Mrs. HM, The Over-Optimist

Wednesday night, I was in a hurry to shut down HIPPIE and get to the TV by 11:00 so I didn't miss the start of a show. I figured I could come back to the kitchen later, on a commecial, or when I got up for more ice in my metal water bottle, and bag up the full trash.

Well. I fell asleep! Can you believe that?

Farmer H was up as usual around 5:30. He picked up the two Diet Mountain Dew bottles that were sitting on the table beside his recliner. That's what he does. Leaves it there overnight, and carries it to the trash the next morning. Maybe he's waiting for me to do it... This time he waited TWO days!

Anyhoo... I heard the trash bag crinkling. Of course I assumed Farmer H was bagging it up himself so he could drive it up to the dumpster, resting on SilverRedO's hood, on his way to town. He went on about his morning routine, going through the laundry room to give the dogs water. Then setting out his morning Diet Mountain Dew, and a banana, on the cutting block to grab as he walked out.

Farmer H came back to the living room to sit on the long couch and say very much of nothing. I made my morning call to The Pony. Neither of us had any news to report, so it didn't last long. Farmer H revealed that he would not be playing bingo Thursday night. And then he left.

When I went to the kitchen at 7:00, there was the overflowing wastebasket. Only Farmer H had pulled up the sides of the bag to balance his two soda bottles on top without them rolling off.

I really should have known better than to suspend reality.

The Nonchalance Of Farmer H

Sweet Gummi Mary! Farmer H does not recognize the significance of safe handling of a major financial document!!!

Let the record show that Farmer H has never been meticulous about details. I need to give him detailed instructions concerning our finances. Also, that when I see a red pickup truck coming towards me, I know that it is Farmer H because of the clutter on the dashboard. There are many, many red pickup trucks in Hillmomba. In fact, our region could be called TRUCKMOMBA. But the only vehicle with a rat's nest of paperwork chilling on the dashboard is Farmer H's SilverRedO.

Wednesday morning, I was coaching Farmer H on the deposit of our check from the closing on our sale of the QuickFlip house. It was going to our credit union, for the creation of two CDs for maximum interest. I had the check from the title company laid out on the marred coffee table for Farmer H's signature. I had an envelope for him to carry that large check, as well as the earnest money check The Buyer had given us a few months ago. As well as the most recent receipt from the credit union for The Pony's house payment. That assured that Farmer H had our account number.

Anyhoo... once he signed the check, and put the documents in the envelope, Farmer H tried to stuff that business-size envelope into the pocket of his t-shirt! As you might imagine, that pocket was not quite adequate. The envelope only fit into it about 1/3. So the majority of that precious envelope was sticking out the top of the pocket.

"Be careful with that envelope! It contains A LOT of money!"

"It's fine, HM. I'm not going to lose the envelope."

"I hope not! Did I say that it's a LOT OF MONEY?"

"It's fine."

"I hope so. I hope it doesn't fall out of your pocket."

"I'm only taking it out to the truck. Then I'll take it out of my pocket."

I was not soothed by this declaration! So many documents (and possible junk) on SilverRedO's dashboard. And Farmer H not planning to deposit this large check until after his lunch at the Senior Center (biscuits and gravy day).

Farmer H came home with  certificates for the CDs. I haven't looked them over yet. I hope he carried out my mission.

A New Tactic Might Be Required

The marination of the pork steaks was disappointing. My portion was chewy and tough, despite five hours in the marinade. Farmer H said his was "okay," but that I would probably be disappointed. I have to blame the meat itself. Farmer H is a great griller. Can't pin this one on him.

I suppose I will have to start BOILING the pork steaks before grilling. That's what I do in the winter, before putting them in the oven, coated with BBQ sauce. They come out fork-tender. This tactic should not be necessary for a normal grilled pork steak. Sad how the quality of meat had declined. This has happened with purchases from both Save A Lot and 10Box. Save A Lot used to have the best meat around. They have their own butcher. I suppose 10Box might, as well. Anyhoo... these most recent pork steaks came from 10Box.

Meanwhile, Farmer H says he is not playing bingo on Tuesday nights anymore. That the "prices" are not worth it. I figure it's because his cronies have decided not to play there. Even though one of them won $8000. Seriously. What are the odds of THAT lightning striking twice? Farmer H has said that they might go on Thursday nights, to "music" bingo. Huh. Farmer H is terrible with music, unless it's late '80s country. He says his people know music, and they share the info at their table. Seems kind of cheaty, but whatever works to win Farmer H a "price."

And get him out of the Mansion one night a week!!!

Probably Not Our Problem

Farmer H decided that he would grill on Memorial Day. I bought some pork steaks at 10Box. I usually get our meat at Save A Lot, but the last pork steaks were fibrous and tough. This time, I checked with my estranged BFF Google about marinating the meat beforehand. A bit of soy sauce was recommended, but I didn't have that on hand. So I used Worcestershire Sauce instead. It's salty, too! AND I included the garlic, honey, and brown sugar. Rubbed that all right into the meat, and stored it in FRIG II for five hours. The instructions said it could be from 30 minutes to 24 hours.

Farmer H grilled the meat. He has since eaten his dinner, and said that maybe it was more tender, but perhaps we could marinate it longer next time.

Well. Farmer H is a good griller. For most of our married life, there has been no complaint about the meats he's grilled. I suppose the stores are using cheaper cuts of meat. It's becoming hard to want to buy from them, whether it's Save A Lot or 10Box or Country Mart. The twisted chicken breast meat is off-putting, chewing like gum. Now we have the pork steaks becoming unreliable. 

Makes me want to get my proposed handbasket factory up and running...

Laws Only Apply To Other People

With warm weather upon us, the scofflaws are converging on Hillmomba. Temps in the 80s are spurring ne'er-do-wells to drive to the country, and violate posted regulations.

Friday, on my way to town, there were people on the low water bridge. It's a public roadway, you know. Barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Yet a late-teen/young adult was standing on the left side of the bridge, tacklebox at his feet, holding a fishing pole. His companion had LEFT his fishing pole on the opposite side of the bridge. Just lying there on the concrete. While standing about 25 feet away, on the edge of the creek, reaching for something in the water.

