The Never-Ending Day

Sweet Gummi Mary! This day seems 72 hours long! It's Saturday. As forecast (for once), our snow showed up in the wee hours this morning. It took Farmer H 45 minutes to get to his SUS2.5. Surely you didn't think he'd stay home! On his way out the door, he said,

"I probably won't do much business, but my people will be there!"

We were supposed to get two inches. I could see that when daybreak came shortly after 7:00, being delayed by the gloominess. By 9:00, I could see where the squirrels had scampered away part of the snow on the porch rail. At 11:00, a melt was in progress. Now it's 1:21, and there's still a bit of snow on the grass, and on the porch deck.

Even worse, it's now RAINING! Not a lot. Just enough to be sloppy. The temperature is up to 38. But I'm NOT GOING TO TOWN! The wind is gusting to 33 mph. I'm cold just sitting here with my undertable heater. I had planned for this scenario. I got some extra scratchers yesterday, and asked Farmer H to pick me up some crosswords and Christmas Lights tickets before he comes home.

I would survive a trip to town. I'm pretty sure the snow is melted off the pavement. T-Hoe has been refurbished. I regret missing one of Fave's days at the Gas Station Chicken Store, since they were also closed on Thanksgiving. But I don't want to get wet. I don't need a chill.

I've done a load of laundry. Washed the dishes. Added a can of green beans to the leftovers so they'll last longer. Built and ate a delicious bacon/turkey/salad wrap. Wrote out checks to pay the Lowe's bill, and our personal credit card bill. Typed up two blog posts on still-kickin' HIPPIE with his cantankerous space bar. I'm thinking about filling out Farmer H's business tax form, to get his business license for next year. Nothing good is on TV. I conquered Wordle.

There's only about 4 hours left until Farmer H is home with my scratchers...

A Routine Thanksgiving Ritual

I'm off to town in a couple hours. On my way to The Pony's house. Once again, The Pony has forgotten some leftovers from our Thanksgiving feast. It happens every year. Some things are packed ahead, like the "vinchtables" The Pony loves. Others are gathered after the meal. There are designated containers that don't need to be returned. And a box from Save A Lot to haul everything in as Farmer H drives The Pony home.

I even went through a checklist before they departed.

"Do you have ham? Your bag of salad? Dressing? Deviled eggs? Stuffing? Your rolls? Oreo cake? The red onion, and boiled eggs for your salad? The bread? Any little pickles? Do you want pickles? Or olives?"

Yes, The Pony had everything. Quite sure. Off they went.

I called Friday morning. Because Thursday night, after reminding The Pony by text to send me the pictures of everybody's plate, I also received this reply:

"You forgot to give me a bread loaf!"

Well. It was right there in the cabinet, where we've kept the bread since we moved into the Mansion. And I HAD asked if the bread was among the leftovers packed. Silly me. Perhaps I should have presented that half-loaf of Hawaiian Bread on a silver platter!

Anyhoo... I love The Pony. And I will drive that bread over to Pony House. Along with the used-once bottle of Caesar Dressing that was forgotten on the door of FRIG II.

After all, I have them here. I don't need to fight the non-Black-Friday shoppers clogging the grocery stores, stocking up on bread and eggs and milk ahead of the supposed winter storm that might bring us 2 inches of snow on Friday night.

Mrs. HM's Work Is Never Done

It's three minutes 'til midnight, and I'm tired. Tired from Thanksgiving preparations, and tired of fighting with HIPPIE's space bar. I just finished washing half the dishes. I would have done them all, but there's not room in the other side of the sink to put more for draining. Don't you dare suggest I use a towel to dry them! The air can do that. It's enough that I hand-wash them.

I'm so tired I could lay my head down on the table and sleep right here. My heater is nice and toasty on my legs. I fear my rumpus might revolt over sitting on a hard wooden chair the rest of the night. So I'll go to the short couch to watch TV. I might make it five minutes before I nod off. I hope there's a good program on...

HIPPIE Is Dying

I fear that my loyal laptop, HIPPIE, is not long for this world. Soon he will be shooting through that invisible techno bridge, to live on a big data farm upstate.

HIPPIE has not really recovered from his near-drowning, when I spilled my morning medication water across his keyboard. A full red Solo cup!!! Oh, I thought I had drained and dried him out. But now HIPPIE is overheating. It started a couple days ago.

BLACK SCREEN OF DEATH!

Then a message on a DOS screen upon restart. I swear it said HIPPIE had reached 900 degrees! Wouldn't that set my wooden kitchen table on fire? And my lying pants? Perhaps I misread it. Seems that while I might be comfortable computing on the surface of the sun, roasting my achy knees... HIPPIE, himself, would not.

I seem to have about 2 hours before HIPPIE gets hot under the keyboard. I hear the fan running, but I suppose it's not effective.

NOW, today, HIPPIE has a new old idiosyncrasy. The space bar is cantankerous. That happened right after the near-drowning. Went away. and is back. You think you're typing right along, but then see you've created a 237-letter word. It's slow going when you have to watch what you're typing onscreen. And double- or quadruple-hitting the space bar before it works. Plus backspacing when you move on too fast.

I need to tell The Pony to bring out the "new" computer we got for me two Christmases ago.

I'll leaveyou with an exampleoftypingalong whileI think the space barisworking normally...

What Do You Give A Woman Who Has Everything (If You're Farmer H)

Farmer H came home with my anniversary present on Monday evening. He had a nice card, and even wrote something meaningful in it!!! My gift was quite a surprising sight. Not because of what it was, but because of how BIG it was!

Yes. Farmer H brought me a giant box of candy. I'm not complaining! I'm not a plant or flowers person, and I don't want jewelry or clothing. Candy is good. But maybe not quite so much...

Of course I thanked Farmer H. I DID tell him I like the gift, but that I may not open it until after Thanksgiving. You know, because I sure don't need CANDY during four (or more) days of feasting. Yes, I will share the candy. But I get first choice of my favorite kinds!

