Mrs. HM's Good Deed Is Punished Once Again

Do not doubt the idioms, people! Mrs. HM is living proof that there is underlying truth in sayings that you might take for granted. For example, "No good deed goes unpunished."

Friday evening, before Farmer H deigned to return home after his Friday afternoon bull session, I looked on the DISH guide to see if there were any movies Farmer H might enjoy. I found three: Stripes, Ghostbusters, and Rudy. Yes, he's seen them all before. As with every weekend night, I still look for movies that might interest Farmer H.

After he took a dip in POOLIO, and took a shower, and walked through the living room, I shared my finds. Telling him the titles of all three movies, and that they all started at 7:00. Farmer H replied that Stripes was the one he would watch. So I told him the DISH channel to find it.

"It's up around 242, where you watch your Yellowstone series. I think it's on 239."

Five minutes later, Farmer H was complaining from his recliner in the living room, where he was waiting to eat his supper of fried chicken and two pieces of garlic cheese bread that I was preparing, that he could not find his movie.

"It's not on. I went from 259 to 230, and it's not there."

"At 7:00? Yes, it is."

"I'm telling you, I looked and it's not on!"

"What are you doing at 259? I told you it was on 239."

"I'm watching a show there. You don't have to make a big deal!"

"I'm not. I found movies for you, and told you the channel."

"It's not there!"

"Look on 239, like I said. At 7:00."

"Oh. It's there now."

"Just like I told you."

"You always have to make such a big deal about it!"

"Excuse me for trying to find a movie for you. I won't do it again."

"There you go! Always making a big deal!"

"No. I try to do something for you, and you can't hear, and rather than saying you can't hear, you pretend, and then blame me when something is wrong."

For sure. No good deed goes unpunished.

I Am Intrigued By This New Venture

As I mentioned yesterday, there's been a new development in the Dog Track supposedly being built by our across-the-road Neighbors.

____________________________________________

When I came home, I saw a new addition to the Dog Track field. It was a Port-A-Potty! Well, crap! That means they are serious about this venture. Port-A-Potties ain't free! I think you pay by the month. I asked Farmer H about it.

"So I guess Neighbors are really going ahead with that Dog Track. They've got a Port-A-Potty there now!"

"Oh? I didn't see one when I came in. But it ain't Neighbors! It's Barn Neighbor! Next to them! And it ain't a Dog Track! It's for HORSES!"

_____________________________________________

So when I left for town the next day, I stopped for pictures. Just out of our driveway, I snapped a photo of the field.

WAY down at the end, you can see the "new" Port-A-Potty.

From this side, they DO look more like horse jumps than dog jumps. But still, they are not very high. In the background are more, I suppose. Though one looks like a really long dog house. And there's the white Bobcat they've been using to move things around.

There's the Port-A-Potty at the corner of the field.

I wonder how people will feel about taking a potty so close to the road? What if somebody is reckless, and veers off and runs into it? Then there's the huge cloud of dust that blooms up when any vehicle drives down the gravel road.

That's the Barn Neighbor's other field, then the house, where a new porch was recently added. We like this neighbor. They had two boys the same ages as Genius and The Pony, who were in a bowling league with them. The wife died several years ago. They used to have a couple of horses and a pony, but none now. I suppose anybody who brings a horse out for jumping will park in that other field.

Seems like a lot of trouble to go to, just for recreation. And I can't see it being a profitable business. We'll see what develops.

The MisInformer Is 1 For 2

Farmer H was sitting on the deck of POOLIO as I left for town on Tuesday. I hollered to ask if the POLE MEN were still blocking the road. Being Farmer H, he hollered back three times: "WHAT?" Then he came up the steps to hear my question.

"No. Well. They're still putting in a pole. But they're in somebody's cow field. Their truck is off the road."

I took a chance, and indeed, there were no POLE MEN blocking the road. Nor were they in a cow field. I suppose Farmer H had come through an hour or so earlier. At least his information was correct about no road blockages.

When I came home, I saw a new addition to the Dog Track field. It was a Port-A-Potty! Well, crap! That means they are serious about this venture. Port-A-Potties ain't free! I think you pay by the month. I asked Farmer H about it.

"So I guess Neighbors are really going ahead with that Dog Track. They've got a Port-A-Potty there now!"

"Oh? I didn't see one when I came in. But it ain't Neighbors! It's Barn Neighbor! Next to them! And it ain't a Dog Track! It's for HORSES!"

"WHAT? You told me all along that it was Neighbors' Dog Track!"

"That's what I thought. But it's Barn Neighbor's brother doing it, for horses!"

"That would explain why those things look like horse jumps. But they're awfully small. Must be for little horses!"

"I don't know. But it's something for horses."

"That will still mess with the dogs. I'm not going to tie them up. You know they'll be over there barking. At least from the BARn field, if they don't go all the way over."

"We could put 'em in the old chicken pen."

"I'm pretty sure Jack will dig his way under the fence. It wouldn't take much. He's a digger, and he's low to the ground. Won't need a big hole."

"It could hold them for a while. We'll see what happens."

Huh. I'm not sure what's going on here. Both neighbors have gotten rid of their horses. Years ago. Not sure what's in it for this guy's brother to put tiny horse jumps in the field, and hire a Port-A-Potty. 

Mrs. HM Is Stymied Once Again

Well, Not-Heaven's bells! All I want is an uneventful trip to town once a day. It's a 10-minute drive. Five miles. Is that too much to ask? Apparently, The Universe thinks it IS.

Just when those "communication cable" guys finally finished blocking our gravel road, I thought things were back to normal. Sure, it's now bus-waiting time for the middle-of-the-road parkers down by Mailbox Row. But with clever timing, I can avoid the 20-30 minutes they're there. Which I've been doing, leaving a bit earlier than usual.

Monday, as I cruised toward the low-water bridge, I saw a glint of white at the top of the hill past it. Huh. Must be a car coming. The road gets narrower at the top of that hill, so I dallied a bit, waiting for that car to come down first. Nope. It wasn't moving. That was unusual. So I went on.

At the top of the next little rise was a white utility truck. Parked on the wrong side of the road, facing me. Orange cones were lined along the side of it. Over where the center line would be, if a center line was painted on our county blacktop road. This left a little strip of pavement to drive by. Except I could see NOTHING as far as oncoming traffic! Two guys in bright yellow-green vests were walking along, adjusting the cones. Neither of them appeared inclined to direct traffic!

I had no room to turn around, unless I backed up T-Hoe (no backup camera, beeper not working) and tried to get into a driveway. So all I could do was proceed, slowly, hoping nothing was coming the other way about the smash into me head-on. I got past. 

I've been worried about this scenario for about a week. I'd seen THREE giant poles lying alongside the road, on the other side of the ditch, along people's fences. The fear being that either the telephone or electric poles were going to be replaced. Of course that would happen during regular working hours. The time I make a trip to town.

NOW IT WAS HAPPENING!

