up in his Scooby Doo sleeping bag. Not merely in a sleeping bag as if to sleep, but rolled up in it. No part of his body showing. No amount of coaxing could get him to speak. I had to unroll that sleeping bag until I got to Pony. Still no response, but he was moving and not unconscious. Just trying to bury his face.

"WAIT! Where is this blood coming from?"

"Blood?"

"Yes, Genius. Blood. Look! It's all over the sleeping bag!"

That got The Pony's attention. He started squalling like a baby. Closer inspection revealed a cut on the back of his head.

[First of all, let's just establish that The Pony had a head for banging. You know, like reporters have a nose for news, and stock brokers have a head for business, and Melanie Griffith in Working Girl had a head for business, and a bod for sin.(32 seconds) The Pony's noggin had a magnetic attraction to doorknobs, table corners, the wooden trim on the end of the couch, the stick-out peninsula of the kitchen counter, random elbows, and car windows on bumpy roads.]

The Pony would not tell what happened. That's been a pattern his whole life. The Pony is a clammer-upper. No injury shall pass through his lips. The Daycare Lady had an interesting four years trying to get to the bottom of The Pony's occasional scrapes and bumps and bruises. His 1st grade teacher could never figure out how he almost broke his finger just before bus time. It was years later when The Pony let it slip that the girl in front of him slammed her chair back in a rush, and pinned his finger between the hard plastic chair-back and his desk.

Anyhoo... I had to turn my inquisition to Genius. Who was less than cooperative. He, like Shultz on Hogan's Heroes, knew NOTHING! (3 seconds)

"You realize, that if I have to take him to the hospital for stitches, they're going to ask what happened, because it's required in case of child abuse! So it's possible they could try to take him away!"

"I don't know Mom. Really. We were just playing, and he ran off."

"Playing what?"

"With the belt from his robe."

They both had little red terry-cloth robes to put on after a bath. I'd seen them in a catalog, so cute, with the option for initials, and couldn't resist.

"Doing WHAT with his belt? Did you take it?"

"We were playing. Tug of war."

"Sure you were. You took his belt! How did he hurt his head with a belt?"

"Well. I was standing on the couch, and he was on the floor by the stairs. He kept yelling 'Give me my belt!' So I did, Mom. I just did what he wanted. I gave him his belt."

"You mean you let go! While you were standing up on the couch! What did he hit?"

"I think maybe he stumbled and hit his head on the corner of the stair rail..."

"Yeah. When you let go!"

That newel post has a ball on top, but it's perched on a cube of wood. A cube that has corners. A quick wash in the sink showed that the cut was not more than an inch. It didn't show bone or gray matter. So I put pressure on it, and saw a knot form, and figured The Pony probably wasn't going to fall comatose from swelling in his brain. We avoided the ER. Genius got a stern talking-to.

I'm surprised The Pony managed to reveal how he hurt his ankle at work, when the neighbor Nurse Practitioner came to his aid.

The Pony's Request For An Implement Of Squash Destruction Is Denied

The Pony came out on Thursday, to join us in a casino excursion that he requested for his day off. While gathering up last-minute items for the 1-hour drive, such as ice water and my meds and of course my gambling purse with casino bankroll... I was distracted by one of the two flies that barge in every day. Never mind that I smack them into oblivion with a flyswatter. There are two more to take their place the next day. 

 

I like to blame Farmer H, but at least one of them gets in when I return from town, and leave the door ajar as I fetch the treats for Jack and Juno. If I close the door, they think there is no treat, and resume whatever it is they do all day.

Anyhoo... The Pony had already filled his own silver metal water jug that he brought along with him. I was adding water to the ice in the single-serving red metal bottle that I was taking. 

"Dang it! There's that fly again!"

"I'll get it for you! Do you have something to hit it with?"

"Yeah. The flyswatter."

"And that might be where???"

"Hanging on that hook on the cutting block. Same place we've kept one for 20 years."

"Oh. I never noticed."

"I'm not surprised."

"Now where did he go?"

"Right in here. No! There. You can't hit it on my penny goblets! Wait. Oh. I lost him."

"I see him over here. On the beadboard on this side of the counter. GOT HIM!"