Moving that box around was like carrying a surfboard! Though I've never actually carried a surfboard. That's how I imagine it would be. Awkward. Do I NEED 33 pieced of candy? Not-Heaven, NO! Do I WANT 33 pieces of candy? Well, maybe 20, heh, heh.

Lucky for me, the back of the box shows the flavors. That's good! You wouldn't want a box of chocolates to be like life!

My favorites are the Dark Chocolate Coconut Cluster, Dark Chocolate Coconut Creme, Dark Chocolate Truffle, Dark Chocolate Orange Creme. For sure, Farmer H can have the Dark Chocolate Vanilla Creme. Everything else is pretty good for me, but those I will share. The Pony doesn't like dark chocolate. Nor strawberry. I imagine the Milk Chocolate Pecan Delight will be one of the first to go.

Thanks, Farmer H. It's the thought that counts. And chocolate is pretty good, too!

It's Been A Long Time

Another milestone has been reached here at the Mansion. I said milestone. Not millstone. I'm not sure how Farmer H might read that. 

Monday was our 36th wedding anniversary. 

I know that Farmer H remembered. Because Sunday evening, he said, "Well, tomorrow is our anniversary." That's before I said anything about it to him. And after I got him a card and a cookie-cake at Country Mart that morning, to keep hidden.

We are simple people. No grand celebration is needed. Not even special writing on the cookie. Right off the shelf. 

Farmer H loves a cookie-cake. It was a gift from the heart, not an attempt to kill him. He seeks out sugar on a daily basis, and would have gotten his allotment elsewhere if I didn't bring it into the Mansion. I used to give him a box of sugar-free chocolates, a Whitman Sampler. But he'd eat it as well as sugary treats.

The card says, "I'll love you until I croak." Heh, heh. I think that's a pretty good likeness of us on the front.

Farmer H liked it when he discovered it Monday morning.

"I haven't got your card yet. I've been busy. But I'm getting it today. It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

I'm pretty sure he meant that in a good way...

I'm Sure It Was An Honest Mistake

Pretty sure. Almost certain. However... there's a tiny bit of doubt lingering at the back of my mind.

Saturday night, Farmer H announced that he had a quantity of twenties that he would trade me for $100 bills. It's not MY money he's trading out. It's OUR money that I set aside every week, to save for unexpected expenses like T-Hoe repairs, or loads of gravel for the road, or things that go wrong with the flip houses. Plus Christmas and insurance expenditures, and taxes.

Anyhoo... Farmer H was counting up his money while I warmed his supper. He laid it on the kitchen counter when he got his plate, and I went to count it myself before setting out the hundreds.

Sweet Gummi Mary! Farmer H was $20 short. I counted that money three times! Same result. I don't think he deliberately set out to scam $20 from us. No. Surely not.

Here's the deal. When I count out money like this, I put the bills in stacks of $100. It's easy to see how much you have as you go along.

When Farmer H counts his money, he holds it in his hands and thumbs through it. He carries his "store" money in a big wad, wrapped with a rubber band. It's like the pile of bills is folded in half, and he peels back one at a time while counting: "Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, a hundred. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, TWO hundred..." etc.

I told him he was short $20. At first he didn't answer me. Then he brought his plate back.

"I counted three times. I had it all set out in stacks of hundreds. Do you want me to show you?"

"No. I counted it three times."

"Well, somehow there's a twenty missing. I can show you."

"No. You don't have to show me. I believe you. But you want to argue with me."

"I'm not arguing! I'm only offering to show you that it's short."

"Then just give me one less hundred, and them four twenties."

Alrighty then! That's what I did. I'm sure Farmer H wasn't trying to make a quick twenty. But it's funny how this has happened once before...

Mrs. HM's Strategy For Becoming A Millionaire

Kids these days! You might as well forget that plan of going to college. I have a better way to make a living than a standard 9-to-5 job. No experience necessary. Just patience. The ability to smile. And basic balance. What is this magical career that will make you rich?  

WAITING!

That means waitstaff. Waitresses. Waiters. Working in a "nice" restaurant, serving customers. Who knew it was such a lucrative gig? Not this ol' gal. Of course, you'd need the right temperament. The customer is always right. But if you can swallow your pride and sense of entitledness, to allow others to feel entitled... you can make a fortune!

We met Genius near the city on Friday evening. He's passing through to visit a college friend for a special event. In looking for restaurants, Genius found a bar and grill that serves Italian food. Of course everyone else loves it. So I said goodbye to my standard "terrible tater," and perused the menu online. At least they had SLAW!

Anyhoo... the story of our meal is on my not-so-secret blog. I'm just here to talk about the MONEY. It was quite expensive for my tastes. It's not like we were going out for elegant dining. No tablecloths, even! It's a strip mall bar and grill. At least the portions were huge. So considering how many meals we will get out of the leftovers, it's about the same as a regular meal at a restaurant or fast food around here.

Anyhoo... what I'm leading up to is the practice of tipping. These days, it's considered standard to tip about 20%  of the bill. The waitstaff in a restaurant like this is raking in money hand-over-fist! 

Our bill was $108.75. We told Farmer H to make sure he gave the waitress a "decent" tip. No need to be a cheaprumpus. She was friendly. Barely made her presence known. Brought beverage refills without being asked, checked if we needed anything, then skedaddled. Unobtrusive, yet present when needed. Farmer H gave her $25. We were fine with that. I'm sure SHE WAS, TOO! We were there about 90 minutes. She also had other tables. Think about her tips! As Farmer H said, even if people only left her 10% (which is considered substandard, or signifying poor service) she would make a bundle for the night.

Of course, it helps to be a cute young gal, on a Friday night, at an establishment that also serves alcohol. Even though waitstaff are often paid under the minimum wage, with the expectation that their tips will compensate for that... it seems like a lucrative job if you can get it!

On The Nose, With A Rubber Hose

When The Pony and I pulled into Casey's to get T-Hoe's gas on Thursday, I was happy to see that Pump 3 was open. I prefer Pump 3 or Pump 4, because they're directly across from the handicap ramp on the sidewalk.