I went on to town. Toyed with the idea of taking a different route home. Then I thought maybe those guys had been picking up the orange cones. Maybe they were done for the day. It was 2:45 when I started to town. I don't know what kind of shift they work. It was now about 3:30. So I returned the regular way.

Bad idea. Those guys had just moved their truck (and trailer with a strange contraption on it) a couple hundred feet up the road towards town. But now it was turned around, at least on the right side of the road, but still taking up all but a strip of pavement, still with cones, and now with those big brace thingies that go out for lifting heavy objects.

At least this was on a straight stretch of level road, and I could see that nothing was coming as I inched T-Hoe along as if his tires were on a tightrope.

Today (Tuesday), I'm taking the alternate route. Hoping there's not also a crew working on that road.

Like Helping An Old Lady Across The Street When She Doesn't Want To Go

The more feeble I become, the more I've noticed that people try to help me. Gone are the days of young men darting into a Casey's door and pulling it shut behind them, lest I catch the handle before it completely closed. Well. I HOPE those days are gone. I wouldn't swear to it these days.

People see me hobbling along, and will wait a minute after they enter, holding the door open. Or if it's an outward door, they get to it and stand holding it, and enter after me. Of course I thank them! It's a nice gesture. 

Sometimes, I'd like them to just go about their business. I feel obligated to "speed up," such as it is, so they don't have to wait for me to get there. If I could go faster, I would already be walking faster!

Anyhoo... the good Samaritans holding doors open and waiting on me are not really a problem. I feel good seeing their kindness, and they feel like they've done a good deed. Karma points for them!

The problem is when they want to help me on the way out, when they're behind me. Especially at the Gas Station Chicken Store. There's a little rough blacktop ramp at the door. Better than a step, but it would be hard for anybody to get a scooter or wheelchair up that ramp. Not that there's room inside for either, with the narrow aisles. Walking up that little ramp is okay for me. Coming out is more precarious.

I have my just-bought scratchers in my left hand, and push open the glass door with my right, holding onto the metal bar across it as I inch down that rough blacktop ramp. It's the height of 1.5 normal steps, and only the width of the doorway. The sides slope down steeper than the front part.

Fairly often, a person exiting just behind me will PUSH that door wide open, thinking they are HELPING me. But no! It wrenches the door handle away from me, upsetting my balance.

I consider myself quite lucky that kindness hasn't killed me yet.

To Catch Some Thieves: Inside Job

When I worked at the insurance salvage store, we all took a turn on the register. We had other jobs, like the floor manager, and the pricing department. But a schedule was made by Vera the bookkeeper, and we all spent a few hours ringing up customers. The only employees immune to this duty were the salesmen in the basement, where the lumber and carpet and wallpaper were sold. Not the lumber itself, which was out on the large parking lot. But that belonged to the sales guys downstairs. They got a commission for each sale, and would give us a paper ticket to stab on a spike.

Anyhoo... partway through the year I worked there, money was missing. I don't recall how much. But it was enough of a discrepancy that the owner brought in the police! The owner was hardly ever at the store, having many locations. But he came in for this. He was a nice enough fellow, but quite intimidating. He looked like Yul Brynner. Grew up on a farm with a lot of brothers. Said as a kid, he was thrilled when his mom served SPAM for dinner, because it was a real treat after eating the beef and pork and chicken raised on the farm.

Anyhoo... Mr. Owner first talked to everybody individually, in his office in the basement. All I could tell him was that I did not take the money, and I had no idea who might have taken it. Obviously, the department heads were unlikely culprits, because they had a good salaried job for years. The hourly workers were a motley crew. There was me, a teacher taking a year off to get my master's degree. A young single mother. A grandmotherly old lady. The 17-year-old high school son of one of the department heads.

THEN, the detective came in and set up the polygraph equipment! That was my first and only time taking a polygraph. It was interesting, and just a little scary. I was worried it might be wrong! I recall the stretchy strap thingy wrapped around my chest, and a thing on my finger. I don't remember the rest, but if I saw it on TV, I'd probably recall.

Anyhoo... I passed my polygraph. Turns out the thief was the 17-year-old kid, who would take money out of the register a little at a time. A twenty here, a twenty there. We all worked the same register, nobody getting a fresh drawer of counted money. Filling in for breaks. Taking over shifts back-to-back. The kid's mom was pretty upset with him. Nothing really happened, other than he couldn't work there any more.

*********************************************************

Another inside job was discovered at our DENTIST's office! It was 30 miles from Hillmomba, in another town. Our neighbor worked there as a dental hygienist, so we would get our teeth cleaned, and see the dentist if we had problems. Farmer H's insurance provided for two teeth-cleanings a year. He always stopped on his way home from work. I would schedule mine for days off from school.

Imagine our shock when we learned that an audit had uncovered a THIEF! An embezzler! It turned out to be the receptionist! A lady we were on a first-name basis with, seeing her in stores, having attended parties at our neighbor's house with her. And it was some of OUR payments that had been stolen! From when Farmer H paid in cash. And a couple of our checks that she had cashed. Of course she lost her job. I think she had to pay back the money, but didn't get any jail time.

Just goes to show, you never really know ANYONE when it comes to money...

To Catch Some Thieves

Stealers are gonna steal! I was reminded in the comments about those Orb K (alleged) thieves, of previous incidents with not-so-honest customers. 

The most simple were the after-school crowd when I worked at a Casey's. I had to keep an eye on the circular mirrors mounted at the back corners of the store. Those young'uns were a pain in the rumpus, trying to take candy while the store was crowded. Lucky for me, they noticed me watching, being paranoid young thieves constantly looking over their shoulders.

More sophisticated were the would-be thieves when I worked at an insurance salvage store in Springfield, Missouri. We got truckloads and freight cars of merchandise from stores who turned in losses such as fires or floods or who-knows-what. Some of our merchandise was really nice. Like returns from JC Penney. Nothing wrong with it. Just returned for unknown (to us) reasons. I got a really nice comforter from that merchandise.

Anyhoo... we wrote our prices on such merchandise with a Magic Marker. That's because customers liked to switch price tags. This put the kibosh on that option. Still, they would bring items to the register, with the premise: "I really want THIS lamp, but it's marked $10. The other one just like it is only $5. So I think I should get my lamp for $5."

Well. We had to explain that the $5 lamp was not working, but the $10 lamp would light up when you turned it on. Some customers did not like this reveal, and left both lamps and walked out. No big deal. We just put them in a cart, and back on the shelves.

Other customers were a bit more devious. Like the guy who put about 10 packs of jockey shorts in his zipped-up coat. The young cashier, son of the floor manager, asked the guy to unzip his coat, since he had come in with it unzipped, and now it looked full of something. The guy actually DID unzip, and those underwear packages fell out. He left without paying for the one pack he had brought to the counter.