I don't know if the second guy had tangled his hook on something, or was trying to grab some critter to use for bait. My point being that the two of these scofflaws were taking up room on both sides of the bridge, and had their truck parked ON THE ROAD, making it difficult for two vehicles to pass. Despite a sign posted that said NO PARKING.

On my way home Saturday, I turned onto our (PRIVATE) gravel road, and saw a car parked under the sign that says PRIVATE ROAD, TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. And in the creek near the car, a man and woman were splashing about in their clothes.

Nobody owns a waterway. But landowners DO own the roads that give access to the waterways. People are welcome to wade and fish and swim in the public waterways. But they need to find somewhere to park their vehicles that does not impinge on the flow of traffic on public roads, nor trespass on private property. Perhaps somebody could drop them off and return to pick them up. It's not rocket science.

Scofflaws put a bee in Mrs. HM's bonnet!

Mrs. HM Is Sure SHE Was Never This Annoying

As The Pony and I went in Save A Lot to shop on Wednesday after our signings to sell the QuickFlip house, we used one cart. I put my stuff in the child seat, and The Pony put his in the main cart. We did not stroll side-by-side, taking up the entire aisle. The Pony ranged afar, picking up his items and bringing them back. We encountered a pair who were not so considerate of other shoppers.

Going down the aisle where I told The Pony he could find the Sweet and Sour Sauce he desired for when he makes his frozen Chinese food, we faced a blockage. It was a woman with her adult son. NO! We were not looking into a mirror! 

This Woman had her cart in the middle of the narrow long aisle. Her son was standing at her side, playing a video game or something on his phone. He did not appear to be differently-abled. And was old enough to have beard stubble. So at least in his late teens. I suppose This Woman thinks she is a champion at playing the game of chicken. She did not move as I approached. So I had to stand, leaning on my cart-walker, until she deigned to proceed, and move to right side of the aisle to pass by me.

Everywhere we went in that store, This Woman and her cart were there, with her oblivious son taking up the rest of the aisle to stand and play his game.

Sweet Gummi Mary! Even when my kids were little, they did not take up so much space from other shoppers! The Pony would sit in the bottom of the cart, way past the age where it was considered socially acceptable, taking up room I need for groceries, while happily playing his GameBoy. Or assisting me by trotting to various aisle to select my items, somehow picking the foods that were smashed, dented, or partially-opened. Genius would wander off on his own, to the electronics section, to inquire about new shipments of hard drives or new technology. OR, he would prefer to ride on the bottom shelf of the cart, where most people stash cases of bottled water or soda or 50-lb bags of dog food, while stretching his arms out and pretending to be flying like SuperMan.

Yeah. I accept that my kids were weird. BUT THEY DIDN'T TAKE UP ROOM THAT PREVENTED OTHER SHOPPERS FROM SHOPPING!

This Woman probably parks in handicap spaces without a placard! And is teaching her son to do it as well!

Another Typical Ponyism

We closed the deal on our QuickFlip house on Wednesday, selling it to the lady who wanted it as a home for her elderly mother. I picked up The Pony to meet Farmer H at the abstract company, so we could all sign the papers. The Pony is our partner in these flip house investments.

Everything went as planned. At one point as we were signing, the facilitator asked if any of us had changed our driver's license since three weeks ago when we officially bought the QuickFlip house. Nope. Still the same. She didn't have to take new copies of our ID.

When we left, I drove The Pony out to our bank to deposit his check from the profits. Farmer H and I are putting ours into a CD at our credit union, so it was just The Pony putting his in the bank. Also, while I was there, I planned to take out our weekly cash allowance, and not have to come back to do it on Thursday as usual.

The Pony prefers to go inside for his transactions. I was worried that the lobby would close at 3:00 like it used to. It was 2:50 when we got there, and I parked out front for The Pony to go in with his profit check. He was back almost instantly.

"They are still open, but I don't have my ID. So I can't make a deposit. They said it's the policy. I can come back another day, when I'm off."

"PONY! Why do you never have your ID??? Just like at the casino, when you couldn't get paid your jackpot!"

"I know, Mom. It's at home with my work stuff."

"Good thing we didn't need it to sign the house papers! Oh, well. I'm going around to the drive-thru to get my weekly cash. Do you know when the lobby closes? I can take you back home to get your ID."

"It says on the door that it's at 5:00. But that might be old. It's painted on."

"I'll ask when we go around."

So I did, after sending in the canister with my withdrawal slip and driver's license.

"What time does your lobby close? In case we want to come back with an ID to make a deposit?"

The gal must have recognized the name on the account. Maybe she was the same one who waited on The Pony in the lobby.

"We're open until 5:00. Aren't you on that other account?"

"Yes. I'm on it."

"We can just use your ID, and still deposit that check in the other account."

"That will be great! As long as it goes in the other account, and not this one I'm withdrawing from."

"Yes. It's no problem."

So she sent the canister back, and I put The Pony's check in it and sent it back. He got a receipt from his account that the check had been deposited.

That's the reason The Pony had left me on his bank account since college. So I can make transactions for him in case he can't get to the bank during business hours. A sound decision. And I don't snoop. Unlike a certain Farmer H we all know...

Typical Pony

After our important meeting on Wednesday regarding the QuickFlip house, I drove The Pony to our bank. On the way back home, The Pony asked a question about an item at Save A Lot. He likes the frozen Crab Rangoon they have at the Hillmomba store. Yet I had not seen it in the Sis-Town store nearest The Pony's house.

"Oh! We can stop there now and take a look. I need salsa anyway, and I couldn't find it there last week."

We parked in the one remaining handicap space, and The Pony went to get me a cart as I hobbled toward the door. Once inside, The Pony trotted off to get items he wanted, like milk, cereal, duck sauce, and some frozen items. He also found my salsa on the chip aisle. We checked out with our separate orders, and proceeded back to T-Hoe. 

I had given The Pony my clicker to go unlock T-Hoe and open the back hatch. What happened next was typical Pony. By the time I got there with my cart/walker, the hatch refused to open.

"Pony! What did you DO???"

"I just pushed that button that I thought opened the back."

"Wait! Why are you messing with the glass part of the hatch? Did you open THAT part?"

"I don't know. But I think it came open. So I was just pushing on it to close it back."