"Good. Now there's only one left. Until Dad lets another one in."

"Say, would you have an extra flyswatter I could take home?"

"I have one. Down in the basement. But I need one down there in case there's a fly. I know where I can get you one, though! Country Mart! They had a whole box display of them up by the 2-for-$3 snack pies. I'd even thought of getting a couple yesterday, but I didn't. Next time I'm in there, I'll get you a couple."

"Okay. Because I'm still finding out things I need at my house."

Sweet Gummi Mary! I hate to deny my little Pony a murder weapon when he asks for it!

The next day, I went in Country Mart, and THE FLYSWATTER DISPLAY WAS GONE! Ain't that how it always goes? However, I was on the housewares aisle to get a bottle of Dawn dishwashing liquid I saw on their sale ad. As I started up the back of the aisle, where the mousetraps and insect spray were, I saw FLYSWATTERS hanging on a plastic strip. 

 

Oodles of flyswatters, grouped by color, red/blue/green/yellow. They were 49 CENTS each! I got three. A red and blue for The Pony, and a green one for myself. I've never really liked yellow.

Funny how there was no Dawn dishwashing liquid! Only their store brand, which I have now, and isn't nearly as powerful as Dawn.

At the checkout, the Old Lady Checker who once put me down as 88 YEARS OLD said they sell a lot of flyswatters. I guess that's what happened to the big box of them.

Alas, Poor Pony, We Knew You Fell

Today (July 15 as I write this) is the 1-year anniversary of The Pony's work-related broken ankle. I broke the news on my not-so-secret blog a few days after it happened. Because I was busy waiting on The Pony hand and hoof. Not that I begrudge him my tender loving care. 

Anyhoo... in honor of his fractured bone, The Pony allowed himself to take a day off. He didn't schedule it on the actual day, because he didn't want to cause a hardship for his colleagues who might already have been on the schedule for Friday off. He asked for it as the new schedule was being made. As I remember him saying, anyway. I don't understand how things work at the USPS. They don't run on a regular M-F work week.

I was going to text The Pony around 7:30 to see if he was home, and say, "Tomorrow off, huh?" Because I knew he would have been busy, with the Amazon Prime Day deliveries coming in, and to make sure nothing got changed. Imagine my surprise when I heard a text come in on my phone. I think The Pony and I have a psychic connection.

"Off work and home. Had a fall! Good foot caught on the rug getting up from my couch and I went down onto a shoebox."

"I was just thinking about texting you! Dang! Are you in your cups? Having a drink on your night before a day off?"

"No! Literally this was a couple minutes ago right as I got home! I haven't even touched my bad wine or the rum!"

Poor Pony. Next July 15, I think he should stay in bed, surrounded by pillows.

The Biggest Snoozer VS The Biggest Loser

It is no secret that Mrs. HM keeps odd hours. I go to bed in the wee hours, between 3:00 and 6:00 a.m., and come to life around 11:00 or noon. Farmer H goes to bed with the chickens and is up with the chickens. Except we no longer have chickens.

 

Monday morning, he was headed out bright and early to pick up his old man helper, and go to work on the house of former Back-Creek Neighbor Bev, which is about 45 minutes away.

 

I was peacefully snoozing, and did not notice when Farmer H clambered out of bed and began his morning routine. Until...

 

"Um. I don't mean to wake you, but do you have a key to the truck?"

 

"What? Yeah. I have a key on my key ring. It looks just like T-Hoe's key, but it's on the ring with all the other keys. It's in the side of my purse."

 

"Okay. I've lost mine. So I'm going to take your key off until I can find mine."

 

Whatever. I had about 39 winks of beauty sleep left to go, so I didn't dwell on it. Indeed, as I left for town, the SilverRedO key was gone from my key ring. I'd only need it in an emergency if T-Hoe wouldn't start. No big deal.

 

When Farmer H got home later that evening, he still hadn't found his key. He keeps each vehicle on a separate key ring, and leaves them on the dresser in the bedroom. So at least he still had his house key with his Storage Unit Store keys, and a key for A-Cad laying there, plus his BARn and other outbuilding keys. It's not like he lost everything. 

"What did you drive when you went to meet that guy up at your Storage Unit on Sunday evening?"

"The truck."