The boot customers were more determined. About a third of our store was devoted to cowboy boots. We had men's, women's, and kids' sizes, from basic $19.99 boots to the more exotic ostrich, elephant, and alligator. This was in the days before the exotic skins were an issue. Some boots were quite pricy. We had a department manager just for the boots. 

We also had a security guard, in uniform, standing at the front door. He was mainly checking for a ticket for the carpet and wallpaper department in the basement, but was watching for any kind of theft. The highlight of his days was when foreign gals came in to look at the prom dresses. Forget the dressing rooms! They stripped down right there in the aisle to try on formals! Not caring about the cameras that broadcast their section of the store.

Anyhoo... one day a guy walked out with a pair of new boots on his feet. That's the first thing Dennis, the security guard, looked at when customers entered: the shoes on their feet. This guy went out, and Dennis followed. He said, "Hey, Bud. You didn't come in wearing those boots." The guy took off running through the parking lot. Dennis gave chase. A long chase. Out onto Glenstone Avenue, and then up on a railroad overpass. Finally, the guy gave up.

"I give up! Just take the boots! Do what you have to do. I'm tired of running!"

Dennis DID take the boots from him. With the comment, "Buddy! All this for $19.99? You could have at least stolen a GOOD pair of boots!"

Tomorrow: employee theft, and the dentist embezzler.

Anxious Road Shoe

Monday was the first day of school in Hillmomba. I overheard two parents and their kids talking about it on the sidewalk in front of 10Box as I was writing on the back of my scratchers I'd just gotten from the machine. 

I knew there was school, because on my way to town, I had to navigate a gravel road hog to get onto the county blacktop road. And on the county blacktop road, I had to squeeze past the bus on its way to drop off the gravel road hog's kid.

On the last turn before getting to the county lettered highway, I saw something weird on the pavement. Huh. What WAS that? It kind of looked like a small owl that had been hit by a car. Or maybe a large woodpecker. It was just lying there. Mostly black, with some red, that didn't appear to be blood, just like colored feathers. I didn't get a good look, because I came upon it quickly after rounding the curve.

Coming home, approaching it from the other direction, I could tell that the object was not a bird at all. It was a sneaker! A black Nike sneaker, with a red sole or red trim. ONE SHOE. How does that happen?

Then my mind started puttering around on the rest of my two-mile drive to the Mansion. It was the first day of school. WHAT IF a bully on the bus had thrown out a kid's shoe? How traumatic would that be? For a kid to get home with only one shoe. From a pair of shoes bought for the new school year. Probably getting criticized by the parent, for being careless and losing a shoe, or for allowing it to be taken. Or maybe given sympathy, with an angry mom calling the school to complain.

Sometimes my mind works overtime. This scenario made me really sad. So I'm hoping that shoe just got bounced out of the back of a truck or one of those side-by-side off-road vehicles that people drive to town.

To Catch A Possible Thief

It is not Mrs. HM's job to catch a possible thief. She has no training in apprehending scofflaws. She does, however, have 28 years of teaching experience that supplies her with the skills to detect some shady shenanigans.

Tuesday, I got in line at the maze which meanders through last-minute-purchase racks at Orb K. There was only one clerk working, so I stood among the gum and candy and jerky, waiting my turn. Four people were ahead of me. A gal at the counter, trying to buy cigarettes with a discount. A man with a soda and a $30 lottery ticket in his back pocket. A guy with a soda and candy. A high school kid with a 44 oz fountain soda.

As I stepped up to the entry to the maze, two high school girls were walking towards it. I noticed, because I figured they were faster than me, and would make it to the line first. But wait! As they approached, the Kid With Soda turned to look at them. I figured they might be together. Upon his glance, the two girls veered away from the maze, and WALKED OUT THE DOOR!

What in the Not-Heaven??? You do not pre-pay at Orb K. They each had THREE fountain sodas, looking to be 32 or 44 oz. They had one in each hand, and another tucked into the crook of their elbow, against their side.

Even sketchier, Kid With Soda then wormed his way past the guy with soda and candy, and bellied up to the counter where there is a self-pay scanner. He set his ONE 44 oz soda on the contraption, then put his card into the scanner. How odd. He was waiting for a while, then when the girls went past me, he stepped up to pay for ONE soda.

Is it just me? Or does it seem like these gals were walking out with six sodas, and not paying a cent? They were nowhere near that self-scanner when I came in and got in line in the maze. They were over at the soda fountain.

Not my monkey(s), not my circus. I was not about to say anything.

Big Salad, The Mansion Version

Yesterday, I spoke of my plans to make my own big salad, due to recent disappointments at Country Mart's deli. Here are the results.

I made my salad in two layers, because I like to get parts of everything in each bite, and not just plain lettuce when I get to the bottom.

That's the first layer. I've got the chopped up romaine lettuce, shredded sharp cheddar, diced boiled egg, and half a cut-up home-grown tomato. Then I repeated another such layer on top of it.

There's the upper layer, topped with blue cheese dressing, and crispy fried onions. I might have overdone it with the crispy fried onions, but that was my compensation for not having a BIG big salad.

Sweet Gummi Mary! My big salad was delicious!!!

In retrospect, I might have only used half the boiled egg. A whole egg in a true big salad is just right, but in my bowl, it was a bit much, changing the flavor slightly.

I also had a couple of frozen chicken tenders.

Not exactly like the deli chicken tenders, but a reasonable facsimile. 

Yes, I will make my big salad again. Tonight (Wednesday) I had a small salad, without the boiled egg, and an extra chicken tender. 

Farmer H brought home six more garden tomatoes. There are definitely salads in my future.

The Mansion Is The New Country Mart

After recent disappointments with the big salads at Country Mart, Mrs. HM has decided to take matters into her own hands, and MAKE HER OWN BIG SALAD! Well. For one day, anyway.

I had to go shopping on Monday for bananas. So I picked up some romaine lettuce. This morning (Tuesday) I boiled four eggs. I already have shredded cheddar, home-grown tomatoes, blue cheese dressing, and the bag of fried onions for topping. Of course I don't plan to use all four eggs. Only one. But if it's a success, I might want to do it again, and Farmer H might want one.

What I DON'T have is the big square black plastic container. I don't want my salad on a plate. So I will use a cardboard bowl. I don't want to be poking my fork around in styrofoam, and I don't like a heavy glass bowl. This cardboard bowl is the size of my glass bowls I use when serving the 7 Layer Salad. So not a BIG big salad. But bigger than the small version of the bowl, like I use for a side salad.

Gotta say, I'm really looking forward to supper! Farmer H is having his leftover Domino's ham and mushroom pizza that he missed Monday night by going to the auction. I have an idea for a couple of chicken tenders that I found in the frozen section of 10Box, to accompany my big salad. It should be a decent replica of the big salads I so dearly loved when Country Mart was doing them right.

I'll let you know how it turns out...