"Um. Mom. You're not going to get gas here! The hose is not even connected! Look. It's laying on top of the pump."

Indeed. It WAS. 

"Huh. I guess maybe somebody drove off with it still in their car! I'm surprised they don't have this pump wrapped in yellow caution tape."

"Well, I guess the diesel still works. Its hose is connected."

Pump 4, and even Pump 5, were in use. So we left to do the grocery shopping, and then came back. Pump 4 was open, so I parked T-Hoe there for us to go inside and pay. A little white sedan pulled up to Pump 3 as I was getting out. Pony walked around and told the guy,

"I think you're going to need a different pump. Look at this hose." The Pony lifted the end off the top of the pump, to show the guy, who was just realizing that the handle part of the pump was not in the slot.

"Okay. Looks like it! Thank you!"

As we walked in, The Pony said, "I figured a little car like that didn't run on diesel."

Anyhoo... T-Hoe was filled with gas, and The Pony helped a person.

I'm Not Getting My Hopes Up

I have still been searching for a rescue pet. Thought I found one on Wednesday. I'd been watching her for a couple weeks. A German Short-Haired Pointer mix. Small, at 25 pounds. Around 2 years old. She's black and white. Looks really sweet. Her description says she's friendly. She's only got until the 22nd, after which time she will be euthanized PUT TO DEATH at the dog pound over in Bill-Paying Town. She only became available to be adopted a few days ago, after the stray hold was over.

I figured this dog would fit in with my little Jack. I showed Farmer H. He seemed agreeable. Looked up the phone number. Then "didn't have time" to call. When he left home Thursday morning, I'm pretty sure he didn't take the pet carrier. My hopes are lower than a snake's belly. Or should I say 'lower than Farmer H's belly,' because he does not seem like he wants this dog.

Wednesday night, I brought up that assumption.

"Well, I want to get a dog who won't run away."

"We've only had ONE DOG that 'ran away,' and that was Lucky. But I think he was stolen."

"Scarlett. Scarlett ran away."

"Not really. You GAVE her away! We had her for over a year, and she only ran twice, when you first let her go."

"We had her that long?"

"YES! And I don't know what happened to Pupsie, but she was also here for a year, and didn't take off like Scarlett. I think somebody did something to her."

"Well, I'd rather get a pup."

"We're never gonna get a pup from the pound. Everybody wants the pups. There were two really cute ones on there, and a list of people saying they wanted them."

"There's a homeless guy at the McDonalds down by my store. He pulls around a wagon with 5 pups in it. I've thought about offering him $20 for one of them."

"That sounds sketchy! You don't know how healthy they are. What says a pup wouldn't run away? What kind are they? I won't have anything with Pit Bull in it!"

"Nothing. But I'd rather have a pup. I don't know what kind these are. I haven't seen them that close. One of my customers has pups sometimes. I've been asking."

"And how's that working out?"

"Nobody has any right now..."

See? I'm trying to save a dog. I think this Pointer might be okay. Several people have pledged money for her, and another shelter will probably take her so she doesn't get an express ride over the Rainbow Bridge. Still. I think she might have worked out for us.

More Questionable Behavior From The Man With No Common Sense

When Farmer H got home Tuesday evening (without my precious T-Hoe!), he plopped down in his recliner while I started his supper. Nothing special. Just warming up two of the bratwursts frozen after our last cookout, and some waffle fries.

When he gets home in time, Farmer H likes to watch Emergency. It's an old TV series from the early 70s. As you might imagine, it's about paramedics and the hospital they work out of. I could hear the dialogue from the kitchen. 

I also heard Farmer H checking his voice mail. It was a woman's voice. I figured maybe somebody from his doctor's office, or one of the elderlies from the senior apartments. I heard her giving a number to call her back. I didn't get all the details, because I wasn't that interested, and because the paramedics on TV were going on a call. The sirens were blaring. I heard Farmer H keep re-playing that voice mail. Three or four times!

"IF YOU TURN DOWN THE TV, MAYBE YOU CAN HEAR THE MESSAGE!"

"What?"

"IF YOU TURN DOWN THE TV, MAYBE YOU CAN HEAR THE MESSAGE!"

"I just cain't make out the phone number."

"TURN DOWN THE TV!"

Just as he finally did, his phone rang again.

"Maybe that's her!"

Farmer H took the call. It sounded like somebody wanting something from his store. When he got off the phone, he said,

"That was some lady wanting to know if I have duck decoys. I have a whole bunch of them. She was trying to describe what she wanted. She said DUCK decoys, but then something about geese. And Canada. I told her just come down and look at them, and see if they're what she wants. I'll sell them to her for $2.50 apiece."

Farmer H needs to realize that he is mostly deaf. And that he needs to cut out the excess noise when he's trying to hear something. At least I've (mostly) trained him to mute the TV when I holler to him from the kitchen. Baby steps...

You'd Think A Man Could Do Such A Simple Thing

But you'd be wrong!!! We're not talking about taking T-Hoe for an oil change. Something even easier. A child could do it. But not Farmer H.

Let's start at the beginning. Tuesday morning at 5:50. I was looking on the TV, reading the program guide to see what else was on, since we were in a commercial during Ridiculousness. Farmer H was on the long couch, looking up on his phone how much it costs to replace shocks and struts on a Chevy Tahoe. The TV went to a screen showing SIGNAL LOSS DUE TO WEATHER. We had a short spate of heavy rain.

In a few minutes, the DISH signal came back. And the show playing was the one I had been reading about on the program guide. I had NOT pushed the button to watch it. That was uncommon. It should have gone right back to playing Ridiculousness. 

"Huh. That's weird. It should be on the other show. I guess the signal got messed up with the rain."

I picked up the remote and pushed in the Ridiculousness channel, 160. But the show stayed on Young Sheldon, and the numbers on the screen changed from the 160 that I pushed in to the 139 of Young Sheldon. I did this three times. Farmer H watched. He agreed that was weird. But then he said,

"Give me the remote."

"Oh. So you think I'M doing something wrong. And only you know how to change the channel with the remote."