"Oh. So you had the truck key at least when you got home last night. It's got to be here somewhere."

"Yeah. I've looked all around outside and in the truck. I think I'll check the recliner again. I looked this morning but didn't see it. But my knife is gone, too. So maybe they fell out of my shorts pocket when I was sitting in the recliner last night."

Yep. That's where Farmer H found his SilverRedO key. And his knife. He put MY SilverRedO key back on my key ring like I commanded. I'd just gotten my A-Cad key back from The Pony last Thursday. So I guess around the Mansion, I could demand to be addressed as The Keymaster.

Holey Sheet!

No, that's not a euphemism for a common expletive. This post is about a LITERAL holey sheet. You might guess who is responsible. For the sheet. You KNOW who's responsible for the title. Me, the self-cracker-upper!

We've had flannel sheets on our bed. They're soft. They're warm in the winter, and also in the summer when Farmer H closes the bedroom door because he goes to bed before I do, and the cool air that comes from those vents chills the bedroom almost to the temperature of the master bathroom. Which has a tile floor, and I'm convinced is the earth's most frigid place.

Anyhoo... the other day, Farmer H announced out of the blue:

"I put new sheets on the bed."

"What are you talking about? Are you washing the sheets?"

"No. I put on those new ones I got at the auction, like I got for The Pony. Because somehow, the sheets on the bed got a HOLE in them. I got my foot caught up in it, and almost fell!"

"What in the Not-Heaven? You mean your toenails, that I've always told you are like talons stabbing me, tore a hole in the sheet?"

"No. No. I didn't tear a hole in it. It just got a hole. And I got my foot stuck."

Well. Doesn't that sound just TOO coincidental? Like a mysterious hole formed, Farmer H's talonous toenails having no hand in it? That man is delusional. Or more likely a giant liar.

Anyhoo... when I went to bed later, I noticed that Farmer H had also put on the top sheet. Something we weren't using with the flannel sheets. Farmer H marches to his own bedtime drummer. 

 

We USED to have my comforter on the bed, but he decided he wanted the quilt my grandma made and gave me as a wedding present. So one day, my comforter disappeared to the hall closet, and we had the quilt. Which was not as warm and cozy as a comforter, especially without a top sheet. AND Farmer H gradually destroyed my precious grandma wedding quilt with his breather hose. Which made that corner of the quilt look like a mouse had been nibbling on it.

Lately we've had a gray blanket on the bed over the brown plaid flannel sheets. I know. I really need to take control of the marital bed. Anyhoo... this was kind of like a cross between flannel and a fleece throw. It worked fine, but Farmer H would say he was too cold, so he stole commandeered the white hospital blanket that my nurse, one of the Alexes, had draped around my shoulders as he wheeled me out to recently-ditch-liberated A-Cad as I was released from my Unfortunate HospitVALzation. Farmer H would spread that blanket only over HIMSELF, since it wasn't a full-size blanket.

Anyhoo... the auction sheets are quite thin. They're smooth enough, but thin. Tan-colored, so we still have our tan/gray color theme. Thing is, Farmer H has a penchant for pulling comforters, quilts, hospital blankets, and sheets up over his head while he sleeps. I guess that's fine when you have your own oxygen supply being pumped into your face. Which I do not. And those bedclothes almost strangle me, while my feet hang out. Because of course Farmer H doesn't tuck in the top sheet at the bottom of the bed. Which is kind of okay with me, because I can't stand to have my feet trapped.

Anyhoo... this new top sheet situation is KILLING ME! It won't stay together with the blanket, so I'm wrestling two items as I try to settle in and get warm. That top sheet wants to wrap around me like a cocoon around that pilot gal in the ALIENS movie, while the gray blanket shuns me like we have reverse magnetic fields.

I'm pretty sure Farmer H is trying to kill me, and make it look like a sleep accident.

Nitpickers VS Shortcutters

In the tradition of Hatfields vs McCoys, tenants vs landlords, customers vs proprietors, and Mrs. HM vs FedEx... The Pony has drawn a line in the sand. Or more specifically, The Pony has drawn a line in the drywall.