When The Fix Is Worse Than The Solution

Mrs. HM had to do some home-doctorin' (or nurse-practitionerin') last week. It was not a critical injury, and the treatment was just a bandaid. But still. You'd think a reasonably sensible, educated woman would be able to do that without incident. Well. Not Mrs. HM...

I was using a round bristle-brush with plastic bristles that have little ball ends on them. You'd think such an implement would be Mrs. HM-proof. But no. It was after my shower. I had picked out my wet lovely lady-mullet with just that, a pick. Then I was using the round brush as usual to comb under the ends of the mullet part. Such a simple activity, one would think. 

Not really paying attention, I put that brush too close to my neck while twirling it. The bristles latched onto a skin tag, partially removing it. I do not endorse this type of removal! The little stalk of skin stayed there, with minimal bleeding. Just enough that I could see a tiny spot of red without my bifocals. Not even enough to need a bandaid, much less a tourniquet.

I did, however, seek out a small bandaid to cover it, because I knew that my shirt collar rubbing on it would be unpleasant. I mainly wanted to pin it down, so it wouldn't get caught on anything. There was a box of small sheer bandaids in the medicine cabinet. I slapped one on there, and it fit perfectly.

The next day, my neck was itching fiercely. Huh. Was it from healing? A wound will do that. I scratched around gingerly. Didn't seem to be itching right over the partially-severed skin tag. But around it. I looked in the mirror. Well. I must be allergic to the sheer bandaids. Seems like I had this problem before, on my leg. 

The fix for this was to remove that sheer little bandaid, and replace it. The other bandaid was larger, but was the plastic kind, not sheer. I put it directly over where the other one had been. 

That spot continued to itch. I figured it was from that original sheer bandaid. But the itch was maddening! Could I have a tick on my neck? Just under the new bandaid? I didn't feel anything lumpy there. I couldn't keep scratching. I took off the new bandaid, and looked in the mirror.

NOT A PRETTY SIGHT!

Please excuse the strawlike texture of my lovely lady-mullet, and the lack of focus. It is hard to take a picture of your own neck in your kitchen while holding open the your shirt.

It seems that I must also be allergic to this brand of the plastic bandaid. The sheers were Best Choice, and the plastics were Good Sense. Huh. Now what to do? I had some great big bandaids, for like when I got a hole in my calf by closing T-Hoe's door on it. Or I had a box with very old TINY bandaids, the only size left from a multipack. Brand name Being Well. I chose tiny version.

This time I applied the tiny bandaid perpendicular to the angry red skin where the others had been stuck. We'll see if my itching subsides. It is twice as red on the day after removing the medium size bandaid.

Hillmomba Under Construction

Remember how the gas line guys were parking along our gravel road, and digging around with big machinery? Turns out they were not gas line guys at all!!! Farmer H stopped to talk to them one day, and found out they were installing COMMUNICATION equipment. 

What that entails, I don't exactly know. I thought everything was on the cloud these days. Magically transmitted through the nothingness of space. Like I get satellite internet from a DISH dish. And people (except for us sometimes) don't use landline phones anymore. So what, exactly, are these workers burying in trenches along the back roads of Hillmomba? Is it like cable TV or something? I surely don't know. Technology is not my forte.

Anyhoo... those workers have been done for a couple weeks now. They left behind bare patches of dug-up dirt, scattered with straw. So I'm guessing they put down some grass seed. Oh, and one driver, who was parked in a particularly annoying, vision-blocking place on the hill every day, left behind a flattened Gatorade bottle. Which means it was there on a day he was parking again. So presumably saw it, yet STILL didn't pick it up. Nincompoop.

In other news, our across-the-road neighbors are up to something. It's in one of their horse fields, across from our BARn field. They haven't had horses for a few years now. I noticed about a month or two ago that they'd taken down their fencing wire. The metal posts were still in the ground, but the wire was coiled up and hanging at the corner of the field.

A couple weeks ago, there were some piles of wood at the end of the field. Then some white cone-looking things spaced out widely, in rows. I hoped they would not be putting pigs or something in that field! And no way would chickens survive, with just little A-frame houses. It was a mystery. Then Farmer H told me they were putting in a DOG TRACK!

What in the Not-Heaven??? Did he mean a racing track? No way! That's gambling. Surely it's regulated by the state. I don't want a bunch of gamblers strangers coming up in here every weekend!

Well. Early last week, I saw some progress in that field. Either that neighbor, or the guy next to them, was using a little Bobcat to doze around in the field. THEN, some structures appeared.

It looks like they're building some kind of doggy steeplechase course! Maybe it's called something else. Perhaps dog obedience. Canine obstacle course. I don't know. I've seen competitions like that on TV. This could get interesting. 

That view is not much better, but maybe you can see the shape of the obstacles. The wire is still on the fence on this part of the field, except on the far right end by their driveway. The trucks and the bobcat went in down on the far left end.

Woman Neighbor has a grooming business, and takes in rescue dogs sometimes. So she knows her way around man's best friend. No ill will here. I doubt she's up to anything shifty.

That said, I'm worried that whatever venture this turns out to be might have an impact on my beloved fleabags and Copper Jack. You can bet they will be over there investigating any new dogs that show up. This has been their territory for eight years or more. They won't take kindly to trespassers. I can't imagine them sitting calmly in our BARn field, silently observing.

The Pony Knows His Father

Farmer H brought home some fresh-grown tomatoes several days ago, from one of his Storage Unit buddies. We had eaten all but one of them, and Friday, he brought home six more garden tomatoes. I was telling The Pony about it on the phone during our morning call on Saturday. The Pony is not a big fan of tomatoes, but we discuss what we're planning to have for our meals.

I learned that The Pony had made a snack run to the store on his way home Friday. 

"Mmm. Snacks. What did you get?"

"Chocolate. Pringles."

"What kind of chocolate?"

"Some Milky Ways, Hersheys..."

"Well. That sounds good. Your dad brought home six tomatoes from somebody's garden."

"Did he PAY for them? Or just take them?"

"Heh, heh! They were actually given to him. He didn't just walk into somebody's garden and pick them."

"Good to know."

Farmer H is not an actual habitual thief. But he does overestimate invitations sometimes, and not recognize boundaries.

The Bad People Of Sis-Town Get Under Mrs. HM's Skin, And Are Stuck In Her Craw

I am starting to think there are no ruder people on the face of the earth than those rumpusholes over in Sis-Town. And that's a-goin' some, as my grandpa used to say. Because headlines in the local paper yesterday alleged that three residents of Hillmomba were guilty of murder, and another one was a child molester!

Still, those dregs of society did not affect Mrs. HM personally, while the Sis-Town rumpusholes did. Wouldn't that be a good name for a sports team? The Sis-Town Rumpusholes! 

Anyhoo... the preferred hangout of the Sis-Town Rumpusholes appears to be the Save A Lot. There are two handicap spaces there, at the corner of the building. Both were empty, so I parked at the one on the end. I observed a truck parked at the front of the building, where I would walk past on my way to the door. There's a little area there before you come to the "porch roof" that covers a soda machine, a child's riding carousel, and the cart area.