"Well, use the handle part to open the hatch."

"I tried. But it won't do anything."

"WHAT? That always works. Let me do it."

Nope. The hatch wouldn't open. 

"What in the Not-Heaven did you DO?"

"I don't know! It just won't open!"

"Well. I guess we'll have to put it in the back seat. And maybe Dad can figure it out when I get home."

The Pony pushed on the glass to try and get it closed. Pushed on the hatch, which was open a couple of inches, but wouldn't budge either way. I was so exasperated that I spoke a bit harshly to The Pony.

"I have no idea how you have managed to do this! I never have an issue with opening T-Hoe's hatch! I've NEVER seen it not open by pushing the button on the hatch itself."

"Sorry. I don't know what I did..."

As I was turning the cart to go put my salsa in the back seat, The Pony suddenly got the hatch to open by pushing the button on the hatch itself. I think maybe he got the glass part of it to latch closed, and then the whole hatch opened.

The Pony has a way of complicating the simplest of procedures. But I still love him. And apologized for my harsh reaction. Oh, and the next day, I took The Pony the Crab Rangoons I had in my mini freezer, since I can get more when I go to the Hillmomba Save A Lot.

Another Law-Scoffer, Whose Handicap Must Be Mental

Once again, Mrs. HM and her legal placard have been cheated out of her rightful handicap parking space at the Gas Station Chicken Store.

When I pulled in, there was a lady in the driver's seat with her door open. I waited, thinking she was leaving. Most people look up and see my placard swinging, and have the good sense or shame to drive away. Not this one. She was apparently scratching scratchers.

Still, I waited. So I could pull forward. I'd had a busy day, and my knees were complainy, so soon after my near-fall at the garage people-door. Nope. Scratchy kept at it. Then had the nerve to GET OUT AND GO BACK INTO THE STORE with a ticket in her hand!!!

Even in my pre-placard days of parking there to quickly "run" inside to buy my scratchers, I would never have dreamed of sitting there, scratching at my leisure, while somebody with handicap plates or placard was waiting for their rightful parking spot.

People are self-centered idiots. Not worth the air I breathe atop my trusty high-horse!

The Universe Is Dealing Us A Bad Hand!

Farmer H sent me a text on Tuesday that he was bringing me some chicken salad from the Senior Center. Okay! Even though I am trying to cut back, and have some of the last batch of free chicken salad in the freezer of FRIG II.

When he brought it straight home around 1:00, Farmer H informed me that the county blacktop road was partially blocked by a tree limb! I had noticed the wind whipping the trees out back. Farmer H said I could "probably" make it past the tree. But that part of it had fallen on the power line, so he had notified the county highway department about it.

Farmer H went on to load up the lawnmower on his trailer, to mow yard of The Pony, the two Double Hovel flip houses, and the QuickFlip. He was subsequently turned around by the fire department blocking the county road. You can't have citizens getting electrocuted all willy-nilly, even in Hillmomba.

Anyhoo... about ten minutes after he left, our electricity went off! Thanks, Farmer H. I suffered without internet and air conditioning and toilet-flushing for about an hour. Then it came back on.

I made it to town to buy my LOSING scratchers. Then the minute I returned home, Farmer H sent a text asking if he could call me. There was an issue with the buyer of the QuickFlip! An issue that could derail the closing appointment scheduled for Wednesday afternoon!

AND, Farmer H says we are supposed to get bad weather around 8:00 p.m. Which is the time I am typing this! We'll see how it goes...

The End Is Near, I Hope!

Mrs. HM has been on a scratcher losing streak for a while now. Some days I win enough to keep playing, but not as much as I spent, and no big winners. This has been going on for almost three months! I might have had a $100 winner, but I don't recall. Mostly, it's just money-back on a ticket. Nothing exciting. I can't recall having such a lengthy slump. It's almost as bad as Farmer H's luck with the lottery.

Still, I trust The Universe. While I'm preoccupied with buying my scratchers, and then scratching them, who knows what catastrophes I've avoided! It's all part of life's rich tapestry. I'm sure there are still some successes to be woven for Mrs. HM.

Even the tickets I bought for The Pony were losers. And The Fave, clerking at the Gas Station Chicken Store, has not won on the tickets I reward her with each week. Only $3 here, and maybe $5 there.

I still have hope. Losing streaks, like winning streaks, can't last forever. Well. Unless you're Farmer H!

Although I nearly slammed face-first onto the concrete when going to the garage on Sunday, at least my luck is not as bad as that of The Pony. A story which will be told on my not-so-secret blog, whenever I can bear to tell it...

Tragedy Narrowly Avoided At The Mansion

Sunday, I left the Mansion around 4:15 to go get my daily scratchers, and mail the Menards bill. Dang that Menards! They don't put the items you pay for on their bill. Something sketchy there! Farmer H later confirmed that it was a breaker for the Beauty Shop half of the Double Hovel flip house. Good thing he can remember stuff for a month!

Anyhoo... the dogs came running. I tossed their leaving treat on the side porch. It was a half slice of bread, swiped through the saucepan that warmed our previous night's supper of rotini and red sauce with hamburger and mushrooms. Jack ate his like a good boy, but Scarlett was persnickety. Nosing at her portion, lacklusterly picking it up then dropping it out of her mouth. Looking towards the gravel road. 

I went down the stairs, double-handing the handrail, my purse draped over my right forearm, and the loop of my water bottle hooked on my right index finger. Once at the bottom, I took a couple steps, and opened the people door of the garage. As I was going in, my right knee collapsed! I don't know how else to explain it. It's like I stepped forward on it, but it wouldn't support me!

Not only one step, but two! I could feel myself spinning toward the concrete sidewalk! My left knee holding me up, but nothing on the right side to support me. I couldn't grab onto anything, what with the metal water bottle hanging from my palm, hooked onto my right index finger.

SWEET GUMMI MARY! What a catastrophe! I reached out to the frame of the people door, and the back of my right hand hit it, stopping my fall. Whew! That was a close one! My right pinky-finger hand-knuckle bore the brunt of the impact, and my hand was scraped and bruising. 

Just then, as I righted myself, I saw Farmer H coming down the driveway in SilverRedO. Except he stopped up by the dumpster. I suppose he saw me with the people door open, and was waiting to talk to me. Indeed, he only made it halfway down the driveway as I was going up.

