Mrs. HM, The Favorite-Player

I am running out of frozen expired foods to feed my fleabags for their daily treat. There is one shelf left to explore, but the contents of the door and three shelves of FRIG II's freezer half have been eaten little by little, one day at a time.

Sunday, they finished off two pork steaks with freezer burn. Of course I cooked the meat for them a day ahead of treating. I can't make them eat like animals, even though they are. So I baked the two large pork steaks at low heat for about an hour. I set them out to cool. They were mostly done, if not quite fully cooked. Some bloody fluid seeped out as they were resting on the stovetop. Yes, of course I cut them up into bite-size pieces! Which left two bones with meat clinging to them.

Here's the dilemma. WHO should get the bones? Juno and Jack, because they're MY dogs? Or Juno and Copper Jack, because they're the biggest? I decided the large dogs with large jaws and digestive tracts should have the meaty bones. My little Jack has a tiny mouth. Not great for crunching. He IS adept at gnawing. But I couldn't be sure he would stop at that. There's a sense of urgency amongst the dogs to eat up what they're given, before an interloper can abscond with it.

To make it more fair, I gave Jack the cut-up pieces of meat reserved for the bone day. All dogs got meat the first day. In addition to their bones, I forced Juno and Copper Jack to first eat a slice of wheat bread as an appetizer. To bind any bone fragments for their ride along the intestines. Jack seemed happy enough with his meat cubes, though he was done first.

Copper Jack did NOT take his bone and run to enjoy it, as I had assumed. He stood right there behind Juno's house, crunching it like a barbarian. I guess he hoped I might toss him something else, too. I'd like to think that Juno was more of a lady, lying in her house while daintily gripping that bone between her forefeet while she gnawed the meat. I'm pretty sure that didn't happen. Juno is not adept at using her front paws like hands, which Jack does like a champ.

Anyhoo... while I hate to play favorites, I'm wavering on exactly WHO got the preferential treatment. Juno and Copper Jack, who had to work for their meager strips of meat? Or my little Jack, who got no bone, but easily chewable bites of meat? I guess that's about as fair as I can get.

A Liar Deserves To Get Face Rot

Let the record show that I see no need to wash a bath towel after every use. You're clean when you use it, and just wipe water off your skin. So we hang our bath towels on our respective racks, mine on the wall rod and Farmer H's on the shower door handle, and use them three days before I replace them. No need to do extra laundry and use up electricity, detergent, and water unnecessarily.

That said... I have been using my bath towel only once, for the past week or so. I have an itchy patch of something on my leg, and I don't want to give it an opportunity to spread. Not sure what it is. I've had it before and it went away. It's not like I've been into poison ivy, or rubbing a mangy dog on my leg. It's probably some autoimmune reaction. But still. Better safe than sorry. I've also been using a washcloth only on that spot, rinsing it, then using the other side to scrub my knees of the Hempvana cream we're trying to see if it relieves pain. It works more than it doesn't.

Anyhoo... I hang my bath towel as usual, and when it's dry, I put it with the dirty clothes for washing, and hang my new towel the next day. Once I'm out of the shower, dried off, and sitting upon the throne to apply the Hempvana cream to my knees before putting on my pants... I use the Hempvana side of my wrung-out washcloth to wipe the Hempvana cream off my hands. I then drape it on the side of the big triangle tub to dry.

Farmer H has been having pains in the back of his thighs. He's having tests for it. I think it's a vertebra thing, pressing on a nerve. Anyhoo... he was really hurting on Friday. He came home early and said he was going to soak in the big triangle tub and run the jets on his back while I was in town. I had not yet taken my shower. So when I got out, I draped my damp itchy-spot/Hempvana-scrubbing washcloth on my towel on my towel rack. That was to keep it out of Farmer H's way while he was in the tub.

Let the record further show that Farmer H has been known to lack boundaries. He has been caught using The Pony's washcloth at times, when they were both taking soaks in the big triangle tub a few hours apart. That's another reason I kept my washcloth off the side of the tub. I wouldn't want Farmer H to use it on his face, what with it being covered with Hempvana cream on one side, and my itchy-spot scrubbings on the other.

Farmer H does not often use a washcloth. But knowing how his back and legs were hurting, I offered to walk across the living room to the linen closet and get him a washcloth. No. He said he didn't want one. He was just going to soak.

When I got home from town and went into the master bathroom to change clothes, I saw MY WASHCLOTH ON THE SIDE OF THE TUB!

"Hey! Did you use my washcloth?"

"Washcloth? No..."

"Why is it on the tub? I left it on my towel on the towel rod."

"Yeah. I saw it there. So I moved it to the side of the tub."

"WHY? Why would you do that? What's the purpose of that?"

"So it wouldn't be on your towel."

"What business is it of yours where I put my washcloth?"

"I don't know why you're yelling. I didn't do nothin'."

Okay. Sure. A perfectly sane person would see a need to move somebody else's washcloth from where they put it, to drape it on the edge of the tub they're getting into to soak. Right?

Farmer H deserves whatever he gets. Whether it's an itchy spot on his face, or a burning sensation.

Back Off, Mack!

I need some of those Yosemite Sam mudflaps to hang on my ample rumpus! The ones that say BACK OFF! People just have no sense of propriety these days.

Wednesday, I bought my $3 crossword out of the right-side Country Mart machine. I wheeled my cart over to the left side machine. I have to park the cart between a pole that supports the ceiling, and the ice machine on the other side of the lottery machine. It's just a fit. I can keep an eye on my purse and groceries, and I don't block the entry door path to the cart corral.

I had just scanned my $6 winner when I sensed a presence over my shoulder. It was a man who was old enough to know better. Late 40s at least. I don't like people behind me. Especially when I'm choosing my scratchers. I had every intention of getting a $3 crossword, the $3 Christmas ticket, and then putting in a five-dollar bill to get a $5 scratcher. But not with somebody watching me.

I turned to look at Crowder. He had the nerve to say, "Oh, no. You're fine." As if I was the one doing something inappropriate! I just took my two $3 tickets and left.

What in the NOT-HEAVEN, Crowder??? Of course I'm 'fine.' I got there first. I'm getting my tickets. You can cool your skinny rumpus back over by the carts, or leaning on the end of the un-used register, like I do, when somebody is already at the machine. I don't need you breathing through the party section of my Lovely Lady-Mullet while I'm making my decision.

Sweet Gummi Mary! I really need to intensify my efforts to get my proposed handbasket factory up and running. I see more of a need for it every day.