I've seen vehicles parked here every time I stop at this store. It's not even a parking spot. No lines. Not a handicap space. So I don't park there, even though it's closer. This truck had the driver's window down. I had to go on that side of it, because it was too close to the wall and soda machine for me to comfortably walk.

Whew! That truck smelled fishy! Indeed, there was a decal on the back window of the cab, "I'd Rather Be Fishing." Looking in, I saw two fishing poles propped through the console area. So whoever was driving that truck did not seem to have any disability that would prevent them from walking from the truck to a body of water to fish. Huh. Wonder why they NEEDED to park so much closer to the door?

When I came out, a lady had just parked a big black truck across the drive behind T-Hoe. That, too, is not a parking space! It's on the edge of the driving area, next to a grassy incline up to the road. The lady called to a little girl about 5, and they made their way past me toward the store. Let the record show that there were plenty of parking spaces along the side of the building past the two handicap spaces. And a whole lot full of parking spaces directly across the drive that passes in front of the store.

The problem with the black truck is that it meant I would be hindered in backing up T-Hoe. I could only turn one way without risking hitting it. So that lady took up driving space by parking there. And, only one-way traffic could flow through while we were both parked like that. Me, legally.

But wait! As I scoped out the rear angle to back up, ANOTHER car came and parked in the space that's not a parking space, by the front wall and soda machine! This one even had personalized plates. And no handicap placard. So nothing wrong that necessitated a closer spot.

I suppose they think that since it's not a marked parking space, they can't get a parking ticket, and that nobody will have guts enough to confront them about it.

I think they're right with that assumption... This isn't Hillmomba, you know, where murderers run rampant.

These Are Definitely NOT The Salad Days

Mrs. HM does not ask for much. But she DOES enjoy a big salad once a week. The only place to get the big salad is at the Country Mart over in Sis-Town, since 10Box took over the old Country Mart in Hillmomba, and does not have a deli.

My preferred big salad is the variety that has a chicken tender (sliced up) on top. Farmer H likes the one with some chopped turkey and ham. Lately, the chicken tender variety has not been available. So I make do with the turkey/ham.

Last week, the big salads with turkey/ham were a bit different. They usually have two halves of a boiled egg included. But both mine and Farmer H's big salad only had two QUARTER boiled eggs! They cheated us out of half a boiled egg! How petty!

Oh, how I yearn for those days of last week! Because my big salad on Thursday did not have any boiled egg at all!!!

Of course the price was still the same! There were six of the big salads in the deli case. And NONE of them had a boiled egg included. Yes. I checked every last one.

In fact, I picked up each salad, looking at the expiration date, and judging the heft of the container. Some were lighter than others. Not for me! I prefer to get the most for my $6.99 bucks!

They looked like there was less shredded cheddar on top, too. If this "shrinkflation" continues, I will just be forced to make my own big salad! Which will not seem like such a treat.

Favors May Not Be As Favorable As They Appear

While making my selections at the right-side lottery machine of 10Box on Monday, a lady left the checkout with her purchases, and stopped a short distance from me. I thought maybe my cart was in her way, though I had made sure it was not in front of the left-side machine, lest anybody want to buy tickets.

"Oh. Sorry. Let me move this." I repositioned my cart.

"No, that's fine." The Lady came over and picked up some discarded lottery tickets from the small wastebasket between the two machines. She hovered there a minute.

"Here are two more, if you want them," I said as I finished scanning my second winner for money to be applied to my machine for the tickets I wanted to get.

"Okay. Have you scanned them? And you're not a millionaire yet?"

"Heh, heh! Yes, I've scanned them. And no, I'm not a millionaire quite yet!"

I felt bad, because if The Lady was planning to scan them for points, I'd already done that at home. I've only been doing it on every ticket since I won that $300 weekly drawing. I will stop doing it after the contest is over. Which I think is happening in a couple weeks. Normally, my cast-off losers would be great for people who like scanning in points and using them to enter other contests, or buy online draw tickets, which don't appeal to me.

Anyhoo... I kept The Lady from feeling awkward about standing there waiting to bend over and grab my trash. Even if there was nothing material in it for her THIS TIME. In the future, my trash could be a gold mine for pickers.

Pony Steps

Monday was not a good day for The Pony. As you might expect, with two days of mail built up for delivery. AND it rained in the early afternoon. At least temps were in the mid-70s, so there wasn't a heat stroke on the horizon.

The Pony sent me a text and a screenshot.

"So many steps."

That was about two hours of overtime for The Pony. It's not that he covered any more distance than usual, I would imagine. Only that rain slows him down, along with the extra mail.

You can see why The Pony must strap on a hefty feedbag to maintain his energy.

The Carnivore Makes An Almost Meatless Sandwich

Sunday evening, we had Terrible Taters for supper. That's what they were called at one of our favorite restaurants, anyway. It's a big baked potato, covered with BBQ pulled pork and sour cream. Farmer H also adds butter to his potato first, and tops the pulled pork with shredded cheddar before applying his sour cream. Oh, and a dill pickle spear served on the side is a must.

Anyhoo... I didn't have the actual giant baking potatoes this time. I had the two largest russet potatoes that I had saved from the 5 lb bag when I made the roasted vegetables with bacon. Still, they were two fairly large potatoes.

When using the giant potatoes, Farmer H has sometimes told me, "I don't need all this meat."

To which I reply, "I take out half for you, and half for me. There won't be enough left to really do anything with for another meal." 

So Farmer H goes ahead and puts the rest of the meat on his potato. It might be because whereas I slice my potato in half, and then top each side with meat, Farmer H makes a slice, and folds his potato open like a stiff-spined book, loading up the crevice in the middle. Anyhoo... this time I figured with his potato being smaller, Farmer H would indeed have some meat left over.

"You might have meat left. Do you want me to lay out some of your sliced pickles so you can have a sandwich on Hawaiian bread?"

"Yeah. That would be good."

Then I watched as Farmer H KEPT dipping meat onto his smaller potato. It was almost buried completely, as if he was planning to use every bit of the pulled pork on top.

"I thought you were going to have a sandwich."

 

"I am."

"With what? There's hardly anything but BBQ sauce left in the bowl! What are you having, a pickle sandwich with sauce? I would NEVER make you a sandwich with so little meat!"

"It's fine. There's plenty of meat left for a sandwich."

Not really. Farmer H smeared that mostly-sauce from edge to edge of the bread, and put his pickles on. If I had served him such a "sandwich," I would never hear the end of it! Just goes to show you, Farmer H would rather be his own boss than eat a tasty sandwich.

The Doctor Is Raising Mrs. HM's Blood Pressure

Okay, that's not true. He's a nurse practitioner, not a doctor.

Friday around 2:45, I got an email from the clinic. Of course it doesn't say what the message is. I have to log into YourChart to find out. 