I told Farmer H that I was still shaking from my ordeal. He said he saw the bruise already starting on my hand. And that as much as I don't want to, I really need to get something done with my knees.

We'll see...

Survival Of The Foolishest

I swear, I might as well be chewing up Farmer H's food and spitting it into his mouth like a mama bird feeding a baby bird. As much as I try to simplify his meal delivery, Farmer H makes it seem like a knowledge of rocket science is necessary to feed himself.

Saturday evening, I warmed up leftover pasta for Farmer H. I put his garlic toast in the oven. I set out a (deluxe) paper plate on the cutting board, with a paper towel to wipe his hands, and a fork for eating the rotini with mushrooms and hamburger in the sauce. I called Farmer H to the kitchen to pick up his food, which he prefers to consume in his recliner in front of the TV. As he entered the kitchen, I said:

"I put it in the microwave to melt the cheese on top."

Farmer H was behind me as I was swiping out the saucepan I'd used to warm his pasta, with a slice of bread that would become a dog treat the next day. He picked up his two slices of garlic toast from the pan on top of the stove. Then he was back at the cutting block, saying:

"Well. Where is it?"

As if I had hidden his pasta from him! Or left it in FRIG II without warming!

"I TOLD you I put it in the microwave to try and melt the cheese on top."

"I didn't hear you."

"And now you've wasted a paper plate!"

"I put my bread on it. It's fine. It's not dirty."

"Yes it is! That bread is greasy!"

Farmer H "discovered" his bowl of pasta topped with cheese that I had "hidden" in the microwave.

"This plate isn't dirty. I'll put it back."

"That plate is definitely dirty, because I set the bowl on it while dipping your pasta, and I dropped several chunks of hamburger on it."

"Huh. Well..."

"Put one of the plates back on the stack. Since you say they're not dirty, you can eat off one tomorrow!"

"That don't bother me none."

This is why I tell Farmer H that he needs to get a hearing aid. Yet all he ever says is "I don't NEED no hearing aid!"

The Pony Had His Cake, And Ate It, Too

Last week, during our 6:00 a.m. phone call, The Pony excitedly told me that he'd found a new treat in the Sis-Town Country Mart.

"They had Zebra Cakes that are as big as my hand!!!"

"Oh. The big ones. I buy them for Dad. He has one every night. But sometimes, 10Box is out of the big ones, and I have to get the box with the regular size, two in a pack."

"What? I just found these! I didn't know they came that big! I'm sending you a picture."

I suppose the name comes from the stripes on the top of those Little Debbie Zebra Cakes. Looks like The Pony couldn't wait until he got home to sample his treat. Granted, he skips lunch and works through the 30 minutes to get off earlier. They can do that at his office, and don't get charged for the 30 minutes. So I imagine he was ravenous after shopping at the end of his shift. As you can see, he's on the parking lot of the grocery store.

Mmm. Those cakes ARE mighty delicious. I like a smaller version, namely the Birthday Cake Little Debbies. Though the box has been sitting untouched in FRIG II for two weeks, since I've been cutting back. They will have to remain there until I feel deserving of a special treat or reward.

More Workplace Tribulations For The Pony

As if The Pony didn't have enough trouble worrying about the dogs who want to sink their teeth into his flesh while he is simply doing his job according to federal regulations... now there's another issue.

Let the record show that Mrs. HM is not at all mechanically-inclined, so her interpretation of these photos is akin to our deceased dog Grizzly explaining the workings of a 747 airliner.

The Pony's text came in shortly after 1:00 on Thursday:

"This weld on my door is broken!" [Meaning the weld on the door of the Metris vehicle that is assigned to The Pony's route.]

 

"I don't want to report it in case they take the Metris and don't fix it fast! Genuinely don't think I could handle the humid and hot days in an LLV!" [Long Life Vehicle]

"Maybe ask Dad about how bad it could be."

"It's 'door fall off' because that's one of the two pieces still intact connecting it."

"Wonder how long the other can hold."

"It won't if the top one goes off, uneven weight distribution and stuff will bend."

At 5:22 p.m.:

"It got worse but stayed on."

"Poor Pony. If it breaks, they will have to fix it. Unlike if they set it aside because it MIGHT break."

"Yeah. I told them. They apparently had to have at least one rewelded before. So at least they know what to do."

Well. The powers who control The Pony's vehicle know more than Mrs. HM! I can't make heads nor tails of these photos. But I don't want The Pony to have a door fall off his work vehicle!

YES! Mrs. HM Is Increasingly Sure That Farmer H Is Trying To Kill Her!

Wednesday, we went to the casino with The Pony. We left the Mansion at 9:30. It's a 90-minute drive. I was up at 5:45 a.m. to take my thyroid pill. Gotta let it do some work before taking my other meds. AND I wanted to get the initial peeing out of the way. It's not designed for that, but it makes all the hormones do their job, since I'm lacking all of my thyroid except a little scrap they left behind after surgery. 

Anyhoo... we always stop by a McDonald's on the way, to pick up breakfast sandwiches around 10:00. Then on to the casino, where we have lunch at 1:00 or later.

THIS TIME, I really had to pee about halfway there. Usually I have no problem waiting. I don't take my blood pressure pill until about 10 minutes from the casino. But for some reason, by body was working ahead of schedule. I'd already peed about 2 gallons between 5:45 and 9:30.

Anyhoo... I'm an adult. Surely I could hold it until we arrived, and I hobbled across the lobby to the restrooms. I was looking at the mile markers, checking the clock. I knew that relief would come at 11:00. And that when the mile markers had counted down from 155 to 101, we'd hit the exit, with the casino being about 10 minutes away. 

SWEET GUMMI MARY! 

Farmer H was gawking off to the left, informing The Pony that there seemed to be a new hotel, or some building that wasn't there when we went to the casino about 3 months ago. I noticed we were at mile marker 101. Then we went across the overpass.

"Oh. I just missed my exit." Said that (alleged) wife-murderer Farmer H.

"I THOUGHT that exit looked familiar! What are you trying to do, kill me??? I told you 30 miles back that I REALLY have to pee! And now it will take even longer!"