Tuesday evening, Farmer H was bobbing around Poolio in a little floaty seat that he bought himself instead of a raft. I heard his phone making noises, but I don't mess with Farmer H's phone. When he came in, I told him.

"Huh. The Pony is sending me a picture. It's downloading."

"Funny. He didn't send ME a picture! I hope nothing is wrong with his car or his house."

"Oh, now he's just nitpicking!"

"What?"

"In his house. It's a picture. He says there are two little holes in the drywall that must have got missed when we painted."

 

 

"Let me see. Where are they supposed to be? I don't see any holes." [NOW I see them, on HIPPIE's screen, but on a phone, they are not noticeable. Farmer H says they look like maybe the drywall screws popped out.]

"I don't know. There and there, maybe?"

"I still don't see anything. Do you even know what room that is?"

"No."

"I guess from the paint you could tell. It's not the accent wall."

"That's the off-white color. It would have to be in the living room, or in Pony's bedroom. Because those are the only two rooms where I didn't put in new drywall."

"Be nice. He just wants his house to look good. Though I'd say if he hasn't been keeping up with the clutter, nobody is going to notice two little holes that you can't even see. But be nice."

"I will. I'll fix it tomorrow when I go over to mow the yard."

"Some people just stuff wet tissue in holes, and then smooth it out."

"Some people use toothpaste. But a little drywall mud will do it."

I really hope Farmer H does not rub his filthy thumb across The Pony's toothpaste to fill in those holes!

Mrs HM Had Enough Egg On Her Face To Feed A Famished Hillbilly Family Post-Casino At A Buffet

Sweet Gummi Mary! The Pony is going to be the death of my fine upstanding reputation! At least in the convenience stores.

Monday, I went in Orb K to cash in one of The Pony's winning tickets. He'd asked me to buy him some on the way to Pony House last Thursday. He scratched them in the car, and declared a $20 ticket to be a $40 winner. I looked at the prize. It said $40. I'm pretty sure I scanned it, too. But I might have only scanned The Pony's losers to make sure something wasn't missed.

Anyhoo... I had in my head what tickets I was going to buy when I went into Orb K. I was getting another new $20 ticket for The Pony, and some smaller ones for myself, while setting aside some of my money for his $20 left in winnings.

I was the only customer at the counter.  

 

"I'm cashing this in, and spending it back on tickets."

"This is a $20 winner."

"WHAT? That's a $40 winner!"

"I'm sorry. We can only pay back what the machine tells us when we scan it."

I understand how the Missouri Lottery system works. I never have any trouble. I tell the clerk what my ticket is worth, they scan it, and repeat it back to me. This time, I didn't say what the winner was worth. She's not one of the regular clerks I do business with. So it was more formal. I wasn't helping her out to anticipate what if any change she might give back. I don't have a rapport with her. So I didn't want to act like a pompous know-it-all.

 

"I understand that. Can I have that ticket back to look at it?"

 

She handed it over the counter, and I glanced at the prize.

 

"That is $40. Not $20."

 

"I'm sorry. We can only pay what the terminal tells us when we scan it."

 

"Okay. Maybe my son scratched off the wrong number. Oh. Here. You'll need this back."

 

I barely had time to glance at the numbers, because a line was forming behind me. I'm not sure if The Pony scratched off the right winner. Only one prize was scratched. Under number 21 or 23 or 28. I didn't have my glasses on. But with my quick perusal, I thought that maybe the prize he'd scratched off was not under an actual winning number.

 

Surely that young clerk was not crafty enough to have saved a $20 winner printout, anticipating tricking a $40 winner out of half their money. They have to scan those printouts to ring up purchases or give back money out of the register. So I accept that it was probably The Pony's error, and mine for not scanning that ticket before taking it inside. 

 

"I'm sorry. I guess my son scratched off the wrong prize. I didn't mean to question you. I always scan my own tickets, and know what they've won. Again. Sorry. I didn't mean to criticize you."

 

"Oh. That's okay."

 

What else could she say? I will be embarrassed if she's the one who waits on me the next time I go in Orb K. As for The Pony... no more trusting his proclamations of winners. He's been wrong before, in the other direction. Like having a $25 winner instead of the $20 he told me and wrote on the back of the ticket. 

 

That scenario is not nearly as embarrassing...