This is not convenient for me! Whatever happened to the days of actual people calling to give you information? Oh, wait. That's when doctors nurse practitioners were in the business of actually helping people, not doing well-care drive-thru visits to extract maximum money from insurance and Medicare.

Don't get me wrong. I really like my NP. He's a good guy. It's just the "standard of care" that the clinic and major hospital system requires the providers to conform to. Even Farmer H complained just last week about how his own NP doesn't seem to try and figure out any of his ailments these days, but quickly says he will need to see a specialist, and they will schedule an appointment for him.

Anyhoo... 2:45 is my bed time. The time I actually lie down on Farmer H's new $200 mattress to catch a 20- or 40-minute nap before showering and heading to town. I was curious about this email from my clinic. So I tried to access it on my phone. Not an easy feat without my bifocals.

I took the link, and signed into YourChart. But I have the privacy set so that I have to enter a six-digit code to get into my account. The six-digit code is emailed separately. No problem at all when I'm on HIPPIE. But impossible on my phone.

The screen says DO NOT LEAVE THIS SCREEN where I need to type in the six-digit code. No matter how I try, every time I open up the email again to get the just-sent code, my phone won't let me back to that screen where I need to enter it.

Well. You know what happened. I had to get out of bed, fighting that $200 mattress to release my rumpus that it insists on sucking into the center of the bed. And hike all the way to the kitchen to log in with HIPPIE. Only to discover that my NP is moving to a new building! All the doctors are. The ones who used to be on the three floors above the hospital.

I have no idea where this new building is. Farmer H might know, since he frequents Bill-Paying Town more than I. I guess we'll find out the next time I have an appointment. I don't know when that will be. 

The major thing wrong with me being that I am a technology simpleton.

Oh, The Bananamanity!

In Country Mart on Thursday, the Young Cashier set my bags on the little shelf there for writing checks. You remember checks, don't you? Those small documents old ladies pull out of their purse at the last moment, when told their total?

Anyhoo... it's not like I was going to use that shelf to write a check. I'm technologically advanced, and use my debit card! Nor am I incapable of reaching over to pick up my bags off the end of the counter. I'm sure Young Cashier thought she was doing me a favor. Until she wasn't.

I had eight bananas. Four long ones for Farmer H, and four short ones for me. She put them in the bag, and set it up on that little shelf. THUD! My bananas, which I had so carefully selected, fell off the little shelf, about 18 inches to the counter.

"Oh. Sorry."

"Well. I hope my husband's bananas hit first, not mine!"

Seriously. Who wants to pay for bruised bananas? Not this old gal. I know Young Cashier didn't do it intentionally. She THOUGHT she was helping me. She was polite and cheerful. When I set out a bottle of the rum I get occasionally for The Pony, she said

"Are you sure you're old enough to buy this?"

"Heh, heh. I am WAY old enough to buy that."

I know it's the law that she's supposed to check ID for liquor sales. She didn't mean anything by it. But to me, it's like when some smarmy salesman calls me "YOUNG LADY." I know I'm old, okay? You don't have to patronize me. No need to treat me differently from any other customer.

I stopped short of shaking my fist at her, which might have dislodged the shawl on my shoulders, and turned around my tennis-ball-footed walker to shuffle away indignantly. Okay, that didn't happen.

I just tried for the third time to make my debit card work, after Young Cashier kindly pointed out that I had been inserting the non-chip end into the scanner...

Is Mrs. HM The Rumpushole?

Of course not! Says Mrs. HM herself. You be the judge. And maybe the jury. But I will NOT annoint you with executioner privileges.

Thursday evening, we had big salads from Country Mart for our supper. Farmer H gets his salad when he's ready to eat, and I don't have to do anything. Well. I don't HAVE to... 

I made sure he had Bacon Ranch Dressing in FRIG II to put on his salad. I didn't set it out, because I didn't know the exact time he would choose to eat. But I DID ask if he wanted a fresh mini pack of Ritz Crackers to go with it. Farmer H said that he would use the half-pack he had left from last week, which were on the marred coffee table where he eats. I reminded him of the crackers left from his election meat tray, in a baggie on the cutting block. He said he might try some of them to see if they were still good.

I figured Farmer H was all set to get his own supper. Indeed, around 6:15, he came to the kitchen. I sensed him, in my peripheral vision, going about preparing his big salad with the dressing. Sometimes I've set out a fork for him, and a pack of crackers, and a paper towel. But this time, I didn't. He got his own fork, and started to the living room.

He had just sat down when I thought of something.

"Hey, did you get your crackers out of the baggie?"

"Oh. I forgot." 

Farmer H came back to the kitchen and took a handful of crackers. Every now and then, I'd look into the living room, where I could see him sitting on the edge of the long couch, happily feeding on his big salad. 

Then I thought of something else. A terrible dereliction of duty on my part. Farmer H was probably about done by now. It was 6:40. I struggled over whether to bring my lapse to his attention. And decided NAH! After all, he was nearly done. No use to make him yearn for something he could have had...

I forgot to set out the crispy fried onion bag for topping the big salad!

You can be sure that I put those crispy fried onions on top of MY big salad later! That's the best part! Does this make me a rumpushole?

Stop your tsk-tsking! Even Steven made sure Farmer H's treatment at my idle hands was avenged! I was out of my Blue Cheese Dressing. Found another bottle in the pantry that expired in September. OF 2023! I threw that one away. But found a bottle of Ken's Buttermilk Ranch Dressing that only expired in March 2024! So thought I'd give it a try. It smelled okay, and tasted okay. I suppose I just didn't like the flavor. But at least my big salad had crunch...

Is Farmer H The Rumpushole?

Wednesday evening, Farmer H got a text from Old Crony herself, asking him to come play bingo. He declined.

"I don't want to go play bingo with them. It's not fun anymore."

"Well, she's asking you herself this time. So that's kind of like her apologizing for whatever is wrong with the two of you lately."

"She was telling everybody at the Senior Center that they should volunteer to work at the election. Told them they'll get paid, and that they feed you lunch!"

"You said that you got paid $15 an hour. So that's true."

"Yeah, but they don't feed you! We had to bring stuff to eat. She acts like she knows what's going on, buy I WAS THERE!"

"She's just encouraging people to get involved. She's telling them what she thinks is true."

"But it's not!"

"Here's the problem. You are both know-it-alls. You tell people stuff you THINK is right, even if it might not be exact. That's why you clash. You both think you're experts at everything."

"I'm not a know-it-all!"

"I have known you for 35 years. You are definitely a know-it-all! Even if you don't realize it, or refuse to admit it."

"Yeah, sure."

"You will be wishing you could go to bingo, when it's the middle of winter, and you don't have a flip house to work on, and it gets dark at 5:00, and you've been sitting around the house all day."

"I can find things to do."

"You need to quit holding a grudge against her for whatever you think she's done, and just get over it, and have a good time with that group like you did before. I'm starting to think that YOU'RE the rumpushole. She is clearly reaching out to you, and all you do is complain about her to me."