"Just give it to me. Sometimes it depends on where you push."

MALARKY!

Farmer H did the same thing I did. Pushed in the 1-6-0. But the numbers went back to 139, and Young Sheldon stayed on the TV.

"SEE! Either the receiver is messed up, or it's the remote. It HAS been saying LOW BATTERY for a couple weeks. Go get some batteries."

Farmer H went to the kitchen to get batteries out of the third drawer. That's all that's in there. Different size batteries, and a few of those gripper thingies for opening stuck jar lids. Both the pot-holder-looking kind, and the long handled circular kind.

"Welp! There goes that!" Said Farmer H after I heard a clunking noise. "The knob come off in my hand."

What in the NOT-HEAVEN???

How can a man not open a drawer without destroying something? The knob wasn't loose. Here's the thing. That drawer STILL has a childproof stick thingy on the inside! I'm pretty sure it's safe for The Pony to get into the battery drawer now. For some years now, even. But Farmer H has never taken that gadget off. The drawer will open about an inch, then a half-arrow shaped part of the white plastic gadget catches, and prevents further opening. 

Farmer H yanked so hard on that drawer that he pulled the knob off!

"Well. It's in two parts. I cain't find the other one." Farmer H brought the batteries. I put them in the remote, and the TV channels worked right again.

"What are we going to do about the drawer?"

"Well, HM, I'll have to see if I can find a knob to match it..."

I fully believe Farmer H planned on leaving, with my drawer knobless, to go about his merry way. But by my questioning him, he took another look on his way through the kitchen, and miraculously found the knob and put it back on.

In a normal household, the Farmer H would have removed such childproofing, once the younest child was past self-harm from getting into stuff. Not at the Mansion. The gadgets in the other three drawers have broken off the half-arrow part. The stubs are still there.

Farmer H is no stranger to fetching batteries. He should know that childproof gadget is still on that drawer. And not YANK so hard as to pull the knob off the drawer. Even a childproofed child could have figured it out.

Mrs. HM's Weirdo Magnet Has ReCharged

Mrs. HM's weirdo magnet has not gone the way of our generator battery. Nothing dead there! No need for a jump. The weirdo magnet is working at full capacity. As evidenced last week in Save A Lot.

I had left the lottery machine, and was wheeling my cart along the produce section, selecting Romaine lettuce. A guy (WEIRDO) came up behind me. I didn't know he was a weirdo just yet. 

He was normal height, stocky, early 20s, wearing jeans and a nice dark brown Carhartt jacket, with medium brown hair styled like singer Bobby Goldsboro (when he was on Here Come the Brides), only not as poofy. He wasn't really close to me, but I sensed someone coming up past the bananas. I saw him over my left shoulder, about 10 feet away. I figured he must want to look at something where I was, so I picked my lettuce and left.

I went down that aisle to the end, and turned to come up the next aisle, for sliced dill pickles. As I was spinning a couple jars around, to make sure I got GOOD slices, not really thin and seedy slices, I looked up and saw Weirdo. He had come down from the top of this aisle. Maybe 15 feet away now. By the ketchup. He wasn't really looking at any items on the shelves, and not really looking at me. Just kind of staring off into space. Like maybe I had caught him looking at me. He had no cart. Nothing in his hands. 

I turned and went back the way I had come up that aisle. Went around to the next one, to get some canned green beans. You guessed it! Weirdo came down from the top of that aisle. Stood along the canned meats. His body facing me, his back to the SPAM and sardines, gazing into space. NOTHING IN HIS HANDS! I might not have been so suspicious if he held some food, or even a cell phone. Nope.

This was getting creepy. There were a few other people in the store. But Weirdo didn't seem to be following them. It wasn't a matter of us coincidentally shopping for the same items at the same time. Wherever I went, there he appeared! He caught up to me again on the chip aisle, where I was getting a bag of big pretzels.

As I was in line to check out, Weirdo had wandered across the front aisle, but had turned to amble back in my direction. Absolutely nothing in his hands.

WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN???

I can only think that maybe his motive was to steal my debit card info! Who else tries to follow somebody, and get kind of close, but has no reason to be there? Young people these days! They know all about technology, and how to tap into somebody's "tap" card. On the other hand, perhaps he was just an old-fashioned purse-snatcher, and was hoping I'd walk away from my cart so he could snatch Pursey.

Weirdo picked the wrong gal for THAT! Mrs. HM doesn't leave her cart/walker.

Little Girls Shouldn't Hang Out At Liquor Stores

Some things just don't go together. One of those combinations being little girls and liquor stores! That should go without saying! But not in Hillmomba, I suppose! So I'm saying.

Last week I stubbornly refused to go into the Liquor Store for my scratchers. I really wanted to buy them there. I was even on the parking lot, in a less-than-advantageous parking space, because the one on the end, up against the building, was taken. Probably by somebody inside playing the fake slot machines. The car had been there for a while, during my time at the Gas Station Chicken Store.

Anyhoo... I was preparing to start the walk across the parking lot when I saw that little girl standing at the door. She was probably 12-13 years old. Having spent my working life in the public schools, I can pretty much gauge the age of kiddos. She did not have that gangly look of all knees-and-elbows that they get around 8th grade, or 14.

The LG stood with her back holding open the glass door, allowing people to walk in and out. So they were very close to her when passing. Making the act of declining her wares more difficult, I would think. She had a white box on her forearms, with low sides. Looked like she might be selling those overpriced candy bars for a school fundraiser. Nothing wrong with kids wanting to succeed, getting out on their own to hawk the wares, rather than having a parent take them to work. But these days, you can't be too careful. Young 'uns need to be safe.

Sure, the Liquor Store is a public place. It's actually a "smoke shop," which sells cigarettes and vapes, and has three aisles and two wall coolers full of liquor. I've always been suspicious of back-room activities there, just because the number of cars in the lot don't match the number of people I see inside. Anyhoo... it's a regular business, part of a chain. It just seems to have a less-than-savory clientele. Like ME, for instance! 