"Only about five minutes more, Mom. It's the second exit now."

That exit was five more miles down the highway. THEN we had to drive through the business section of town. With 3-4 lanes of traffic on each side, instead of 2. With twice as many stoplights. It didn't help that Farmer H was continuing his tour, even though The Pony and I have been through this part of town with him before.

"Over there's the hospital where This Guy had his back surgery, and This Guy's Wife fell and broke her hip while going outside to smoke a cigarette. And I had to take care of getting their car back home..."

"Over here's where Mrs. HM peed her pants during Farmer H's longer detour to the casino..."

Well. It turned out to be a 15 MINUTE delay! AND, when I got inside, the cleaning lady was using the handicap stall that I prefer! So I had to use the semi-handicap stall next to it, which at least had some parallel bar thingies for me to perform a routine to get myself up off the throne.

I'm pretty sure Farmer H is trying to kill me...

Mrs. HM Gets Buggy With It

Thinking about the cicada shells on my grandma's trees reminded me of another story. Perhaps the bug doesn't fall far from the tree.

My dad's nickname was June. That's about all his parents and brothers ever called him. Most people thought it was because he was a junior. His name was [Dad's Name], Jr. 

So "junior" was shortened to "June." But that wasn't it!

As a kid, my dad entertained himself by catching June Bugs, a type of beetle, and tying a string to one leg. Then he would toss it up and let it fly. It was like he had a bug on a leash. A living kite. Just letting it fly around. Apparently, they make a roaring sound with their wings. A quick search of the innernets revealed that my dad was not the only kid with this pastime. 

As with all childish things, my dad grew out of this phase, and moved on to a nickname his friends used for him: Car Tire. That's because one of them saw him rolling a car tire down the road with a stick. Not sure what that was all about. A more grown-up pastime, perhaps.

In the days before technology, kids had to find their own recreational activities.

Welcome, I Guess

The cicadas are here. The 13-year brood, I think. Though when I look at the map in this article, it seems that our county has "multiple broods" emerging this year. 

I can't really say that I've noticed the cicadas. I spend most of my time inside the Mansion. I don't hear them outside, because nighttime sounds from the kitchen are pretty much blocked out by the FROGS singing around Poolio.

Anyhoo... every day when I return home from town, and park T-Hoe in the garage, I am reminded that the cicadas are indeed here:

See them there, hanging onto the wood? Just a shell of themselves, actually. No bug inside.

When I was a kid, we'd find the shells stuck to tree trunks all around my next-door grandma's yard. Stuck to anything they could cling to with their sharp little shell-feet. We took great joy in picking them off the trees, and sticking them onto our shirt. Like fragile crunchy jewelry!

I doubt kids nowadays could be bothered with that...

A Somewhat Logical Explanation

Genius called me on Mother's Day. Mixing pleasure with my business, I related to him my internet tribulations. I asked if my troubles might be connected to the recent solar flares.

Genius has a friend who works with orbiting communication satellites. He said that indeed, my problems were most likely related to the solar phenomena. His friend said they are concerned about some satellites crashing out of orbit! That they have to fire the boosters to keep them aloft, when that solar wind is trying to push them out of orbit. 

Of course you know that skeptical Mrs. HM did not want to hear a somewhat logical explanation, believe that the powers who rule the world are intentionally messing with communications for some devious plot. But if Genius has a connection who can actually explain this... well... maybe that's what's happening. THIS TIME!

Anyhoo... Genius said this solar phenomena is wreaking particular havoc with satellites, such as our DISH provider for internet services, and also GPS. Genius was surprised that we haven't had more of a problem with our TV reception, but conceded that such a signal is of a lower bandwidth than the internet.

Anyhoo... Genius said that my internet connectivity problems was most likely a funciton of the solar flares, and not my router or modem. But that my issue with Google Chrome not loading is suspicious. He said he wouldn't delete it and download the latest version until the solar emanations are done in the next few days.

As long as I can connect with Microsoft Edge, I suppose that's good enough for me...

No Need To Call The Authorities

Let the record show that I have been experiencing internet problems. Since shortly after noon on Saturday, it has come and gone. Farmer H went down those 13 rail-less steps to the basement, to reset the WiFi and the modem. TWICE. But still, my connection comes and goes.

Around 8:00 p.m. I tried to do a System Restore of HIPPIE. It took until 10:00 p.m. That makes me think the problem may be within HIPPIE himself. When I DID get that System Restore completed, I could not access the innernets using Google Chrome. It was dead to me!!!

I switched to Microsoft Edge, which I think is no longer supported by anybody. But it got me connected when Google Chrome would not. 

This is just a heads-up in case Mrs. HM and her alter ego Val disappear from the innernets for a few days. It's not because Farmer H has finally succeeded in un-aliving Mrs. HM. Just a problem getting a connection.

Something Seems A Bit Wonky

Farmer H had a regular appointment with his doctor nurse practitioner this week. According to Farmer H, his bloodwork once again showed that he had a low protein level.

"My protein was 6.2. She says normal is between 6.8 and 7.6. So it's just barely below normal. But that I should eat more protein."

"All you eat is protein!!! Well. Except for the morning donuts and candy bars when you stop for gas or a soda, and your cookies and Little Debbie Zebra Cakes in the evening. But really, all you ever want to eat is the MEAT part of a meal."

"I don't know. She always says my protein is low."

How is this possible for a guy who eats a towering bowl of soup, having dipped out an entire arm roast into his bowl, with no "juice" and barely a vegetable??? Every time we have a meal with meat, I have to tell Farmer H how much meat he is allowed, lest he take it all! Like when we have the pot of sausage/potatoes/cabbage. His entire bowl would be meat if I didn't give him guidelines. 

If Farmer H had been invited to Mary Richards's dinner party, he would have wrestled Lou Grant for the Veal Prince Orloff, and Mary would have been faced with a worse problem than telling Mr. Grant to put back the mere half that he had taken off the platter. Farmer H would have unhinged his jaw like a snake, and swallowed Veal Prince Orloff whole!