A Trying Town Excursion For Mrs. HM

Sunday was not a good day for Mrs. HM. It started out fine, with Farmer H at his Storage Unit Store, making money hand over fist. And staying outside to mow the yard/field when he got home around 3:00. I had the Mansion to myself. All I needed to do was make spaghetti for Farmer H's supper. That was going to be simple enough, with a can of sauce, a box of noodles, canned mushrooms, and smoked sausage for the sauce meat. Farmer H is okay with eating what we have on hand.

Off I went to town, right after Farmer H finished mowing and came inside. Such a coincidence, don't you think? Anyhoo, he was getting in Poolio anyway. So no need to entertain him, just listen briefly on my way through the living room to the windfall he acquired in a purchase of multiple items, one of which he'd already sold, putting him $100 ahead of his expenditures. That story will appear on my not-so-secret blog later in the week.

So... I just wanted to dash to town for my scratchers. But Country Mart had a sign taped to BOTH lottery machines saying they were out of order! And the checker who once marked down my age as 88 (!) kindly told me that a $50 ticket had gotten stuck in one, and the other was acting up, so they put the signs on them. Good for her for explaining it to me, before I took a chance on the other machine, which only had the sign taped to its money-accepting slot. I had noticed the day before that it was approaching on-the-fritz status, when it spit out a perfectly good dollar bill five times. No, I'm not a slow learner, but that machine doesn't give change, and I needed that only dollar I had in my pocket to complete the purchase of a $2 ticket with the money remaining from my cashed-in winner. I don't like getting only a $1 ticket, where the odds of winning are about 1 in 10.

Off I went to the Gas Station Chicken Store, where I was going anyway. It gave me three winners for $30, $10, and $3. So there's that.

But I also wanted some $3 tickets from Casey's. I saw a parking space while waiting to turn at the light, but when I pulled in, a man walked out with a boy of around 7, and flung open the back door to buckle in the kid. Which is expected, but not for over 5 MINUTES! Sheesh! That kid could have grow enough to need his seat belt loosened by then!

In waiting for that space, I was blocking a red pickup from getting to the gas pump. And also a black sedan from backing out of the space next to the one I was waiting for. So I finally left in a fit of pique, and didn't buy tickets anywhere else. 

Thanks to the GSCS, I at least profited from my purchases. Even though that was my plan to begin with, I did get different tickets than my original intent, due to the out-of-orders.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's Headache Cure

I have a new product to sell on the counter of my proposed handbasket factory! With all my entrepreneurial discoveries over the years, I might even need Farmer H to build me another counter! This one might take up a little extra room.

I stop short of calling it "The Recipe." I'm pretty sure that one's been taken. My "recipe" might not be as popular as that of the Baldwin Sisters on Walton's Mountain. It won't give you a kick. But it WILL stop a headache! That's right. Mrs. HM has a new cure for a headache!

Thursday, I woke up with a sinus headache. All stuffy, pain over my eyes and on my cheeks. It wasn't bad YET, so I struggled with it, hoping it would go away after my morning meds and daily aspirin. It did not. The shower did not alleviate it for long. The trip to town made it worse, what with the EXTREME HEAT and then the COOL AC blowing on my face as I got in and out of T-Hoe. My can of Shasta Diet Cola with supper didn't help.

By the time Farmer H went to bed around 8:30, and I gave up pecking at HIPPIE at the kitchen table, I was ready to take something for relief. I popped a regular acetaminophen. After 90 minutes, I could detect no change. The back of my neck was all tight and achy. So I did what any woman in such a predicament would do, and went to the kitchen for some microwave popcorn. 

While popping my popcorn, I remembered a bottle of Gatorade that I'd put in FRIG II for Farmer H when he was sick a while back. He didn't drink it. The thought of the Gatorade was appealing. So I took it to the short couch with my popcorn.

SWEET GUMMI MARY! My headache went away by the time I finished the popcorn and Gatorade! Perhaps I was missing some electrolytes that were in the Gatorade chemicals. Or maybe the chewing of the popcorn relaxed the stiff muscles, and the motion allowed my sinuses to drain. Or more likely, the acetaminophen finally kicked in.