Anyhoo... I suppose the LG was related to one of the workers inside. At least I HOPE SO! Otherwise it was very, very wrong for her to be hanging out there. I did not want to go in. I didn't want a candy bar, and I didn't want to have to refuse to buy one. As I was looking around, trying to get T-Hoe off the lot, between the long line at the drive-thru window, and the cut-through maniacs dodging the stoplight... I saw the LG leave the doorway and walk down to the line of cars waiting for the window!

THAT IS WRONG! There are no windows in the front of the building. Just the door. You can't see the line of cars from behind the counter. You can't see the line of cars from the drive-up window. NOBODY inside could see that LG as she was going from car to car. Somebody could have snatched her! Just jumped out of the car, or dragged her inside, and took off! The highway is one block away! Once through the stoplight, they would be long gone down the interstate, able to turn off at any town, or reverse direction. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack even IF somebody got the license number and called 911 immediately.

It still bothers me that somebody let that Little Girl sell stuff outside the Liquor Store.

Mrs. HM Is Offered A Tip By Her Nememsis

Remember that darn guy who drives the Dodge Ram and parks in Mrs. HM's rightful handicap space at the Gas Station Chicken Store every day? I've been going to town later, and managed to avoid him for a while. But with the time change, and the shortening days, I go earlier. It seems we're back in sync again. Unfortunately.

Thursday, there was a different truck parked in my rightful handicap space. It had handicap plates, so I just waited for the guy to come out and leave, then pulled down into the space. I was happy to see the red Dodge Ram parked over by the moat. Heh, heh! Mr. Ram had been thwarted by The Universe! Twice... it turns out.

Mr. Ram was finishing up his transaction when I entered the store. He was joking with Fave! It's not the first time. I don't hold it against her. A gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do. You never know when a customer might hit it big, and bestow a share upon you. Mr. Ram mainly plays the draw tickets. A game called CASH POP, which has drawings several times a day. He also buys scratchers.

Anyhoo... he stepped aside, finishing his conversation with Fave, while putting away his change. Fave greeted me, and I handed over my winners that I was cashing in.

"Number 14 just had a $1000 winner," said Mr. Ram.

"That's true," said Fave. "This morning. I was going to tell you."

"Right before I got here!" said Mr. Ram.

"OH NO! I was going to buy one! Thanks for telling me."

I didn't mean about him just missing a big winner, heh, heh! But I was kind of glad to hear it nonetheless. I had indeed been planning on buying #14. It's the $10 Christmas ticket. It has pictures instead of numbers. I do okay on it, winning at least my money back, and several times $20. I haven't been buying it lately, but the GSCS has limited choices this week. Two of the Christmas, and two of a 100X ticket for the tens. I knew before I went in that I wanted the #14.

Anyhoo... I sure didn't want if with a $1000 winner coming out of that roll that morning!

It was nice of Mr. Ram to share that info with me. But I doubt he will change his handicap-space-usurping ways any time soon...

Maybe Not An Insult After All

When I was having my really bad day that culminated with the discovery of an electrical outage at the Mansion, my last stop in town was 10Box. All the handicap spaces were taken, but I was lucky to get the last space on the left of building. People had left their carts all willy-nilly on the sidewalk. So I grabbed one for the trek, and left it near the door once inside. That could help another limpy person, saving them from hobbling another 40 feet to the indoor cart corral.

Anyhoo... I got my scratchers out of the lottery machines. My knees stiffen up while I stand there making my selections. It takes a minute to get going again. 

I was hobbling out, walking a bit like Gunsmoke's Chester. Along beside me came one of the cashiers. She's always cheery. They had just asked her to help a customer outside with a propane tank return. As she passed me, she said, 

"Oh, mah LAIG!"

Which is really kind of funny, because it's a thing on a Reddit forum where people discuss the show My 600 Pound Life. There was a patient for whom the viewers had little sympathy, because he was a bedbound whiner who was not nice to his wife, and used his young stepdaughter to fetch things for him. As he was being transported out of his house to go to the doctor, he complained (whiny-ly) to the EMTs when they lifted him in a sheet to put him on the stretchers. "OH, MAH LAIG!!!"

The way Cashier said it sounded just like that guy. Like she could have been using it as a reference for her inflection and diction.

At first I was offended. Was she making fun of me??? I joke around with her, but this seemed kind of cruel. While I was contemplating who to invite to my pity party, and if I should have pointy hats and balloons, and most importantly what kind of CAKE... Cashier went on past me through the first of the double doors.

"I pulled something down in my groin area, and it HURTS! And I'M the one they send out here for the propane!"

Well. No need to send out my invitations now.

"I'd race you, but you're already ahead of me!"

Oh, I caught up when she was unlocking the propane case. I had to walk past it to get back to that last parking space.

Welcome Back To Possum Central

Oh, how I regret (unknowingly) sweet-talking that possum outside my kitchen door! Several nights a week, over the past few months! I was so sure it was one of my dogs. But no. I apparently made a new friend. An unwanted friend.

Tuesday, Farmer H was sitting in the recliner as I was leaving for town. He had an event to attend with The Veteran, so took time off from his busy schedule of catering to the elderlies, playing fake slot machines at the gas station and pawn shop, puttering around his SUS2.5, and avoiding having the oil changed in T-Hoe.

I went out the kitchen door with a piece of bread in my hand for my little Jack. He came prancing around the porch to greet me, all wriggles and smiles. As I was sweet-talking Jack, my eyes were drawn to the underneath of GassyG Jr. Where a tail protruded!!!

"EEEEE! Jack! It's the POSSUM! Get it!"

Jack continued to look up at me adoringly. I stomped my foot. Nothing. "I've gotta go tell Dad, Jack!" I tossed his bread onto the side porch and went back to the kitchen door, hollering in, "That POSSUM is out here under your grill! It's probably getting away while I'm telling you!"

I heard the recliner close, and went back to the side porch. Where Jack was calmly eating his piece of bread, but the tail was gone. Not gone! It was under the wooden shelves against the garage wall. Farmer H came out.