Farmer H's Mouth Is So Big That He Could Easily Accommodate All His Feet If He Was A Centipede

Near the end of our "business" conversation Wednesday with our Financial Advisor, word somehow turned to dead people. I think it was by way of comments about the office chairs, which came from Wayfair and one was missing a screw so they sent a whole new chair, and how customers really like those chairs, but they had to be Scotchguarded because of people's hands on the arms, and how people might be sick and spreading diseases on the chairs, and how a lot of people these days seem to be dying FOR NO REASON. Or unknown reasons. Something like that. We didn't get into it, because Farmer H opened up his big mouth.

 

"Yeah. One of my old classmates just died. I'm not sure what of. She had some kind of disease over the past couple years, so everyone knew she was sick. But then she just up and died. She used to be about your size, but then she blowed up all bloated to the size of HM here."

 

"Um. I'm RIGHT HERE! That was not very nice."

 

"I was just trying to compare two sizes of things."

 

The Financial Advisor was smart enough to keep her mouth shut. But I think she was on my side.

Trimming The Chewed Fat

Wednesday was the yearly meeting that we must endure with our financial advisor. In case you haven't noticed, Mrs. HM is a homebody who hates anything disrupting her boring schedule. I dread this meeting every year. It's not that I harbor any ill will towards the advisor herself, nor her father before her. They are personable people who have a right to earn their living. I get it. Block in an hour of time for our yearly meeting to review our investments. They are not doing anything wrong. However...

JUST BILL ME FOR AN HOUR OF TIME AND LET ME GO AFTER OUR TRANSACTION IS COMPLETE!!!

That's the thing. We rarely change anything with our account. The only requirement is that I MUST (per law) withdraw a minimum amount from an account that was my mom's. Once I reached retirement age, this kicked in. If I don't, there's a tax penalty.

This official transaction takes less than five minutes!

Seriously. I don't even have to sign anything. Just make a determination of the amount I want to withdraw, and whether to put it into my other account, or take it in check form, which must be mailed from the financial entity, and not doled out by the branch office.

We got there at 1:15 for our 1:30 appointment. Farmer H met me outside, and I made him sit in T-Hoe.

"I'm not going in yet. They never take us back until the stroke of 1:30. I'm more comfortable here than in the waiting room making small talk with the receptionist."

So we went in at 1:25. And sat making small talk. Once called back at 1:30, more small talk ensued, even though our accounts were brought up on the big screen mounted on the wall. At around 1:42, I said, 

"I already know how much I want to take out."

So the Financial Advisor brought up that screen, and was putting in the amount and method of withdrawal as Farmer H was fiddling with his phone to find a contractor who does tuckpointing. Yes. That's right. Farmer H was looking for a referral so the FA could have a guy to work on her brick wall problem.

"Hush up a minute! We're doing actual business here. When that's done, you can talk about your contractors."

Farmer H complied. Of course, it still didn't get me out of the meeting any earlier. We had to discuss the new house the FA is building (I guess even the drop in the market does not affect the profit of the advisor!), and our new flip houses, and the cost of construction per square foot, and how contractors are not the ones to consult about a house design, because architects are more knowledgeable. 

In the past, when the FA was this gal's dad, Farmer H's discussion topics were guns and antiques. Sweet Gummi Mary! Just charge me for an hour, and get the business transaction done in five minutes!

It that too much to ask? No need to chew the fat for an hour while I feel like a prisoner.

What's The Rush? You'd Be Surprised.

Tuesday afternoon, I went to the bank to deposit the check The Pony gave me for his half of the insurance on the flip property we just bought. It was around 3:00 when I left. I knew I would run into traffic on the road behind the local high school, but that is the most direct way to get to the bank. Which I needed to do before 4:00.

 

Nothing was coming when I pulled out of our county blacktop road onto the county lettered highway, where the bridge is finally done. Stripes and everything now!

 

Anyhoo... before I was off the end of the bridge, I saw traffic coming up behind me. A white van. It was going pretty fast. I was already up to 60 (shhh), and the speed limit is 55 mph. I maintained my speed as I passed the prison, and turned left to go in front of Mick the Mechanic's shop. That van also turned. In fact, continued to tailgate T-Hoe.

 

I thought maybe it was somebody in a hurry to pick up their kid at the elementary that is in that area, just before the bowling alley. Nope. White Van followed me past the bowling alley, around the first roundabout, around the second roundabout, and down the road behind the high school. 

 

I though maybe White Van was going to pick up a high school student. Lots of traffic was coming out. And a couple of buses. The speed limit there slows to 25 during weekdays between 2:00 and 4:00. So I slowed. White Van almost crawled up T-Hoe's rear! Didn't turn at the high school.

 

I moved towards the shoulder of the road. So White Van could go around me if he dared. Nope. He preferred to tailgate. Even when we backed up at the stop sign behind after-school traffic.

 

Tailgated me all the way past the cemetery, across the other bridge, to the line of traffic backed up by the first stop light by McDonald's.

 

WHOOPSIE! White Van FINALLY went around me on the left, in the center turn lane. You know where he was going? Why he had been in such a dang hurry for the past 7 miles from the middle-er of nowhere than the Mansion?

 

TACO BELL!

 

That dang White Van was in a rush to get to Taco Bell.

 

I do not understand the urgency. Maybe AFTER eating at Taco Bell...

Not The Chef's Finest Hour

I was texting The Pony on Sunday evening, and he sent me a picture of his supper:

 

"Having mac and cheese."

"The mac and cheese does not look appealing to me, an anti-pastite." [playing with the Seinfeld episode where they talk about people who don't like the dentist, calling them anti-dentites]

"It's also mostly eaten by the point I took the picture! Ooh I should try antipasta at some point. They always look good. Since that's an actual food thing."

 

"I don't even know what that is!"

 

"Google says it's NOT an actual thing and is just, like, the first course for an Italian meal. Darn. It's also spelled antipasto, apparently."

 

"Oh. I've heard of that, but still don't know what it is."

 

"Like having Oberle sausage and crackers out, kinda. But fancier, usually."

 

"I thought it might be a meat and olive tray."

 

"Yeah. That would count as one, I think."

 

So there. Now you know how us Hillbillies show off our knowledge of vittles that are more appropriately labeled cuisine.

Playing Favorites At The Gas Station Chicken Store

The best days to go to the Gas Station Chicken Store are Thursday thru Sunday. That's when my favorite clerk is working. I know you're not supposed to have favorites! The other clerk is perfectly nice. She's just a bit more reserved. 

 

One time my favorite clerk asked why I hadn't been in the day before. I told her I had been at the casino.

"Oh. I haven't been THERE in a long time. Ever since I got kicked out for being mouthy."

Heh, heh! I could see that happening. Anyhoo... on Friday, I cashed in a $50 winning scratcher.