In fact, the very evening that Farmer H was regaling how he was deficient in protein, implying that I did not feed him properly, he was having chicken wings and a salad. Except he was too full for the salad. But not too full for two slices of Nutty Oat Bread with butter. The serving of chicken wings I had made for him was 8 pieces. The package said that a serving was 3 pieces, with a calorie content of 270, and protein of 24 grams. So... Farmer H was having 2.67 servings, and getting 64 grams of protein just from the chicken wings.

Not sure how much more protein I can force into Farmer H. Perhaps his pernicious anemia affects his protein absorption as well as the B12 absorption. Perhaps not. Mrs. HM is not a nurse practitioner who works one day a week.

Always The Victim, Never The Well-Fed Farmer

While discussing what Farmer H wanted for his supper on Thursday, talk turned to what he'd had for lunch at the Senior Center.

"I'm not all that hungry..."

"I forgot what you were having for lunch today."

"Nothing great. We had some pasta. And slaw."

"No protein? I'm pretty sure they had to serve you some kind of protein. They are funded by a federal program."

"No. It was just noodles with some vegetables in it. And the slaw. We had a choice of white or vinegar. I took the white."

"Yeah! Because it has SUGAR in it!"

"The other one was just too vinegary." (How did Farmer H know if he didn't have both?)

Well. I couldn't believe that Farmer H didn't have any protein with his lunch. So I went to look at the monthly schedule he brings home.

"Huh. It says here that you were having FRIED CATFISH today! And corn nuggets. And slaw, wedges, and variety of desserts."

"Yeah. We had catfish. And corn nuggets. And potato wedges."

"THAT'S YOUR PROTEIN! You never said you had catfish!"

"The desserts was just leftovers from yesterday. Like the noodles."

"Yesterday was CHICKEN PARM WITH NOODLES!"

"Huh. Well. We had some leftovers."

No wonder Farmer H refused the salad I offered him with his chicken wings. He was stuffed to the gills with a regular lunch and leftovers from the previous day's lunch!

You can't just take Farmer H's first recount of what happened...

Thank You, Even Steven, For Your Consideration

Welp! Perhaps that title was premature.

As I type this, we're under a severe thunderstorm warning at 1:00 on Wednesday. I've been watching the TV meteorologists and their radar all morning, except from 9:30 to 10:30 when I made an early trip to town to avoid bad weather. Yesterday, there was a "small" tornado in a town 52 miles northwest of Hillmomba. Lifted off the roof and destroyed a bar. Yet the shelves inside still had the liquor bottles sitting on them.

Anyhoo... today's storms were predicted to be more severe. A threat of 4 out of 5 intensity, rather than yesterday's 2 out of 5. 

Thank the Gummi Mary, Wednesday is The Pony's regular day off. You can't imagine my relief for that small favor. As I said, I went to town early, rather than skipping the trip completely. I cautioned Farmer H about being out in the prime storm hours between 11:00 a.m. and 8:00 p.m. He was working on removing a window from the Beauty Shop half of the Double Hovel flip house. Said he'd be done before 11:00. He planned to eat his lunch at the Senior Center, then head home.

The new tornado "hook" on the radar today, over the same town hit yesterday, was supposedly moving east/southeast. But looking at radar, it was heading due east. Which made it miss Hillmomba by about 10 miles to the north.

Thirty minutes after Farmer H's arrival, the skies turned black. Winds picked up. Rain poured sideways. The last view of radar before the TV lost its satellite signal was of a red area of storms coming right at Hillmomba. The meteorologists marveled at how fast they'd "kicked up," but did not see any rotation in the storm. Hail was a possibility. The earlier storm back in that tornado town this morning had tennis-ball size hail!

Skies are lightening up now. But a new tornado warning just came in, rotation headed right for Hillmomba and Sis-Town. Then the next wave is due around 4:00 p.m. We'll see how that one goes. I'm hoping not to rescind Even Steven's thank-you.

The Disappearing Artist, Otherwise Known As Scarlett

Farmer H made a surprise appearance on Tuesday, walking in the kitchen door of the Mansion around 2:30. That is not expected, nor welcome.

"What are YOU doing home right now?"

"I had to go poop."

"There's not a toilet anywhere else in the county?"

"I just came out here. Then I'm going back to town."

Of course Farmer H had to sit down at the kitchen table and take up my computer time to chat. When I finally ran him off, reminding him that it was my nap time before shower and town, his phone rang. It was the title office lady, revealing that all papers were signed for our QuickFlip purchase, and the only step left was to file the deed at the recorder's office at the county courthouse. Which the title company does. Also, we were getting a check for about $20, if I heard right coming out Farmer H's non-phone ear. He said to mail it to us.

Anyhoo... as Farmer H finally left, Scarlett was hopping around outside the kitchen window, totally smitten with the object of her ADORATION. Farmer H spoke to her as he walked out.

When I left for town at 4:15, Scarlett did not come running for her goodbye treat. Jack was there. All wiggly and happy to see me. He got Scarlett's quarter-slice of bread dredged through bacon grease left over from Easter dinner.

No Scarlett again when I returned home at 5:40. My little Jack was out back. And Copper Jack came over. But no Scarlett. I asked Jack where she was. He did not answer me. Can you believe that? Time went on. No Scarlett outside the kitchen window while I was scratching my lottery tickets. I started to worry.

I sent Farmer H a text that I had picked up the mail, so he didn't have to stop when he came home from bar bingo. And told him that Scarlett was missing.

"I guess she followed you all the way to town this time!"

"No. She actually stood in the road and watched me drive away."

"I don't know who's got her. She probably reeks of perfume right now."

Around 7:30, I went to the front door and looked out. In case she was laying there, waiting to bark at Copper Jack. Nope. So sign of Scarlett. My loyal little Jack was there. He ran over, thrilled to see me. But he still would not tell me where Scarlett was.

Shortly after I returned to the kitchen table for scratching, Farmer H showed up. And outside the window, I saw Scarlett! It's almost like she has a psychic connection to the object of her ADORATION, seeing no need to reveal herself until he shows up.

The Pony Proposes A New Burger Flavor

Since The Pony discovered his freezer ajar last weekend, he had to buy fresh food. He got some hamburger to cook, not to freeze. The Pony took the time to go to the Devil's Playground, though I, myself, do not like their meat. They inject it with saline, which increases the price per pound, since it adds weight. And when I cook the hamburger, there is bubbly water excreted from the meat, not just the smooth fat, which I soak bread in for the dogs. 