Whatever the case, my headache was GONE! It did not return overnight. So now my new headache cure is microwave popcorn and lemon-lime Gatorade.

The packaging is going to be a bit awkward, and take up a lot of counter space. But I'm sure my new remedy will be a hit with all the folks who flock to my Proposed Handbasket Factory and Shackytown Amusement Park. Because even if they don't have a headache when they arrive, they're sure to have one by the time they leave.

A Bunch Of Banonos

Farmer H and I eat a banana every morning. So that's 14 bananas a week in the Hillbilly household. When I stop by the store, I always pick up a few, so I don't have to make a special trip if we run out. Last Sunday, when I picked up the steaks to grill on the 4th, I bought five bananas at Save A Lot.

As you might imagine, our banana bowl has a variety. Oh, they're the same brand. Dole. But the colors vary. If we have ripe bananas left, I buy the greener ones so they will be ready when the ripe ones are gone. I never have more than eight bananas total in the bowl. It works out pretty well.

Wednesday, we were ready to eat those Save A Lot bananas. They were still pretty green, but Farmer H and The Pony have always liked the greener variety. I don't mind them, but I'd rather have bananas when they first get a few tiny brown spots on them.

 

 

Anyhoo... Farmer H was long gone by the time I made it to the kitchen table with my banana. I poured my fake Honey Nut Cheerios on the plate, and picked up my banana.

Huh. It was almost impossible to get the peel started. I often give it a little nip at the base of the stem with my incisors to get a break in the skin to get started peeling. This one didn't want to get nipped! Then it was extremely bitter. Still, it was the SKIN, so I didn't think much of it.

That banana didn't want to peel. The skin was hard. Wouldn't bend. It was like tree bark. I wrenched it down a bit, and it made a noise like a twig breaking. Huh. A tiny bit of banana was exposed. I took a bite. 

YUCK! That banana didn't want to be bitten! IT CRUNCHED LIKE WOOD! Bitter!

That's the first time in my life that ever happened! I set that banana aside. Threw it off the porch as I left for town.

When Farmer H got home, I asked about his banana.

"Did you eat a banana this morning?"

"I TRIED to! I couldn't eat it. I threw it out!"

"I KNOW! I had to throw mine away, too! It was like a log. So don't eat those others. I'll get more at the store today. We'll leave these and try one in a few days."

We have not tried them yet. They are still the same color as when I bought them!

 

Both of these pictures are the bananas I bought Sunday, alongside one I bought Friday. The photo doesn't do the green color justice. Look how it turned my burgundy countertop to purple!

Anyhoo... if I didn't know better, I might suspect these three are not even bananas! They have the consistency of a hoe-handle! I'd think maybe they were plantains, which I've never had. Or some kind of Frankenbanana that never rots. Like McDonald's fries. The sticker on them has the same number as that on the regular bananas. And they were sitting in the middle of the banana display.

Something is fishy in the Save A Lot produce department.

Hot Enough For A Slimy Slug To Seek Solace In A Sewer Or Shower

The heat wave continues. This has been over three weeks of high-90s temps. Maybe longer. I remember it started before The Pony's car air conditioner pooped out. Which was a week before his hand pay at the casino. So a long time.

Thursday was errand day. I was 3rd in line at the bank. To avoid burning all the gas I just paid $4.07 per gallon to put in T-Hoe, I turned him off until time to pull forward. Only 10 minutes in line this time. Not bad for this bank, with two cars ahead of me. I've waited 30 minutes before, with only one. 

Anyhoo... I had all the windows down. T-Hoe was in the shade of a tree, then the shade under the roof of the drive-thru. I had a breeze. But it was a HUMID breeze. Not at all refreshing. Just more hot air swirling around me. By the time I started T-Hoe to drive away after my deposit, the mirror thermometer told me it was 111 degrees!!!

I didn't want to hold up the line for a picture. I waited until I was in the alley behind the bank, sitting at the stop sign behind the church whose steeple was struck by lightning a couple years ago. SOMEBODY needs to get their house of worship in order! 

Anyhoo... by the time I got the picture, having put up all T-Hoe's windows, and running the AC set on 66, with the fan at Level 3... the temperature did not look so bad:

 

I am grateful that the air conditioner is one of the accessories still working on T-Hoe.