"You didn't buy THAT one from me!"

"No. I've been stepping out on you. I got it at the School-Turn Casey's."

I went on to pick out the scratchers I wanted to buy.

"Whoa! You fooled me. I was sure you were getting this one you always get."

"Nope. That other one spoke to me more. But sometimes, they're dirty, dirty liars!"

Heh, heh. I don't make small talk like that with the other cashier. She's younger, and more businesslike. Every now and then I can get her to crack a smile. But it takes more work.

An 80-Degree Meal Fit For The 40s

While the weather was cold mid-week, I bought a pork butt roast at Country Mart. It was on sale for $2.98 a pound. I guess that's a good price. It's cheaper than beef! I don't usually cook a pork roast. Mine have always been beef, like an arm roast. HOS (Farmer H's Oldest Son) used to call it "stringy meat" in his adolescent days. He ate it. Just called it "stringy meat." He still preferred my cooking over that of Farmer H, to which he once inquired concerning his grilled-cheese sandwich: "Where's the cheese?"

Anyhoo... this pork roast was 4 pounds. I consulted my estranged BFF Google for a temperature and cooking time. There was a peel-off sticker on the front of the package, but of course it peeled off faultily and I couldn't read the chart.

Anyhoo... the recommendation was to cook a pork roast low and slow. To keep it tender, falling off the bone, and possible flake it to make pulled pork. However... advice varied. The temperature was the same: either 250 or 275. But the time was 40 minutes per pound, up to 70 minutes per pound. That's quite a difference!

Anyhoo... I put in my baby carrots and the roast, fatty side up. Since the reviews complained that the roast was done, but rather lacking in taste, I poured some steak sauce and then some Worcestershire Sauce on top. I put it in the oven, and cut up my onions. Added them and a dash more sauces on top. Then I peeled and cut the potatoes. And added a dash more sauces on top.

I checked the roast every half hour, adding sauces to the top, and swirling the pan to distribute juices to the vegetables. I also had more vegetables in a pan alone, because the roast took up so much room in the pan. After 5 hours, the meat was pulling away from the bone. I set the roast on top of the stove to let the juices distribute themselves while I put some biscuits in the oven.

That roast was succulent and tasty! Even Farmer H raved about it. More than once. And again the next day, having a sandwich of it with BBQ sauce and pickles. We still have plenty left for some more meals. The Pony said he'd take some "vinchtables" on Sunday, but he's not much of a roast or pork eater.

The only drawback was that the potatoes got a bit overdone, not being in the juices. They weren't burned, just a bit spongy from losing their moisture during the long cooking time. When I put away the leftovers, I put the roast in the small pan, and all the vegetables in the pan with the juices. It helped the potatoes a bit for the next day.

 

I will definitely make this again. Probably putting a couple strips of bacon over the potatoes. And maybe next time, the weather won't warm up to 80 on the day I cook it.

The Problem With The Overly-Friendly Guy At The Gas Station Chicken Store

Some people are nice as can be. Friendly fellows who never met a stranger. It's nice to encounter their sunny disposition, IF YOU HAVE EXTRA TIME.

 

I rarely run on a schedule, but on Wednesday I was a bit behind in getting to town, and wanted to get home to get supper started. Of course there was a line in the Gas Station Chicken Store. A lady was paying, a man behind her, and two guys waiting over by the soda fountain. I stood off to the side, telegraphing that I knew they were ahead of me, but I wasn't going to walk all the way down an aisle and halfway up the next one to stand in line behind them.

 

One guy was a burly fellow, waiting to pay for a case of beer. Not shaming him. A working man is entitled to his beer at the end of the day. Burly G had something to say about everything. Just being friendly, you know.

 

The lady was having trouble with her card being read by the card reader. It has ONE JOB, people! Why can't a card reader read cards???

 

Burly G: "A lot of people have trouble with that. The lady in front of me yesterday couldn't get it to work, either." 

The man behind the lady finally got a chance to pay. Same problem.

Burly G: "I sometimes wipe off my card to see if it will work. Sometimes it helps."

The other soda fountain guy had his turn. Asked for some scratchers.

Burly G: "Oh, I might get some of those too!"

When it was Burly G's turn, he indeed got some scratchers. Paid for his beer. Asked for four little bottles of Fireball, the cinnamon-flavored whiskey that Genius hates. He paid with cash, then stepped aside while folding up his paper money he got in change. He left his case of beer sitting on the class case so that I couldn't see the scratchers. Good thing I have my favorites memorized!

Burly G: "When you open the drawer, can I have some quarters?"

The cashier didn't respond. She was waiting on me, seeing as how it was my turn.

Burly G: "Oh, you have a winner? I can't play those big tickets."

"I do after a win. I won $500 last week on a $10 ticket."

Burly G: "I might have to get me one of those!"

The cashier opened the register to give me back the change from my winner after my purchase. She turned to Burly G, and handed him 4 quarters. "I'll give you four, but we really don't give people change here."

Burly G took his 4 quarters, and handed over a dollar. He made no move to leave. 

But I did.

Poor Pony Cannot Catch A (Non-Ankle) Break

I asked The Pony if he reported his fall yesterday. Just in case there are problems in the future from his resulting headache. Because if he goes to the doctor, he will have to report it as a work-related injury, or be subject to insurance fraud.

"Yeah. I told the manager I fell before I told you."

"Okay. So there's a record of it."

"Yeah. It's not that bad of a thing, but the closing manager said she saw the red patch and two scratches going down from it, there under the left eye. And my knees got a bit scraped, but not enough to bleed. I should be fine. I haven't actually been hungry today. But I went to Steak N Shake though. And forgot my jacket! Now they have a hat, and it."

 

"Can you get it back?"

 

"Presumably. Just need to remember to ask next time I go. The hat was months ago and a server said they found it a few trips back, but she wasn't sure where they'd put it."

"I guess you got another hat."

"Yep. Which is also MIA right now, but probably in my car."

"I'm sure you'll go back there within a week, and they should have your jacket."

"Yeah. I'm supposed to be over there doing that route tomorrow, so I might stop by to ask."

So the next day, I sent a text around 2:00 to remind Pony of the jacket.

"Still working. Haven't taken my break yet, planning to do it at the end and get the jacket and a to-go burger. If I've got time on the burger part anyway. I don't need to leave over here until 3:30 and I'm in the last hour of my route right now because possibly-concussed me walks fast."

While sitting at the bank drive-thru, I heard sirens and saw a fire truck go down the highway towards where The Pony was working. Of course, without my helicopter, I was worried.

"You okay? Sirens going to your area. Fire truck."