"Whatever..."

Seriously. I don't see Farmer H reaching out to Old Crony. He needs to get over his "superior knowledge" attitude, and accept that proffered olive branch.

The Ticking H-Bomb

Once again, Mrs. HM is the innocent victim! A bite victim! Make that a quadruple bite victim!!! In any case, a VICTIM! Probably the target of Farmer H trying to kill me again, with all the denial he's shoveling my way!

Monday, I found a TICK on my left ankle bone! It was just before Farmer H came to the living room short couch at 5:45 a.m. I knew there had been itching, but did not expect to find a tick! It was a tiny one, hardly visible without my bifocals. The kind we call "seed ticks" around here.

Tuesday morning, right after Farmer H left the Mansion at 4:30 for his election duties, I found another tick! This time on my right ankle, on the back, just above the heel area. What in the Not-Heaven??? Any self-respecting tick should know better than to attach in such a barren landscape! The thin dry skin over the ankle bone, and the tough dry skin above the heel.

But wait! The nightmare is not over!

Wednesday morning, right after Farmer H headed out to buy his clandestine donut(s) and work on the Beauty Shop, I found a third tick! On my right ankle. The front this time. AND, just an hour later, I found one on my left hip!!! 

SWEET GUMMI MARY! Where are these ticks coming from??? Let the record show that I leave the Mansion once a day, for about an hour. I do not step off of pavement. 

Farmer H, on the other hand, galivants across Hillmomba, spending a lot of time in the grass of the front yard, BARn field, and back yard around POOLIO. He mows grass. He works in the yard of the Beauty Shop. 

When I asked Farmer H where I was getting these ticks, he immediately said,

"I ain't had no ticks all summer!"

"Yeah. They always get on ME! Somehow, you must be bringing them in the house."

"You get 'em from them dogs."

"I pet the dogs once a day. For maybe five minutes, or less. I don't pet them with my feet! I used one hand, because I'm holding my purse and water with the other one, and GROCERIES, too! Ticks don't climb down. They climb up. They're not going down to my ankle from my hand. They'd go up my arm, probably to my head. It's like they get on me, and immediately attach at my ankles. Or climb up to my hip. I'm not walking through grass. It's like they must be on the carpet."

"It's gotta be the dogs."

"You pet them too! They jump on you!"

"You're the one who's got the ticks."

Yeah. How does that happen? I've tried to think of every angle. I don't think I'm getting them from the bed. There are no ticks on me when I get up and go to the shower. None on me when I get out of the shower and put on lotion and my socks. I'm always in shoes for town, or CROCS for here, except when I take off my town shoes and walk to the master bathroom to change clothes, or have a nap. I park my CROCS beside the sink, next to where Farmer H piles his dirty tighty-whities and socks before washing. Maybe they are hitching a ride on my CROCS that I put back on when I get home from town.

I don't think I suddenly started getting ticks off the dogs. Farmer H has treated them with the between-the-shoulders flea and tick med. Nothing about my routine has changed. Yet Farmer H has been working at POOLIO for weeks now.

Excuse me. I'm feeling itchy...

Not Today, Says Pony Inspector

The Pony has been providing me with plenty of material lately. Some good, some unfortunate, and some that reveals my unsmartness. Friday, The Pony proved his 

job-worthiness.

"Oh, yeah. I prevented some attempted fraud today. See the problem?"

"A one-cent stamp?"

"Yeah. Those aren't Forever Stamps. So, like..."

"Stealing the food right out of your mouth!!!"

"First off, they'd be sent as third class junk since those kinds of stamps aren't really intended for, like, residents. Second, yeah 72 times less postage than it should have."

"B@STARDS!"

"I feel bad though because they came from a nice house. As in, the people that I got a check to before the holiday way back! Remember that? They found me, and I got it to them before the bank closed, and they insisted on giving me something. It's just, like, those won't get there with that stamp! Ughhh."

Poor Pony. Actually caring about his "customers." Life is full of tough decisions.

Mrs. HM Makes A Discovery To Rival Her Enlightening That England Is An Island

You learn something every day! Mrs. HM is no exception. Sure, some of you might think she knows it all. Even Farmer H has stated that more than a couple of times! But it's not true! Mrs. HM is always open to learning!

I have been watching the Olympics during the morning hours, when events are happening live in Paris. On my call to The Pony Monday morning, I said I was watching women's gymnastics, the finals of the individual balance beam and floor exercise. The Pony and I decided that I really had nothing to talk about, having just spent an hour at his house on Sunday afternoon. So we hung up, with me planning to text at 7:00, to make sure The Pony didn't fall back asleep. When The Pony didn't respond to that text, I gave a short call.

"I'm up. I just didn't text back. How was your gymnastics?"

"Interesting! Almost every one of them fell off the balance beam! I was just watching the medals. Italy took the gold and bronze. I don't get the Italian national anthem. To me, it just sounded like some generic Renaissance music!"  

Silence.

"Um. Mom...? You DO realize where the Renaissance started, right?"

"Oh. Well. I'm guessing that must have been... ITALY?"

"Yup. Oh, Mother..."

"I was TODAY YEARS OLD when I learned that the Renaissance started in Italy."

Helping The Pony Strap On The Foodbag

Sunday morning, I made two roaster pans of potatoes, carrots, and onions with bacon on top. Yes. The temperature was 92 degrees. Not a time you would normally think of cooking up this hearty meal. However, one of Farmer H's buddies had given him four huge onions that he got at the auction. HUGE! Bigger than a softball! You know how Mrs. HM hates to let anything go to waste. So to utilize those white onions, I went to town and bought carrots, potatoes, and bacon!

Heh, heh! It would have been easier to let those onions sit around until I thought of something else to do with them! But no. Farmer H likes the roasted vegetables with bacon. So there was a meal for three or four days.

I asked The Pony if he wanted some, and he said he would think about it. But the next day he said yes. That I could bring the vegetables over on Sunday, his day off, since he didn't feel like going anywhere, and was going to rest his ankle. Oh, and if I DID happen to go to the store, could I pick up a gallon of vinegar so he could clean his jetted bathtub? Because with his ankle being hurt, and on crutches for a time, and then back to work... he hadn't had time to go to the store to buy vinegar.

Well. You know that I would never let a Pony request go unfulfilled! While I was in Save A Lot, I also picked up a loaf of Hawaiian bread for The Pony, since he mentioned that he would like the vegetables and bacon, but was out of bread. Then I got him two red onions (he loves them), and a bag of salad, and two kinds of cheese (Swiss and provolone), a bottle of Caesar dressing, a pack of honey ham, a bag of Sour Cream and Onion potato chips, a bag of fried onions for salad topping, a bag of some kind of cracker with sea salt that was in the half-price cart, and a box of Hershey's three-chocolate snack cakes. 

Yeah. The Pony is not going to starve on MY watch!