Wastin' Away Again In PaperPlaterVille

Farmer H thinks I am stupid. At least he thinks he can outsmart me. He cannot. He is not a good liar. He hesitates. He can't come up with an excuse fast enough. Like the paper plate issue on Wednesday evening.

Farmer H always uses the GOOD paper plates. Yes. There is such a thing. Poor Pony. When I told him to set the table with the GOOD plates for our 4th-0f-July Steakfest, he brought the good PAPER plates! Heh, heh. I guess that's what he's grown up with. But just remember, I've never had a dishwasher. And I worked a more-than-full-time job during his formative years. 

Anyhoo... we have the sturdy paper plates with the colored trim around the edge, and the regular basic white paper plates with a fluted edge that are thinner. I always use the plain white paper plates, which sit in a wooden holder labeled EVERYDAY CHINA. Farmer H and The Pony use the good paper plates, even when a thinner one will do.

Anyhoo... Farmer H made himself a supper of leftover grilled bratwursts on buns, with three deviled eggs, a dab of baked beans, and a ramekin of slaw I decided at the last minute that I didn't want. When he came back to the kitchen for dessert, I noticed that he threw away his GOOD paper plate, and used another one to put a slice of cheesecake on.

"Wait! You used a new paper plate just for a little slice of cheesecake?"

"Nooo. It's what I already had."

"I don't think so. I saw you throw it away. You could have used one of the smaller paper plates for that slice of cheesecake, or a bowl. We don't have many of those GOOD paper plates left! Both stores are out of them. They're hard to find. Now you're wasting one."

"Nooo. It's one I used..."

"If you mean the one on bottom, that's still wasting it! You only use two so they're sturdier. That one on the bottom was perfectly good. Just like a new plate. So you're wasting it!"

"Whatever."

Seriously. Farmer H used a plate THIS BIG...

 

(That's Farmer H's July 4th plate of sides.)

...to hold a slice of cheesecake THIS BIG:

 

Not cool, Farmer H. Not cool.

I suppose he thinks we live in the Taj Mahal, and that I should be serving him gold-leaf treats on silver platters and fanning him with palm fronds.

Meanwhile, I re-use my CHEAP paper plates if they only have a couple crumbs on them.

Hails Of My Bamboozlement Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

Farmer H has been foiled again! He might THINK he's smart, but I beg to differ. Actually, I don't beg. I shout it from the rooftops. Or in this case, my supersecret blog.

 

A few days ago we received our new proof of insurance cards in the mail. They're not actual cards, just little square slips of paper that prove we have automobile insurance from July to January. The old ones don't expire until mid-month, but as long as I had the new ones at hand, I parceled them out. There are two of each. One to keep in your purse or wallet, and the other to leave in the vehicle.  

I set T-Hoe's insurance cards aside for me to deal with. The Pony was out here for 4th-of-July steak, so I gave him the ones for his Rogue. And I put the cards for SilverRedO and A-Cad on the kitchen counter. Tuesday afternoon, I pointed them out to Farmer H, so he could gather them up for those two vehicles.

Farmer H said he was going to an auction Tuesday evening. It was SO HOT! 100 degrees. 95 inside the garage. Farmer H said it was even too hot to get in Poolio. So he was going to recline in his recliner, watching Gunsmoke, until time to go. Which he said would be 4:30.

I got a late start to town, having been busy with writing out checks for the insurance (they send the cards ahead of time, in a separate envelope), the monthly payment for SilverRedO, and the renewal for our AAA Membership. Heh, heh. It virtually pays for itself, considering how ONE TOW would cost more than the yearly membership, and Farmer H has already had TWO TOWS this year.

Anyhoo... I didn't leave until after 3:00.

"I think I'll be back before you leave, but I DO have several stops to make, plus going by the post office and taking these payments inside to mail them. So I might see you, but I might not."

Of course I was moving slower than molasses in January, what with the temperature being 100 degrees. Plus people are driving crazy in Hillmomba, due to roadwork in front of the Gas Station Chicken Store, and the lanes marked all wonky with only little tufts of tape sticking up through fresh blacktop. By the time I got back to the Mansion, it was 4:45.