"Still? Hope that's a separate fire, several went by awhile ago at 2:30. So either a couple of them, or a pretty bad fire then. Clocked out, got my jacket. Ran into a manager at the Steak N Shake. Hadn't gotten the thing to order, so was just grabbing the jacket. She went 'Oh going through the drive though won't take ten minutes.' I just looked at the Metris. It took her a second."

 

"Even I get it! And I have never worked with right-hand drive vehicles!"

 

Because, you see, it is quite difficult to order at a drive-thru when you sit on the side of the vehicle opposite the menu, speaker, and window.

 

Poor Pony. He went without his burger, and had to make chicken patties and 8 slices of buttered toast at home! I'd say he's got his appetite back.

Just One More Thing To Worry About

I really do need to get my parental helicopter off the blocks and back in flying condition. Just because The Pony is not under the Mansion roof any more, and is back from college and only 10 miles away, DOES NOT mean I can stop worrying! TEXT on Wednesday:

"Agh. Tripped on broken sidewalk and smashed face first into the ground. Just glad I went sideways to the grass instead of concrete. Pretty sure I'm fine."

"I hope you're okay."

"Should be. Glasses are fine, teeth are fine. Legs are scraped up, but not bleeding. Only real concern is the headache I got. Left side of face hit the ground and feels a bit puffy, right side got an instant headache that's fading slowly."

"You sloshed your brain. Should be okay."

"Yeah. Could've been a lot worse."

"INDEED, says your ankle."

That was around 10:00 a.m. Only two hours into The Pony's work day. As I type this, it's 1:00. I guess he'll be fine... With my helicopter, I could have been following him with a tether, and kept him off the ground when he tripped!

Tuesdays As I Park With Pony

Tuesday is currently The Pony's day off. If I need something from him, like his house payment, or if I have something to give him, like scratchers or water jugs, I park in his driveway and he comes out. I may be older and have more insurance, but he's younger and has better knees.

Yesterday, I pulled up and we got some paperwork out of the way before starting our errands trek. I mentioned how I'm afraid that if a snow comes, he might be stuck in his driveway if the snowplow makes a drift at the end of his driveway.

"Maybe you should back in, if you know there's snow in the forecast. So at least you'd be driving forward, trying to get through a drift."

 

"Actually, I plan to park on the street in front if there's gonna be snow."

 

"You can still get plowed in! That's more of a main route than your side street. They could pile snow up all around your car."

 

"Well. I could always walk."

 

"I bet somebody would come get you if you asked."

 

"That time I had to get my car worked on, the manager came to get me. She'd probably do it again."

 

"Yeah. You're so close. I would be way easier to run over here and pick you up, rather than get people to cover your route."

 

On we went, to the bank, the credit union, and an office where we had to sign papers. As I parked on the street, we were treated to an unusual sight coming out the door of a storefront up the street.

 

"Huh. Are they having a Halloween party? Look at that suit. It's about 10 sizes too big."

 

"Maybe. Look. That lady has a dog under her arm. And she's in a suit, too!"

 

"Yeah. But just the jacket. And it's white. Like a doctor's coat. Also 10 sizes too big. It must be a costume party. And look at THAT guy! His hair is clown red!"

 

"But he's in a suit. They're definitely having some kind of party or celebration."

 

"Yeah. There's two women in dresses."

 

"Well. Not fancy dresses. But for around here, that's dressing up."

 

"Nobody goes out in a dress just casually on a Tuesday afternoon. But look at those two! One in a camouflage jacket, and that little girl in leopard print!"

 

"That lady crossing the road is wearing house slippers."

 

"I can't figure this out."

 

"I think maybe they had a wedding. Or at least a reception."

 

As we got out of T-Hoe and started up the three steps onto the sidewalk, the "party" of folks who had crossed the street set off a GLITTER CANISTER! As much like glitter as you can call it when it's outside in the wind, bright red shiny foil-y stuff about 3 inches square, coming right at you.

 

"Hurry, Pony! Grab the door before it gets to us!"

 

"I think we have our answer. I think that was a wedding."

 

"I think so too. But it's really hard to pick out the brides or grooms, because of how everybody was dressed."

 

I suppose we'll never know. 

The Goose Just Can't Please The Gander

Farmer H has tasked me with a couple of important duties this week concerning financial dealings. He said on Friday that the information I needed would be ready on Monday. And that I needed to call a local institution. Even though he'd been dealing with them, it suddenly became MY job!

When he left the Mansion at 6:30 a.m., Farmer H pointedly stated, "I bet they don't open until 9:00."

"No. 9:30. I looked it up last night." Which was a lie, because they opened at 8:30, but I was a bit groggy, having not slept yet, and got confused. Though the part about looking it up was true. 

 

What Farmer H doesn't know won't hurt him. It's not like I was going to call the minute they opened. Think about it. If they knew the information I wanted on Friday, they would have told Farmer H on Friday. Just the passing of the weekend would not make it suddenly available at the start of business on Monday!

I planned to call just before 11:00. That way, they'd have time to gather the info, and would not yet have left for lunch. I went to bed at 7:00, and set my alarm to get up at 10:45. Funny how I felt like I just got to sleep!

At 10:55, I called. I asked for the person Farmer H told me was handling our business. The receptionist said, "Just a minute, I'll transfer you." I got a machine. I left my name and number, and the three pieces of info I needed. I waited for a chance to hear the message back. Huh. No such option. 

 

That machine told me: due to lack of speaking, the message had been paused. What in the Not-Heaven? How were you supposed to FINISH a message, if every time you said "Thank you, goodbye," and quit talking, it said the message was paused! So I wasn't sure my message would actually be heard. But I didn't want to call right back and be a nuisance.

 

I couldn't go back to bed, because my call might be returned, and I'd need my pen and paper to jot down the info. So I sat at the kitchen table, not-sleeping. For two hours.

At 1:08, I called back. This time, I gave my name to the receptionist, and told her the information I needed.

"Oh. Let me go get the folder. The person who does that had to step out." 

She came back, and gave me WAY WRONG info. So I explained a bit more. She politely tried to help, but the info was not in the folder. So she said she'd take my name and number, and have that person call me.

"She WILL be back before we close. She just had an errand."

At 2:30, I called Farmer H, who had been incommunicado all morning, out in the middle-er of nowhere, working on Back-Creek Neighbor Bev's house. He was NOT pleased.

"Don't get mad at ME! I've called twice, and I know nothing more than I knew this morning."

"Call back."

"No. I've called TWICE! Left a message with a machine AND a person. It's not my fault they're not doing their job."

"I'm at Pony's now. I'll go by there and find out."

"Well, good luck with that. I've waited all day. I can't answer the phone and get info while I'm driving. So I've just wasted the day sitting here."