"There! It's under your shelves! Get it!"

Farmer H picked up a long scraper that the uses on the grill. He got right up to the shelves. He almost had a foot under there!

"You're going to get bit! It's RIGHT THERE!"

"I cain't see it."

"No! You're right on top of it! It might bite you. You could get rabies!"

I don't think possums carry rabies."

Farmer H commenced to poking, while Jack sat behind him and watched. I was halfway down the steps. The possum was facing me. He looked at Farmer H like, "Why are you doing this to me?" Finally he walked out, to the edge of the side porch! Where I usually pet Jack! And put his two front feet down over the side, as if to jump down on the sidewalk!

"NO! He's gonna get me!"

"He ain't gonna get you, HM."

Jack ran down to the sidewalk, and the possum turned and walked over to the porch rails that overlook the fake fish pond. Farmer H stood, menacing the grill scraper. 

"You go on to the garage. He ain't gonna get you."

The possum's path was blocked by a red and white Playmate cooler. He put his front feet up on it.

"Now! Knock him in the head!"

"I don't wanna hurt him."

"WHY NOT???"

The possum jumped up over the cooler. Went through the rails. Jumped down by the fake fish pond. And ran across the back yard, past the squirrel feeder, and into the woods. That's when Jack took a shortcut through the porch lattice that Pupsie had broken, and darted after the possum, barking his fool head off down through the trees.

That possum did not seem to grasp the seriousness of the situation. I DO NOT need a new friend. My protectors sorely disappointed me. I don't want to KILL the possum, really. Just make it go away.

Not Quite A Thwarting

The Universe continues to mess with Mrs. HM. We won't even go into all the shenanigans that thwarted her daily routine on Tuesday. That's a story for my not-so-secret blog.

Monday was maddening enough with that spindly old lady chatting away at the checkout of the Gas Station Chicken Store. I was sure glad to get out of there. My plan was to dash inside 10Box to get some tickets out of their machines. I still had to get two for Genius's weekly letter, and I wanted more crosswords.

The left machine worked just fine. No sign of that ticket-tearing problem it had with the crosswords last week. I moved to the right side machine. Got my tickets. The last one was for Genius. It was a $5 red 5X ticket that he'd won his $1000 on. Of course he likes that ticket.

The machine sounded a little different, but my ticket came out. I scooped them all up, and was shuffling them into order before walking out. WAIT A MINUTE! What's THAT?

The red 5X ticket had a tail! It was half of the next ticket! I had the whole ticket that I paid for, plus half of the next one. Well. A half-ticket does me no good. It doesn't have the barcode that tells you if it's a winner. It has a different kind of bar and number code at the top, on the back, that retailers use sometimes if the scratched-off barcode doesn't work.

What to do? I did NOT want to stand around waiting. But I didn't want to mess up the store's lottery records. The lottery is highly-regulated, you know. I certainly don't want them to lose their license to sell scratchers!

I went to the checker who always asks about my tickets. She got a customer right then. So I moved to a newer checker, who had just finished with a customer, and was wiping her conveyor.

"I was just at the lottery machine, and it gave me this ticket that's torn in half. I got what I paid for. But I figured you must need this half to reconcile with the machine. You know, to account for a ticket that can't be sold."

"Oh, yeah. We probably need that. I can see the machine says there was a malfunction."

"Let me just tear this off and leave it with you. Then when a manager comes up, you can give it to her."

"Yes. I'll do that."

I tore it off and handed her the half-ticket. My good deed for the day. Despite the meddling of The Universe, I gave myself a virtual pat on the back.

Hillmomba Belongs To The Elderlies. Mrs. HM Just Lives Here.

I was feeling lucky Monday when I walked into the Gas Station Chicken Store. Not money-winning lucky. Lucky because there were four cars parked in the gas lanes, and only one person inside. She was ready to check out. An old lady. Meaning older than ME, heh, heh! A spindly little gray-haired lady with a purse on her arm.

"Oh. I haven't seen these before." 

Spindly stepped to the left side of the counter, and picked up two candies from a box. They looked like some kind of holiday Reese's treat. Maybe a chocolate-covered peanut butter ghost or Santa. Next to them was a box with Hostess Carrot Cakes. The "individual" size, rectangular, with a layer of frosting on top.

"I have to get me a Carrot Cake. I love Carrot Cake."

Spindly stepped back to the pay area. Not-Fave told her the total. But wait! Spindly wasn't done yet.

"You know, I need to get another one of those. Raymond won't like them. But when I tell him good, more for me, then he'll decide he wants to eat them. That's how he is. My daughter doesn't realize that. But it's him!"

Spindly stepped back over to get another Reese's. Then back to the pay area. "How much did you say that was?"

Not-Fave rang up the other candy. "Thirty-eight sixty-seven, including the gas."

Spindly took her purse off her arm. Set it on the counter. Opened it up to get her checkbook. Started writing. Asked the date. 

"Oh. Will you be open tomorrow?"

"Yes. Why? What's tomorrow?"

"Veteran's Day, " I added. Not so much to be helpful, but hoping to move the transaction along.

"Well, it is Veteran's Day. But it used to be called Armistice Day. That's what my daddy called it. He died at 42. Related to smoking! I hate cigarettes! Sorry if you smoke, but that's how I feel."

Spindly started writing out her check. "I can never get these things to tear out right." She finally handed it over to Not-Fave. Closed up her checkbook. Put it back in her purse.

"Do you need a bag?"

"Yes. A bag would be nice. I saw Woman Owner the other day. She was in the car, and I couldn't get her attention. You be sure to tell her I said 'Hi' when you see her."

FINALLY, Spindly was done. At least the only people who had come in were a man and his two pre-tween daughters.

To Not-Fave's credit, she was very polite, and didn't noticeably try to rush Spindly. I'm pretty sure she must be a regular. They don't take checks from people they don't know.

So I really wasn't lucky after all. I must have stood there for 15 minutes, swaying to keep my knees from locking up. I wasn't lucky on my tickets, either. Only won $10 on a $10 ticket. My crosswords were losers.