Anyhoo, The Pony sent me pictures of his new recipe. The hamburger actually looked pretty good.

The first step was to season the meat. The Pony likes his seasonings.

I don't know what The Pony added. Probably some garlic salt and garlic powder for sure. Next, The Pony patted out four burgers. Two to eat, and two to save for the next night.

The Pony only cooked two burgers in his frying pan, wrapping the other two in the foil.

The cooked burgers looked like this. 

The Pony likes his burgers rare. But wait! It's not just a plain burger! The Pony added a crunchy element to the bottom bun.

I didn't know they made a garlic pepper version! I have a bag that's Best Choice. Also a generic version like The Pony's. But mine just say "Fried Onions." They ARE a great salad topper. Farmer H likes them on green beans.

Are you ready? Here comes The Pony's secret ingredient.

It's Crab Rangoons! I picked up a big box of them at Save A Lot, from the freezer section. We used to have them a lot when The Pony was living here when college sent him home when they shut down campus due to The Virus in spring of 2020. The Pony had been dreaming of making a burger topped with Crab Rangoons. He will change his approach in the future.

"It was good. Next time I might do some surgery and bite off the crispy edges, or stack two in opposite ways so there's a filling pouch on both burger sides. Since they didn't squeeze out and spread like I expected."

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. At least The Pony has become an adventurous eater, rather than sticking to chicken nuggets, hot dogs, and noodles with butter.

Farmer H's Accountant Doth Not Protest Enough

Farmer H is a bit haphazard with the flip house records. You might want to excuse him, knowing of his attention to detail. HOWEVER... he has no problem keeping detailed records in his book for selling certain items which require a federal license. Perhaps that's because he does that on his own, and does not rely on Mrs. HM to shoulder his responsibilities.

Every month, Farmer H gives me a lined sheet of notebook paper where he has recorded his cash expenses. Payments to Old Buddy for hourly work. Fees for lawnmowing. Money required to dump flip house trash at the landfill. Purchases that are small, for which he does not use the Lowe's or Menards credit card. Buying appliances off Buy/Sell/Trade or Facebook.

Farmer H lists his purchases chronologically. States to whom the payment was made. The purpose. And in the final column, for which property. Well. The Double Hovel flip house(s) are on two different streets. So he puts the street name. The QuickFlip house is on a different street. So he puts the street name. But on Sunday, I found six billings for CITY HOUSE. Using the name of the city. Where ALL THREE houses are located. What in the Not-Heaven? Did Farmer H buy another house without telling me? 

I tried to call Farmer H at his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2). His phone acted like it was not alive. No sound. Not even a busy signal. I sent two texts. Nothing. So then I called again, and he answered. Said he meant CITY HOUSE to mean QuickFlip.

"WHY did you do that? When you have it listed by the street name, right above it and right below it."

"I don't know HM. I just did."

We'll see how much of May's list has such confusing labels. It's already five days into the month. You may think I'm nitpicking, but in reality, each property must have accurate expenses recorded. We only have to pay taxes on the PROFIT when they sell. So money we spend rehabbing them needs to be deducted.

Once Again, Vigilance Is Mrs. HM's Kitchen Savior

For years I have refused to believe that Farmer H is... um... not very bright. He's a genius with machines and building shacks without plans, and coming up with quick fixes to save money and time. But when it comes to the kitchen, I fear that Farmer H actually IS... um... not very bright.

Friday evening, Farmer H was getting his weekend lunches ready to take to his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2). It was four hot dogs and their buns. He has some kind of heater that he uses for warming food. So he wraps it in foil. Takes the buns separately.

Of course I stopped scratching at the kitchen table. No good can come of lottery tickets in the presence of Farmer H. Before he even reached into the lower corner cabinet by the sink, I said

"Make sure to use the cheap foil. Not the non-stick."

Good thing I was watching. Farmer H was fiddling with the non-stick. I told him to put it back and get the kind that didn't say NON-STICK on the box. He pulled out the yellow box containing plastic wrap. Which had a portion hanging out the lid already, and is still the red-tinted version that comes out around Christmas time. I had to tell him that was not foil! FINALLY, he got out the box of regular foil.

Oh, don't think the problems ended there! I turned my head for one minute, heard a long crinkly noise, and looked back to see that Farmer H had torn off a sheet of foil about the size of a football field!

"You don't need that much foil for two hot dogs!"

"Yes. I do. It's fine, HM."

"Don't take so much for the other two! It's wasteful. Foil is expensive."

So the next piece he tore off was about the size of a basketball court. I watched as he wrapped those packets of two hot dogs each. Over and over and over. The foil thickness was about the same as the hot dog thickness! It's going to take them a while to warm up. All he needed was two pieces of foil, each about the length and width of a tissue box. It's not hard to wrap two hot dogs.

For a normal person...

Mrs. HM Is The Victim Of A Scoffing

T-Hoe had an episode of CHIME-CHIME-CHIME-ing on Wednesday afternoon. Not convenient for me while I was rushing to pick up The Pony to sign papers at the title company for a "new" property we're flipping. In all my rushing, I had left the rear passenger door not completely closed. An easy fix. However... while looking through all the warnings, and checking other possible problems on T-Hoe's dashboard, I discovered that he only has 17 percent oil life remaining!

That can't be good! As with my own life, I'd prefer to see a larger percentage! The last time T-Hoe's oil life ran low, Farmer H went out to check the oil, and added a quart. So not only the oil's LIFE was low, but also its volume. The thing with engine oil is, the longer you use it, the dirtier and less "oily" it gets, which makes your engine run not-as-smoothly.

It's not like Farmer H changes the oil himself like he used to. Even though in his $17,000 Freight Container Garage, he has an expensive lift that he bought for doing just that. Never been used! Nope. Too much junk in there for that, from the 18 original storage units Farmer H bought right after he built it.

Anyhoo... Farmer H takes our vehicles to the Devil's Playground Automotive Center for oil changes. Where he usually gets into an argument with assorted personnel over his service. It's not like he has to crawl under T-Hoe and drain out the old oil and dispose of it, then put in new oil. He pays people to do it for him.