Farmer H Wants A Trophy

Sweet Gummi Mary! Farmer H still has the knack. The knack for avoiding carrying in groceries when Mrs. HM arrives home with them!

Saturday, Farmer H came home early from his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2). He was in the Mansion by 4:00. I was just leaving for town. He was planning to get in POOLIO. Fine with me! At least get some use out of POOLIO for the money spent on cleansing!

"Okay. I'm going to the store to get some things for The Pony. I know I'll be carrying them in myself, since you'll be in the pool."

Not a big deal. I was prepared. It was not a lot of groceries, and some could remain in T-Hoe's rear until I delivered them to The Pony on Sunday. However, on my way home 90 minutes later, I got a text from Farmer H:

"Im in chair ill carry in when you get home"

Well. That was good news. I was driving at the time, on our county blacktop road. I tried to call Farmer H, to tell him my location. Three times. But the phone, while showing that I was on a call with Farmer H, did not make any noise. No ringing sounds. No offer to leave a voice mail. Huh. I guess if Farmer H had his phone in his holster while sitting in his recliner, the reception was not good. 

I sent a text as soon as I turned onto our gravel road. Pulled over by the creek, and said "I'm at the mailboxes." Then I went on home.

The dogs came out barking their fool heads off. I parked T-Hoe in the garage. No sign of Farmer H. So I resigned myself to carrying in my own groceries. I should have known. 

I was on the top step of the porch when Farmer H came out. I had all the bags draped over my arm. Too late. I was already there. 

Of course Farmer H had an excuse.

"I didn't see you come up the driveway. I was watching."

"Yet you didn't see me. Never mind. I've got it. I just wish you hadn't gotten my hopes up. I sent you a text."

"Huh. Yeah. It just came in."

"And you didn't see me. And you didn't hear the dogs."

"I was watching for you! I don't know how I missed you!"

"Funny now that keeps happening."

Farmer H just followed me along the porch, proclaiming that he had been WATCHING FOR ME! Like that did me any good. Once inside, he went to sit in his recliner again. So I put everything away. Seriously. He kept yapping about how HE HAD BEEN WATCHING FOR ME! Like he wanted a trophy for the very thought of helping.

Then I went about preparing his supper while he was yelling at me about how great he was, for WATCHING FOR ME so he could help carry in groceries.

Farmer H's Befuddling Crony Rift Deepens

You may recall that only a couple months ago, Farmer H and his Senior Center cronies were thick as thieves, playing bingo every week, and he being treated like a king with large portions at lunch. Something went amiss around the July 4th cookout. Since then, Farmer H has been getting the cold shoulder from Old Crony.

Farmer H thought the rift might be on the mend, after Old Crony asked Another Lady to invite Farmer H to bingo Wednesday night. Well. After hearing the details, I wonder if it was just a ploy to show Farmer H that all is STILL NOT WELL!

Farmer H said he was sitting at the table, and Old Crony's cousin asked if she knew anybody who did handyman work. She needed a dishwasher installed. And Old Crony said, "I don't really know of anyone who does that kind of work anymore." Of course this rubbed Farmer H the wrong way, since everybody knows HE does that kind of work.

THEN, on Friday, as he went through the line at the Senior Center with a buddy, The Buddy held out his cup to get ice for his drink. They used to be able to get their own ice from a bowl with a scoop, but Old Crony said that since a homeless man had put his hands into the ice, now they had to wait for someone working there to dip it for them. 

Anyhoo... The Buddy had ice put into his cup from Old Crony with the scoop. Then she turned away when Farmer H held out his cup. The Buddy said, "Farmer H would like some ice, too." So then Old Crony came back and gave Farmer H his ice.

I don't know if Farmer H is looking for ways to be slighted, or if Old Crony really didn't notice he was there for ice. Something is definitely fishy with their interactions. 

We'll see what develops.

Mrs. HM Remains True To Herself At The Gas Station Chicken Store

Wednesday afternoon I had the complete attention of the secondary clerk at the Gas Station Chicken Store. There's nothing about her work performance that makes her secondary. It's just that she's not my favorite. She's always polite and businesslike, and friendly to me. Just more reserved than Fave.

The man ahead of me had just left, having bought two sodas, paid for gas, and let his teenage son pick out two scratchers. A previous lady had popped back in to confirm which pump she had paid for. Then it was my turn to cash in winners, and get the day's selection.

As always, I asked for a $3 Cash4Life draw ticket for The Pony. I usually ask at the beginning of the transaction, right after my winners are scanned. The clerk staples a printout to them. This time, Sec had to move across the counter area to use the stapler at the other register. So I chose my scratchers first, them being in the case right next to her.

When Sec rang up my total, I expected to get back change of $1. But she gave me $4.

"Oh. Uh. I thought it was going to be more. Did you forget to charge me for the draw ticket?"

Sec looked at the receipt. "Well, sonofabitch! I DID!"

SWEET GUMMI MARY! That took me by surprise. Sec is always so prim and proper, so reserved. This struck me as hilarious, but I dared not laugh. 

Sec thanked me for pointing that out.

"I don't want to cheat you! That would be bad luck!"

Neither The Universe, nor Even Steven, rewarded me for my honesty. I only had two winners of $3, and one winner of $5. BUT I KNOW I DID THE RIGHT THING. So there's that...

Heh, heh! I can't wait to tell Fave about Sec's reaction. We'll get a giggle out of it.

Like A Shaft Of Light Breaking Through The Clouds

At this typing, FARMER H HAS RETURNED TO PLAYING BINGO!!!

Sure, it's 2:13 on Wednesday afternoon, and he could still change plans by 6:00 p.m. But it's a sign of hope! Even that he PLANS to go to bingo tonight! It's been over a month! Maybe longer! Sweet, sweet solitude for a few hours this evening! No supper to prepare for him!

I think there was a falling-out with Farmer H and his bingo buddies. Not in the beginning, when he first stopped going. He was just bored with not very good prizes at the newer place, and the crowd at the old place. But then he began to speak unfavorably about his cronies. Just to me. But still. Something was up. 

THEN Farmer H mentioned a few days ago that his main cook buddy at the Senior Center hadn't been speaking to him. He couldn't think of anything he might have said to make her mad, other than having a discussion of how much he paid at the pharmacy for one of his medicines, and her saying she never has to pay that much, and another lady taking Farmer H's side.

Tuesday evening, when he was already working on POOLIO, the Another Lady sent him a text saying Old Crony wanted her to ask Farmer H to come to bingo. Well. Farmer H was already busy, with no time to get cleaned up. So he agreed to go on Wednesday night.

Another Lady said Old Crony thought Farmer H was mad at her, for something that happened when he grilled at the Senior Center for July 4th. She had wanted to go inside for their bingo, in the A/C, but Farmer H and the elderlies wanted to stay outside.

Who knows what their beef was about! It might be an interesting evening. I'll try to get the scoop on it when Farmer H gets home.