The Universe Gives A Wave To Fave

I walked into the Gas Station Chicken Store on Saturday as the gang of Side-by-Sides drove off. Some of them are kind of loud. Louder than their blaring radios. Anyhoo, I was really happy that all those people were gone before I got inside.

"What are you doing, throwing a party?"

"I guess so! Only nobody invited ME!"

Fave greeted me with good news.

"I won $50 yesterday! On a $3 ticket. That's all I won, though."

"Well, I won NOTHING from here! So you did better than I did!"

"Yes! Thank you! I'm not complaining. I scratched that ticket first, too. I was excited. On the back it said "10L." So I guess it came from the left machine at 10Box?"

"Yes. That's my code!"

Really. I'm happy for Fave! I don't play those $3 crosswords. I remember buying two that day, though, because they don't have the $3 Froot Loot ticket that I like in those machines. 

Every time I buy Fave's tickets along with mine, I give her the second one. For example, when I buy two crosswords, I take the first, she gets the second. That way I don't agonize over the number on the tickets, and which one I want. It's automatic. But THIS TIME, I gave Fave the first ticket of these two $3 crosswords. I reasoned that since I don't play it regularly, the first one is normally the one I would have bought for Fave.

Fave was meant to win that $50! I couldn't be happier for her. It worked out like it was meant to be.

Side-By-Side Invasion

I was idling in T-Hoe at the stoplight on Saturday afternoon, when a sight at the Gas Station Chicken Store set my blood to simmering. SIDE-BY-SIDES! Those little vehicles without sides and proper doors, which people seem to think are the same thing as cars. Oh, it was not just a couple. There were 7 of them. Some had a person sitting inside.

Well. I thought about just driving through the lot and coming back later. No doubt several folks from each vehicle were inside. Probably using the bathrooms. Getting a soda or snack. Four SxSs were at the gas pumps, so they'd be paying. Have I mentioned that the Gas Station Chicken Store is small? With only three aisles? And that I get a bit of claustrophobia when it's crowded? I think I have.

Since my rightful handicap space was open, I parked. I watched in T-Hoe's mirror as several people came out. A couple of the SxSs moved over by the moat. They were all waiting for each other. I got out and started inside. Lucky for me, the last of the SxS passengers had left. The radios were blaring, each on a different station. That's another thing about SxSs: their music escapes.

Anyhoo... I'm sure they're perfectly nice enough people. And entitled to their Saturday afternoon group excursion. I just don't think their sporty vehicles should enjoy the same road privileges as a regular vehicle. This belief was enforced later, when I was waiting at the other side of the stoplight on the way home, and counted 25 SxSx go through. Must have been some kind of organized festival. ONE of the SxSs ran the red light! Just like a regular vehicle. 

I sure don't want my trip home delayed because first responders have to mop up brains on the roadway. Another reason for my dislike of SxSs.

The Possum Re-Visited

He's baaaaack! That dang possum showed up again on Friday night. It was around 8:30. The first motion light brightened, and I could see him nosing around in the corner. I don't know what the fascination is with that corner. I never toss Jack's treat there. It's where the squirrels sometimes run down the pole to escape the porch. I don't know if possums get along with squirrels, or if they are sworn enemies.

Anyhoo... I called to Farmer H. "The possum is out here again! He's set off the other light now. He's headed around to the water bowl."

My hero, Farmer H, came to the rescue. Again in his tighty-whities. He went out on the back porch through the laundry room. The lights had gone off, and didn't come back on. Farmer H walked around the porch to the front door, clapping his hands. 

"Did you see it?"

"No. He must of got away."

"Do possums climb the posts? Like the squirrels?"

"Yeah."

I'll take his word for it. I don't want to research possums. They're creepy. I really regret sweet-talking this one for the past six months!

Perhaps Mrs. HM Should Take More Care For What She Wishes

You know I've been hoping that Farmer H will finally get an oil change for T-Hoe. The warning light has only been on for six months now. I've asked many times. More than once a month. Farmer H has, in the meantime, gotten oil changes for SilverRedO and A-Cad, on consecutive days! But poor T-Hoe only gets a quart added here and there.

I shouldn't have to spend my valuable time wishing for such a basic service. The autos are Farmer H's responsibility, and he's shirking! How dare I hitch my wagon to a star! I'm shooting for the moon with this outrageously selfish demand!

Anyhoo... when I picked up The Pony for our BBQ on Thursday, we stopped by Country Mart for some provisions. As I pushed my cart/walker out to T-Hoe's rear to load them, I noticed the right rear tire.

"Is it just me, or does that tire look low?"

"Huh. Let me see." The Pony took a look, and walked to the right front tire as well. "Yeah. It seems low, compared to the other one."

"I wouldn't know for sure. The back tires are the ones where the sensors don't work. So the low tire symbol is always on, because T-Hoe thinks they have ZERO pounds of air pressure."

The Pony told Farmer H when he came in, as we were sitting at the table binge-watching Derry Girls on The Pony's laptop.

"Huh. I better take it over to the BARn and check." Said Farmer H, turning on his heel.

Maybe having The Pony bring up such matters is the way to go! Anyhoo... what happened after that was typical Farmer H behavior.

I went out to the garage on Friday. I looked at T-Hoe's right rear tire, to make sure that it hadn't deflated any more. It looked okay. I opened the driver's door to climb in.

THE DOOR WOULD NOT OPEN ALL THE WAY!

Farmer H KNOWS I need that door to open completely, to get my knees inside. I have told him this time and again. T-Hoe must be parked in the garage so that the door opens all the way. Which means between the 2x4 studs. Otherwise, it slams into the 2x4s, and the door can only partially open. I can't bend my knees tight enough to get my feet in.

This time, I got the right leg in, but took three tries to squeeze in the left one. I had to grab my pants leg and force the knee to bend tighter. It was uncomfortable.

Once inside, I noticed the steering wheel was almost on the ceiling! Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but it had been moved to the highest notch. I don't drive like that. I had to click the lever and put it down.