I told Farmer H on Wednesday night about T-Hoe's aging oil. We had time. A thunderstorm knocked out TV for 45 minutes while we were trying to watch Survivor. On Thursday morning, Farmer H was lingering on the long couch during my daily 6:00 a.m. phone call with The Pony.

"Yeah. I'm kind of worried that T-Hoe's oil lost a percentage of life while we were in town yesterday. It's probably going to lose a percent a day. And now Dad probably won't do anything until at least Monday!"

When I got off the phone, to let The Pony start a load of laundry, Farmer H agreed that he wouldn't be doing anything too soon. It's one thing to make such a factual statement. It's quite another to scoff at my worries!

"Heh, heh. Nothing's going to happen to your car, HM. It will be fine."

"I don't want to get stranded somewhere, waiting for you to show up and rescue me."

"I did last time, didn't I? With your battery?"

"Yeah. But you were right there anyway, by accident. Good thing! I could have died!"

"Ha ha! You wouldn't DIE, HM."

"It was SO HOT!"

"You could have just gone back in Save A Lot, in the air conditioning."

"And do what? It's not like they have chairs! I couldn't stand in there that long to wait, if you were over at your shop!"

"It'll be fine. I'll get to it."

As usual, a big help to people he doesn't know, but putting me off until after his weekend re-selling junk!

Trying To Clue The Clueless

I went in Country Mart on Thursday. Mainly for lottery, but I also checked their hot case for something quick to feed Farmer H for supper. I was in luck! Not at the lottery machine. But at the hot case. I found a package of chicken leg/thighs. It was like a rotisserie chicken, but only the leg/thighs. Smelled delicious. Thus began my dilemma.

"Huh. That's an awkward package. I'll have to carry it in by itself. Can't leave it while I take the rest. The dogs will get it. AND the juices might spill in T-Hoe's rear. But I really want that chicken..."

The package was a long black plastic tray, with a clear top snapped on it. Unlike the deep plastic tray that encases a rotisserie chicken, with handles to carry it, this was just the flat tray. About 18 inches long. Holding four leg/thighs, sitting in their own juices.

The checker greeted me, asking how I was.

"I'm just wondering if I can get this chicken home without spilling the juices. The container is kind of awkward."

I was setting one of my 12-packs of Shasta Diet Cola on the counter when I heard the young checker exclaim, "OH NO!"

For the second time in two days, I cringed at hearing "OH NO!"

When I looked up, I saw that the checker had somehow dumped the juices out of the chicken package, onto the clear window of her scanner. Surely she wasn't not-genius enough to flip it over to scan the sticker on the top! I'm pretty sure they have a hand-held instrument to use for such things.

Anyhoo... Checker apologized, and went to get some paper towels to clean up the chicken juice. It was cooked chicken juice. So she wasn't spreading salmonella. She slid my chicken package sideways into a plastic bag. Again saying she was sorry.

"That's okay. It's less juice for me to spill on the way home."

If I was smart, which often I am not, I would have poured out the remaining juices on the parking lot before stuffing that chicken into T-Hoe's rear. Lucky for me, Farmer H was home, and came out to carry it in while I got the other couple bags of stuff.

When I looked at the chicken container after Farmer H had taken out his portion, I saw a crack in the clear plastic top. Not only on the edge where it's supposed to snap to the black plastic tray, but across the top as well. Not sure if that was there all along, if the Checker had done it, or if Farmer H was too rough getting out his chicken.

Surely that checker has handled enough chicken containers to know how to ring them up. Besides, I had JUST WARNED HER about all the fluids in there. 

Mrs. HM Has A Bout Of PTSD

The Pony's very bad week ended on Saturday with sudden downpours during working hours. He slipped on some steps and skinned up his leg. Sent me a picture when it happened.

Of course I felt bad. The Pony has taken a beating lately, what with pointy dog teeth, scrapes, and also turning his ankle on Saturday. He sent another picture later, to show the status of the scrapes, while soothing the ankle in the jetted tub of his master bathroom.

Not gonna lie. That photo made me gasp. And not in a good way. Perhaps I've mentioned in passing that I HATE FEET! There was no reason to see a foot attached to that scraped leg! My heart was racing from the TOES!

Those are the toes The Pony used to PINCH MY ARM one time while I was driving T-Hoe. The Pony was in high school at the time, but not old enough to drive. It was summer, and we were headed out to my mom's house. The Pony was wearing his slides. He always took them off in the car. You may recall that his preferred seat was the one BEHIND the driver's seat. Didn't want to ride up front with me. Wanted to sit in the back with his laptop plugged in. 

On several occasions, I had to command The Pony to remove his foot from the console. Nobody needs to see that while they're driving! Besides, on the slow-speed-limit town roads, I liked to rest my right arm on that console. Imagine my SHOCK and DISGUST one time when The Pony used those finger-like toes to PINCH MY ARM! Has the horror sunk in yet?

I'm pretty sure The Pony didn't send the toe picture on purpose to get me riled up. 

Pretty sure...

This Is Why Mrs. HM Will Survive The Apopadopalyspe

Monday evening, Farmer H came in from mowing, burning stuff that came out of the flip house beauty shop, and a trip back to town buying drywall for Tuesday's tasks. He stepped into the kitchen to gather materials for grilling sausage patties on GassyG Jr.

I watched as Farmer H bellied up to the sink, and grabbed my red solo cups that I use every day to drink water for taking my medicine. I use a double cup, and don't see a reason to get a new one each day. It's only water. Yes, I watched in horror as Farmer H PICKED UP MY CUPS WITH HIS FINGERS ON THE RIM and moved them to the side! The rim that my lips touch while I'm drinking the water!

Let the record show that Farmer H is not a stickler for handwashing. He was not going to touch our food with his bare hands. He had the package of sausage patties, and his spatula. So his hands must have been REALLY, REALLY dirty for him to even think about washing them. 

A simple trip to town leaves me wanting to wash my hands. I can't imagine the filth rubbed on my water cup by Farmer H. Who has no issue about washing his hands after stepping out on the porch to pee, or petting the dogs, or working all day with a lawnmower, or ripping out walls at the flip house.

THIS is why Mrs. HM will survive the Apopadopalyspe. A robust immune system, thanks to Farmer H.