I saw SilverRedO still parked under the carport. And when I entered the garage, A-Cad was still there. Inside, Farmer H said he was getting ready to leave. No mention of why he was 15 minutes behind. I bade him farewell, and went into the master bathroom to slip out of town clothes and into my lairwear. That's when I saw it.

On the bathroom counter was a single insurance card. For SilverRedO.

WAIT A MINUTE! If Farmer H was driving SilverRedO, why had he left one of the insurance cards behind? That didn't make sense. They should all be stacked there. Or none. Or maybe just one for A-Cad. Caught in the act!

I peeped out the front door, and saw SilverRedO STILL parked under the carport. Normally, I'd have no need to be looking out the front door. But now I was in spy mode.

Farmer H was driving A-Cad, and thus putting gas in A-Cad and paying with the credit card, rather than using his weekly allowance money allotted for such expenditures. He thinks he's a sly one, but he's no Mr. Grinch. At least not in the brains department.

When Farmer H got home, I told him he'd need to be sneakier than that to fool me. Of course he came up with a story that he had stuff in the back of SilverRedO that he couldn't leave unattended on the parking lot at the auction.

I guess he won't be bragging to his cronies about how he fooled me. And I'll be watching for the credit card statement, to shake him down for the gas money!

Tales The Farmer Tells Me

Farmer H said he saw a wreck when he came home from town around noon. Not a bad wreck, with an ambulance or Life Flight helicopter. Just a car off the road in the woods. He tried to explain where, but you know how that goes...

 

"On that curve where we stopped to help."

 

"Oh. When you picked up that lady."

 

"It was the son of the Bad-Hay-Baling Lawyer's wife. There was two highway patrol cars, and a county cop. I guess he was going too fast, and run that little silver car off in the woods."

 

When I went to town, I looked all around that area, but didn't see anything amiss. No tire marks. No weeds or trees down. When I got back, Farmer H asked if all the law enforcement vehicles were still there.

 

"No. I didn't see ANYTHING where you said it was. Right there on the curve? Where we picked up that lady in the purple car, who slid off in the snow, and we drove her up to that barn house where they later found the headless body in the septic tank?"

 

"Nooo. You don't listen, HM. Not that curve."

 

"That's the only place we every stopped to help anyone!"

 

"Nooo. Remember when we just got married, and we came out here to Buddy's New Year's Eve party?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"Well, on the way home, there was a guy stuck on the curve, and we stopped to help him push his car."

 

"I don't remember any of that! That didn't happen."

 

"You cain't remember NOTHIN'!"

 

"I know that after the New Year's Eve Party, we'd been drinking. So we spent the night in Buddy's third bedroom. And I got up in the night for the bathroom, and jammed my foot on something in the dark, and thought I broke my toe, and teased Buddy about having a gosh-darn typewriter sitting on the floor. Even though I never knew what I hit my foot on."

 

"Well. Yeah. We spent the night. But then the next morning when we went home, we helped that guy."

 

"I don't think so."

 

"Anyway, it was on that other curve. You know, by the goat guy."

 

"GOAT guy? Nobody out here has goats! Only out on the county road, up by the prison."

 

"Nooo. By the rich hotel guy's house, their rental house, that's his son's, and they just got a new garage."

 

"WHAT? Nobody has a new garage."

 

"By Miz Outman's house."

 

"Oh. You mean the old lady who locked herself out going to the mailbox in the snow, and I stopped to ask if she needed to sit in my car?"

 

"Yeah. Go on up from there, around the curve, then at the next curve is where it happened."

 

"Sweet Gummi Mary! That's nowhere NEAR how you've been describing it."

 

"Anyway, so they were gone? I think maybe that kid was running from the cops. And that's why the highway patrol was there, instead of just the county cop."

 

"I don't know. Is that the same kid who knocked out our power that one winter, by hitting an electric pole down by the mailboxes?"

 

"No. This is his younger brother."

 

"I'm pretty sure they're the ones who've been messing with that bus-waiting shed! It has to be somebody who lives out here. Nobody's going to drive out just to do that. And they're the type. Remember when they took all your election signs up, and laid them down flat?"

 

"Yeah. It could be them."

 

Anyhoo... life is like a continuous game of CLUE when you live with Farmer H.