 

"Go on to town. I'll take care of it."

He called me about 15 minutes later.

"She's here. She's going to call you."

So I waited some more. But then Farmer H called me back. 

"She's going to email it to me. So you can go on."

"Good luck with that! They close in less than two hours. I can't do my assignment tomorrow if I don't get that info today."

"Well. Just go there tomorrow and walk in and tell them you've been trying to get the info, but nobody called you back, and you need it or we can't proceed on Wednesday."

Good thing for Farmer H that I got a call at 4:10, right after I got out of the shower. I got the info, which had also been sent to my email a few seconds before.

Farmer H needs to stop being so bossy! I can only do what other people allow me to do. Not my fault they can't do a job right, or follow through with their promises! 

Heh, heh. Farmer H said the receptionist was rude to him when he walked in asking for the info. Said that she had talked to me, and TOLD ME that I would be getting a call. Uh huh. I was pretty sure that repeated calls would not speed up the process. 

Farmer H should realize that he is not the center of the universe and the boss of the world.

The Beans Were Irresistible

The Pony didn't give in and eat his cannellini beans right out of the can. But the next night, he whipped up a little something with them. Or a big something. The Pony has an appetite.

 

"Good food."

 

 "Pictures are loading."

 

"Beans, rice, onions?"

 

"And chicken."

I didn't notice those white things until later, after The Pony was already snoozing in preparation for a busy Monday at work. They looked like water chestnuts at first, but I think they are probably garlic. The Pony loves his garlic. And beans too, apparently.

Full Of Beans

The Pony was supposed to be off Sunday, but volunteered to work a few hours. It's that new Amazon Prime Day thing, with many packages to be delivered. The Pony didn't want to cause hardship to his PO brethren and sistren. He doesn't mind the package deliveries TOO much, since Sundays are usually short days. Unless it's Amazon Prime Day.

Anyhoo... he knew that Saturday would be busy, too, because of those packages. I guess he was tired when he got home. At 5:59, he sent me a text:

"I have the weirdest impulse to just open this can of cannellini beans and eat them. It's weird."

 

"I used to eat Campbell's Bean With Bacon Soup out of the can."

"This is just beans, though!"

"Protein. You could be eating something worse."

"I'm eating protein already!"

 

"Chicken and feta in a pita."

"And it rhymes!"

"That is an untrue statement! It's like saying irony rhymes with firefly!"

"I stand corrected."

"Pita rhymes with Peta, feta rhymes with chedda'."

Looks like The Pony is feeling his oats, whether he's full of beans or not.

The Unbearable Priciness Of Eating

We've been eating food from home for a while, so I told Farmer H that I might check Country Mart's deli to pick up something for supper. First I made sure that he hadn't eaten the same thing for lunch at the senior center. That has a way of happening. I'll plan a meal, and when he gets home, he mentions that's what he ate for lunch!

 

"Where are you? I'm heading to town, and might pick up some supper. What did you have for lunch?"

 

"I'm sittin' here shootin' the bull with my buddy. Chicken... no, turkey! It was turkey and stuffing and cauliflower." 

"Oh. So you probably don't want chicken. That's about all they have lately at the deli."

"No. Chicken is okay. I like their chicken. I had TURKEY for lunch. I just said it was chicken."

"Okay. I'll see what they have."

Well! They had something new! Baked chicken leg/thigh quarters, in BBQ sauce. There were only four in the bin, and two looked kind of scrawny, without much sauce. AND they had the fried shrimp again! They're pretty big. The Pony used to love them.

"I'll have two of the chicken leg quarters. No dinner. Just two of the chicken."

"They cost $3.97 apiece. Do you still want them?"

"NO! Never mind that! How much is a shrimp dinner?"

"That's $9.99. It comes with five shrimp and two sides."

"Oh. And I have to get extra shrimp, too, and last time it was a dollar a shrimp! So no on the shrimp dinner. How about the fried chicken?"

"White meat is $8.99. Dark is $7.99."

"Okay. I'll take a white meat chicken dinner. With mashed potatoes and brown gravy, and the macaroni and cheese."

"Huh. I can't tell what this piece is. I thought it was a breast. But what's that stuck to the side? I think that might be a neck!"

"It's okay. My dog will like the neck. Or maybe my husband, heh, heh! Do you think you could put in a leg, instead of the wing?"

"Yeah, but you didn't see me do it!"

"Okay. I'll just look again in your cold case for something for me. It's gotta be better than $8.00 for two leg quarters!"

Yep. There was a clear box of cold fried chicken, made today, that had a breast, two thighs, a leg, and something that might be part of a breast, or another thigh. So five pieces of chicken, for $6.01. That's a better deal. So now I don't have to cook until Sunday.

Of course I could have bought raw chicken cheaper, maybe, and cooked it myself. But that defeats the purpose of picking up something in the deli.

Pon Appetit

Now that The Pony is a regular, his work hours are mostly 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. If he can't finish his route, then he does his own overtime. But he doesn't get sent to help others like the CCAs (City Carrier Assistants). He doesn't have his own route yet, but fills in for others on their days off. So he mainly does the same assorted routes on set days. 

With a more regular schedule, The Pony seems to be doing more of his own cooking, rather than ordering out. Of course you know The Pony's favorite dish: STEAK. He sent me a picture of Wednesday night's supper:

 

"Oh, wait. That's probably blurry. Just realized there was butter on my camera."

Heh, heh! Only The Pony. He's a true Butterton. He cleaned it off, and sent the plating:

 

"Steak and mashed potatoes?"

"Yep. And garlic toast."

Notice the fancy plate? Farmer H gave The Pony a set of 6 plates and 4 bowls that he got from a buddy at the flea market. The Pony has a standing offer for me to buy him a set of plates for last year's Christmas gift, but he hasn't gotten around to picking any out. When I reminded him, he said,

"Why? Now I have the ones Dad gave me. The bowls look like the plates, but with more of a depression in the middle."

I guess he's okay for now. Like he also said, "How many plates can I possibly use?"

Perhaps My Worries About The Pony Were Unfounded, When He Was Living 8 Hours Away During College

Sweet Gummi Mary! I poured my heart and soul into worrying about The Pony when he left the nest for college in Oklahoma at the tender age of 18. Then breathed a sigh of relief after graduation, when he got a job and a house only 20 minutes away. I'm gasping again!

The Pony sent me a text Tuesday night.

"Something scratched on my window just now!"

"Maybe a bat? I hope you're not conjuring Old Scratch!"

 

"Also they found a body on That Street yesterday."

 

"Wait. Is that the street before the one I turn on to get to your driveway?"

 

"No. It's the next street up the hill behind my house. Parallel."

 

"Oh. The one I take to go over the bridge the back way to Casey's. YIKES to the body!"

 

"Yeah. They found it yesterday. '...the chief said a woman sitting outside the police station informed the officer of what appeared to be a body in the back of a truck in the 100 block of That Street in Sis-Town.' The article said it appeared to have been there several days. Story says they arrested somebody for abandoning/tampering with a corpse." 

"Bet it was drugs."

"That's what they suggested. The paper said no obvious injuries."

"The corpse-tamperer didn't want to get caught with drugs, and then it was too late to report. So just did nothing. That's my theory."

"Paper says they didn't release the identity of the guy, but that they described him as a 57-year-old homeless man. Also, wrapping a body in a rug and putting it in a truck is far from 'nothing.'"

"They could claim he slept there! Wrapped up in the rug!"

Anyhoo... I don't think there's a murderer roaming the neighborhood, scratching on The Pony's window. The corpse was at least a half mile from his house. After all, we had a headless body found in a septic tank closer to the Mansion than that! But I can understand why The Pony might have been a bit skittish about the window-scratching.

I'm always available when my little Pony needs to text me at 11:07 p.m.

Fly Swat Is The New Mouse Trap

Dang stupid flies! It's like they wait outside the kitchen door, poised like Olympic sprinters in starting blocks, waiting to rush into the Mansion as I'm doling out treats to the dogs. Who had thawed-out frozen roasted chicken strips that expired April 2020, much to their delight, on Tuesday.

 

After I put away a few groceries that The Pony had picked up for me in the Devil's Playground, I spied a dastardly fly sitting on the spout of my Bath and Body Works Coconut Sandalwood foaming hand soap, given to me by my sister the ex-mayor's wife last Christmas.

 

I grabbed my lime-green flyswatter, the new one I bought when I picked up a few for The Pony in Country Mart earlier in the summer. Still he sat there. Probably rubbing his grimy fly-hands with glee, watching me with his 12,000 eyes.

 

SWAT!

 

I slammed the lime-green flyswatter down on that impudent insect with a vengeance. What happened next was totally unexpected. 

 

It rivaled the sequence of a game of Mouse Trap, where a boot kicks over a bucket holding a marble, which rolls down stairs and through a trough, then trips a lever that sends a ball into a bathtub with a hole in the bottom, and then falls through, launching an old man in dated swimwear into a swimming pool, where the vibrations of the platform it sits upon shakes loose a basket atop a pole, which shimmies down and traps a mouse sitting below. Here's a 10-second video, but the old man is more modern in this version than in my childhood game.

In the Mrs. HM game of Fly Swat, my lime-green flyswatter came down upon the fly. The bottle of Bath and Body Works Coconut Sandalwood foaming hand soap fell off the rim of the sink, landing spout-down in a Chinese Tupperware container full of soapy water that had recently held leftover chili. The momentum of the drop caused the Chinese Tupperware container to turn over, spilling out the soapy water, but leaving the bottle of Bath and Body Works Coconut Sandalwood foaming hand soap still inside.

I have no idea what happened to the fly. I have not seen him now in five hours. Perhaps he was washed down the drain. Which is just as good as being squashed by the lime-green flyswatter.

The Stick Grows Longer As I Reach For The Carrot

Last time I stopped by The Pony's house, he commented on my aluminum water bottle. It's red, with a black plastic top that has a finger ring for easy grabbing, and a flip-top spout. I felt particularly guilty, because I had at first purchased that water bottle with the intent of giving it to The Pony. 

 

However... The Pony had his two stainless steel water jugs, plus three plastic jugs I had bought him when a metal jug broke. In fact, The Pony has previously turned down the red metal water bottle, which holds about 24 oz, when he was at the Mansion and I offered it to him. It's a Hamilton Beach brand, and I bought it at Country Mart during the summer.

"Oh, Mom. That water bottle? [He pointed to it as we sat in T-Hoe] It's just the right size now for me to take to work. Now that the weather is cooler, that would be plenty of water to last me for the day. Especially since I've been driving a Metris."

"Oh. Not gonna lie. I LOVE this water bottle! I'll give it to you, though."

"No. That's okay. But if you see another one..."

"I don't know. With the change in weather, I don't know if Country Mart will have them. But I might look online."

Of course I can't find such a water bottle online. I found some kind of similar. At least I found metal. With a flip spout. I ordered three of them for The Pony, in 24, 32, and 36 oz, I think. They are different colors. Unfortunately, once ordered, I discovered that they would be shipped by FedEx! My nemesis! We're like Jerry and Newman.

My email last Thursday said that my items would arrive on Tuesday, by the end of the day. Then on Friday, the tracking said my items would arrive by the end of SATURDAY! You know how that worked out, right? No package.

Sunday, the tracking said I'd have my package by the end of the day on MONDAY. I just happened to come up on a FedEx van Monday afternoon, crossing the long high bridge (resurfaced last week!), turning onto my county blacktop road. 

Sweet Gummi Mary! What a stroke of luck! I was sure that FedEx van was headed to my Mansion. I'd follow, and get out to call off the dogs, and get that package. No more mystery as to its arrival.

What in the Not-Heaven? That FedEx van made a left turn into the Best Compound. The family of speedy drivers. I went on by, sure that FedEx would drop a package, and resume the trek to the Mansion. After all, it was 4:30. Almost the end of the day. 

I parked on the carport, fiddling with my phone, watching up the driveway. Huh. Five minutes passed. That was plenty of time for FedEx to travel that distance. Huh. WHAT IF that was the driver who puts packages on top of Mailbox Row? Oh, crap! There went three hooligans on 4-wheelers, down towards the mailboxes. Maybe I should go look...

I started T-Hoe again, and drove the mile to the mailboxes. Nothing on top. No sign of FedEx. So I went back home. Called Farmer H to make sure he looked on the way home, in case a box was perched atop EmBee. He said he'd check the mail, but I reminded him that it's a Post Office Holiday. The Pony had a paid day off for Columbus Day.

Farmer H did not find a package. Now tracking says my package will arrive by the end of the day on TUESDAY. Sure it will...

Another Cryptic Message

Farmer H sent me an email on Sunday, shortly before noon. It had no subject line, but once I opened it on my phone, it had the message "Guy took this this morning."

Let the record show that there was a picture accompanying the message. This is what I saw on my phone, without downloading the picture. It takes forever inside the Mansion, and I had better things to do, like whipping up a cauldron of chili.

 

I was not pickin' up what Farmer H was layin' down. So I had to send a text.

 

"What do you mean TOOK it? Stole or bought? And there's about 50 things in that picture."

 

"Picture of me."

 

"All I can see is the background on my phone. I'll look later when I check that email on my laptop."

When I got back from town, I finally saw what Farmer H was meaning to show me.

 

Well. That's a little bit different. I have altered the photo for privacy purposes. But WHY would a guy take such a picture of Farmer H? I hope it's not for nefarious purposes! The guy is in for a rude awakening if he's trying to get Farmer H in trouble, because he is fully-licensed for all items he sells, with taxes up-to-date.

You might notice that Farmer H is growing out his Santa beard for the holidays. And also growing out his Santa stomach...

Call The Waaaaambulance, I've Been Kissed By Dog Lips

When I came home from town Friday, I went to T-Hoe's rear to retrieve a 6-pack of Farmer H's Diet Mountain Dew. My little Jack trotted around there. He usually waits inside the garage, by the people door, for me to pet him and let him out. Juno does not come into the garage when I drive in. She still has PTSD from when she was young, and had her very special operation, and was closed up in the garage for a day until her anesthesia wore off.

 

Anyhoo...  I set my purse down on the bumper, and leaned over to pet Jack. He stands up on his hind legs, and rests his dusty paws on my dark blue pants. I leaned over farther, sweet-talking him, which enabled his long little body to stretch those paws onto my purple shirt, and get his head close to mine.

YIKES! Jack's long tongue lapped out and swiped my sweet-talking lips! His tongue went in my mouth! I immediately thought of Lucy being kissed by Snoopy, screaming that her lips had been touched by dog lips, and to get hot water and disinfectant and iodine!

Okay. That was the SECOND thing I thought of. The first thing I though of was that Jack's tongue tasted like DOG POOP! Not that I've ever tasted dog poop. But now I'll never have to, thanks to Jack. 

 

It was all I could do to refrain from chugging Farmer H's Wild Turkey to disinfect my oral cavity. Water just doesn't seem to have the same medicinal qualities.

A Dollar Can't Hurt

You might remember that Mrs HM is not very tolerant of beggars. Panhandlers or legitimate charity solicitors, I rarely contribute. I have my selected charities to which I donate, by check, on a yearly basis.

 

Friday, I was accosted by a little girl and adult man as I hobbled into the Gas Station Chicken Store. They were set up by the door, in front of the window. I'm not even sure if they had permission. They were essentially standing/sitting in the drive by the gas pumps. 

 

I was clutching a $60-winner scratcher. I'm not sure what the charity was. The Man was holding an opaque plastic container that reminded me of a hospital urinal given to men patients to do their business in bed. The Little Girl asked if I wanted to donate to help sick people get better. How was I supposed to answer that???

 

"It's only a dollar. And you get a Tootsie Roll."

 

"Um. Sorry. I only have this big lottery ticket."

I went in and did my business. I usually spend $9 in there. A $3 crossword, a $3 purple picture ticket, and a Cash4Life draw ticket for The Pony. I cashed in my $60 winner and got back $51 in change.

"I'm going to give this dollar to that little girl for her charity. I couldn't exactly give her that $60 winner when I came in. It wouldn't fit in the container, heh, heh!"

"Oh, that's nice. She couldn't have cashed in that ticket anyway! She's not 18!"

I wasn't doing it to be nice. But she was such a bold little thing, sitting there on a kid-size lawn chair, eating a sucker while her companion held out the money jug.

I walked past and stuffed the dollar in the jug. "Here ya go. I've got change now."

"Thank you! Don't you want some Tootsie Rolls?" said the Man.

"Nope. Don't need 'em."

"Thank you," said the Little Girl.

I really wish whatever this Tootsie Roll charity is would give people a name tag or paper apron or something to advertise the charity. There's a lot of beggars afoot these days.

Wouldn't You Like To Buy Some Pepper, Too

No. I did not buy pepper when I shopped at Country Mart on Thursday. I have plenty of pepper, thanks. Not long ago I filled my metal grinder thingy gifted by my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel. It requires tearing a paper plate in half, making a makeshift funnel, and pouring in the peppercorns from a plastic container. THEN comes the hardest part of lining up the two little holes and pointy thingies that make sure the grinder is put back together right. This used to be Genius's job. Then The Pony's. Now I'm on my own.

 

After perusing the spice selection, I felt woozy! SO MANY SPICES! That's just the basics. There was another section the same size, to the right. The Pony would go hog wild in here!

 

 

Anyhoo... a comment from blog buddy River made me curious about the pepper selection. So many spices, so little attention span to focus on what's there! I was looking for a self-grinding version of black pepper. Nope. Not here. Or IS IT???

 

I was shocked at the price of ground pepper! That's $8.98 for a 6 oz. tin of name brand ground black pepper!

 

 

But look what it says on the label ABOVE the black pepper! SELF GRINDER. I think. When I zoomed in, it was something like that. So I had to look back at the big picture to see if it was actually in stock. That's debatable. Maybe? One item? PEPCORN GRNDR $5.48 for 2.5 oz., it says. 

I would zoom in on the big picture and show that area, but BLOGGER has been playing up and showing out all evening, and I don't have the desire to fight it any more. So you'll have to make do with what's here. And even that I begrudge you! Stupid BLOGGER!

My Amazing Success Would Have Been Tempered By My Abject Failure

One of my favorite TV shows is The Amazing Race. I've watched it from the beginning. That's how I see the world! Surely you don't think Mrs. HM would hoist her ample rumpus on a plane and circumnavigate the globe!

Young Genius used to be my viewing partner. We'd pick teams on the first episode, and see who came out the closest to winning. We rarely chose the same teams. When he was around 10 or 11, Genius used to joke that he and I should try to enter and compete on The Amazing Race. Sadly, I'm not so sure he was joking!

Here's the thing... even at 11, Genius would have been the strength of our team. Unless he did something like leave his passport in a taxi, like that poor team of deaf dude and his mom. I have limited talents that might apply. Forget teaching me a dance or a song in a foreign language, or detecting the minute differences in classic paintings, or diving down to unhook puzzle pieces off the ocean floor.

Last night, The Amazing Race had THE PERFECT CHALLENGE for Mrs. HM! They had to listen to an 8-minute lecture on anatomy, and label body parts on a wooden plank body. YES! I could have done that with both left and right cerebral hemispheres tied behind my vertebrae! Seriously! They had to label parts like the LIVER, for cryin' out loud! And the humerus. And coccyx. And metacarpals. And clavicle. I couldn't see everything, but there were 16 answers, and they were given about 20 labels, so some didn't get used. After my classes in human anatomy and physiology, I am still quite prepared to spout off body parts! I could have skipped the entire lecture, by cracky!

However... the second challenge was putting together a Ducati motorcycle! Sweet Gummi Mary! I couldn't have done that with everyone else's cerebral hemispheres combined! Sure, they had a dude demonstrating what to do. And they only had to put on the wheels and brakes, then screw on the body. It's not like they had to build a 747 from scratch. Still, I am not in the least bit mechanically inclined.

I'm pretty sure this is the leg that would have eliminated me and Young Genius if I had been responsible for that Ducati. If HE did it, we might have won the leg.

The Pony's Sweet Tooth Leads Him Astray

The Pony also tried making dessert last week. He was lacking a prime ingredient, and added another not in the original recipe. So he was not thrilled with the results. He said it tasted fine, but the appearance was a bit off-putting.

 

The Pony used the microwave fudge recipe given to him by blog buddy Sioux. He was missing the sweetened condensed milk, or maybe just didn't have enough. And he added some butterscotch chips he had on hand. Here it is before he brewed his cauldron.

The Pony said the butterscotch chips were a mistake, because they melt differently than the regular semisweet and milk chocolate chips. He was taken aback by the appearance of the final product:

 

His cauldron is a bowl that I gave him, which is part of a set of Pioneer Woman merch from the Devil's Playground. I need to advise him to be careful while cooking with GLASS, before it hurts him like a hot steak!

Anyhoo... The Pony said his fudge tasted just fine, but he wasn't fond of the texture nor the appearance. I bet none of it was wasted.

If You Are Invited To A Pony Dinner...

You might want to think twice, if you receive an invitation to dine with The Pony. Ask some questions. The main one being: "When was the last time you went to the store?" Another inquiry might be: "When was the last time you had butter fingers?"

 

Yes, it would be nice to have steak, if you didn't have to drive The Pony to the ER with a burned thumb. You'd get a good meal. But when it's been a while since he shopped, you might not like the fare as much. Like this entree:

 

 

That appears to be a wrap of rigatoni and alfredo sauce. Good for a vegetarian. Or perhaps someone planning to run a marathon the next day. Or those on a bland diet after surgery.

If you can stand a bit more spice, then this might be the meal for you:

 

By "a bit more spice," I actually mean a rumpusload of spice, way to much for the average person, and not intended to be on the menu. I'm pretty sure that was intended to be the inside of a burrito. Chicken, black beans, rice... and what appears to be oregano. The Pony DID mention his previous mishap at the Mansion, when the lid came off of the red pepper flakes. I don't know how such a thing could happen again with another spice. And I don't know who puts oregano in a burrito. Maybe it was something else. IN EXCESS!

Anyhoo... The Pony is an adventurous chef, and will at least give you a quantity that will fill your belly. Whether your belly wants to keep it is the question.

Feeding the (Sweet, Sweet) Beast

After Farmer H endured my interrogation about the (stolen) dog food and the de-wormer medicine on Saturday, he proceeded to mix up a dish of food for Sweet, Sweet Juno. I could hear him on the porch.

"Juno! JUNO! Come on and eat! NO! Jack! Get away from there! That's not yours!"

I heard and then saw Juno trot around the porch, past the kitchen windows, and heard her lapping water from the dish by the laundry room door. Then she went skipping back, on her three legs, still favoring that back one with the mystery injury.

"Okay. Come on. JACK! NO! Get out of here! Junoooo. Come on."

I wanted to go to the door, and once again inform him that he was scaring Juno by talking harshly to Jack. But when I do that, the dogs come running to the kitchen door for a treat. So I sent a text: "If she won't eat it, bring it in, and we'll give it to her later." I got no response. After another five minutes, I went to the door and told Farmer H. "I sent you a text!"

"I know. I got it."

You know. I'm supposed to be a mind-reader. Farmer H carried in a full dish of dry/canned dog food. He said he had put her de-wormer in it. So she needed to finish eating to get the rest of the medicine.

 

"I actually gave her two cans. She ate the first one, with half the medicine, but now she's not eating the second one." 

Of course not. Not in the midst of the 3-ring circus that is Farmer H trying to coax her. When I got back from town about 90 minutes later, I set the dish in Juno's house. She started lapping at it right away. Polished off the whole bowl. In the privacy of her abode, where she wasn't worried about a pair of Jacks stealing it.

Farmer H said that both Juno and Jack ate the new dry food when he dished it out on Sunday morning. He also put a can of food on more dry food for Juno later that afternoon. And around 9:30, I gave her a thawed frozen dinner from 2017: Beef Stroganoff. Dogs are handy disposals for cleaning out the freezer!

I think Juno might be looking a tiny bit less emaciated. Farmer H agreed. Maybe I'm just seeing her after she's gorged herself after multiple feedings. At least she acts like she feels okay, and is not refusing food.

Farmer H's Charmed Life

Farmer H does indeed lead a charmed life. Evidenced enough by the fact that I have not relegated him to the dog house to slumber with my Sweet, Sweet Juno. I could never do that to her.

Speaking of my special fleabag... Farmer H FINALLY bought the de-worming medicine for her on Saturday, after his stint at his Storage Unit Store. Before you go patting him on the back, please realize that the place he bought it is RIGHT BY HIS STORAGE UNIT STORE. Seriously. Pull out of the parking lot, make an immediate right turn, and you're there. 

Because Farmer H has been so forgetful in getting this possible remedy for what ails Juno, he told me on Friday night to remind him Saturday. 

"Send me a text so I don't forget. I'll leave my store early so I'm not late for the auction, and go to the Devil's Playground to get her medicine and some different dog food."

"Okay. They're going to need cedar shavings, too. It's been getting down in the 30s at night."

So I sent Farmer H a text at 10:20. "Dog food and wormer and cedar shavings." He never replied.

Once home, Farmer H gave me the receipt:

 

"Hey! What are these circus peanuts?"

"Circus peanuts."

"I know WHAT they are. I didn't know they're good food for Juno."

"They weren't for Juno. They're for me."

"Huh. You know they're pure sugar. I don't see them. Did you eat the whole bag already?"

"No... they're out in the truck."

"So you didn't get dog food?"

"I got dog food."

"It's not on the receipt."

"Well, I bought it. Let me see. Huh. Well. Maybe she didn't ring it up. It was under the cedar shavings. Diamond Adult Maintenance. It's in a yellow bag, with blue on the sides."

So you see what he's done again? Farmer H has gotten out of a store with a product he has not paid for. But thought he did. Gotta say, I don't add up my purchases in my head when I go to the store. I just plop it on the conveyor, and jam my card into the reader. I don't check it when I go out, just to write down the total, unless something doesn't seem right.

I hope there's not an APB out for his arrest...