No, these are not attempted-killing-me actions. But Farmer H should at least show enough respect to park and try the door before shutting down T-Hoe and leaving him in the garage. And put the steering wheel back like it was. Of course I had to inform Farmer H of the error of his ways. Not that it will do any good.

"Hey, you parked where I couldn't get the door all the way open! It took me three tries, and it hurt. I've told you to make sure the door opens all the way. AND, I don't want to reach up to the sky to steer! I had to put the steering wheel back like I had it."

"I didn't move the seat."

"I never said you moved the seat."

"Well, I have to be able to drive! For my feet to reach the pedals!"

"It was only to the BARn and back. What are you, a 7-Little-Johnston?"

"No. I thought I put everything back like it was."

Let the record show that Farmer H is my height. 5' 8". I have no problem reaching the pedals with my feet. Are we to believe that Farmer H has extra-short legs, and an extra-long torso? Let me answer for you: NO. Farmer H LIKES to drive with his seat pulled all the way forward, the steering wheel rubbing against his belly. It is not a necessity due to his appendages. 

At least he put air in the tire. Now, I need to have The Pony complain about the oil.

A Hobby Worthy Of Giving Up A Treat

My little dog Jack forsook me on Tuesday afternoon, in favor of digging several holes under the squirrel feeder in the back yard. He came running as I was coming up the driveway. Stood with front paws on the little curb along the back edge of the carport. THEN, after looking over his shoulder, tail wagging, when he heard the garage door go up... Jack jumped over the side, and ran to the feeder.

I stopped to watch. Jack was interested in something underground. He'd dig frantically, then stick his head in the hole. Dig some more. Listen. Dig a little to the side. He kept digging. Sticking his head in. A couple times, it looked like he had something in his mouth. Like he was chewing. Then he'd dig some more, deeper. At one time, he had his whole head and shoulders underground. All I could think of was baby moles. Jack does enjoy a tasty baby mole every now and then.

I guess Jack didn't get all the critters out of their underground lair. He did the same thing on Wednesday afternoon, except for the frantic digging. Jack walked in a wide circle around the feeder. Tilting his head like he was listening. I tried to get a picture, but he was roaming every time I tried to snap it.

Farmer H has been filling the feeders, even though his buddy has not been back to harvest the squirrels. In fact, Farmer H complained that "Them deer must be eatin" the corn out of the squirrel feeders! It keeps disappearin'."

I think something else is eating it. Like whatever is in that tunnel. Maybe just eating what gets spilled out onto the ground by the squirrels. I don't know if rabbits and moles can stand up high enough to eat out of the feeder.

At least Jack has found a new pastime to keep his mind off being the only dog here at the Mansion. He must enjoy it quite a bit, because he didn't even bother to come to the kitchen door for a treat of grease bread and pork chop bone.

Mrs. HM's Little Friend

There's still no sign of our briefly-rescued dog, Lucky. And we never got another clue about Pupsie. It's starting to feel like the Mansion is the black hole of adopted pets!

Back when we had Pupsie, I could see her during the day, as I sat at HIPPIE at the kitchen table, and she sprawled in the sun on the corner of the back porch. For a dog who wouldn't let us pet her, she sure liked to be on the side of the house where we were.

Sometimes at night, I would hear Pupsie scratching at the door mat outside the kitchen door. I'd sweet-talk her for a bit, as I did when she laid down in the sun. All for naught, though. And sometimes, I'd yell at her NO, like when I would see her in daytime walk around to the water bowl, and hear her digging the water out.

Funny how after Pupsie disappeared, I'd sometimes still hear the scratching outside the kitchen door at night. Looking out, I saw nothing but darkness. I've never heard or seen a pet after they've gone over the rainbow bridge to a big farm upstate. But that doesn't mean it can't happen for some people. Pupsie is not a likely candidate for me, anyway. That would have been my Sweet, Sweet Juno if such an incident was meant for me to detect.

Anyhoo... Farmer H has since put up two solar lights with motion detectors. Not for any specific reason, other than he got a deal on a bunch of them. They come on as darkness falls, and light up brighter if Farmer H comes to the kitchen door after dark. Or when my little Jack makes his nightly trip to the water bowl between 8:00-8:30. I see the first light brighten, then the second. I look out the kitchen window and see my Jack, his tail in the air, calmly strolling around the kitchen nook. The lights dim again, and brighten in reverse order as he walks back to the side porch and down to lie in the hole he's got under SilverRedO. 

A couple days after Lucky disappeared, Jack went to the water bowl, and startled me by coming back from the side porch area. I think I wrote about it. Like he was doing laps around the porch, tracking something, rather than turning around and going back to his hole. I had hoped then that maybe he had gotten a scent of Lucky.

Anyhoo... for the past couple weeks, I've been randomly hearing that scratching at the kitchen door mat again. I figured that maybe Jack, being lonely, had come up to lie outside the door where I was. And was scratching and turning on the mat before settling down. The lights would go on, but I didn't see Jack walking to the water. This was usually later, around 10:00.

Tuesday night at 7:02, the solar lights brightened. I looked out. With the time change, it was actually 8:02 as a dog would feel the time. Jack's water routine. Huh. Jack was walking around in the corner of the porch where Pupsie used to have her nap. Sniffing. Then he started toward me, as if to go around for his drink. The second light brightened. 

THAT WASN'T JACK!

It was something smaller, with a pointy tail. It ambled not towards the kitchen nook and water bowl, but towards Juno's old dog house, right outside the kitchen door! I lost sight of it. 

I THINK IT WAS A POSSUM!

I hollered to Farmer H that I thought we had a possum on the porch. He came to the kitchen in his tighty whities, and went through the laundry room to look out. I heard Jack start barking out by the garage. The lights dimmed. Farmer H hollered, "GET 'IM, JACK!" A couple of times.

I don't know what happened. We didn't see anything. But I have a sneaking suspicion that all summer I have been talking to a POSSUM outside the kitchen door!!!

The Continuing Story Of An Old Gal And Her Scratchers

Just when you think it's safe to go back to the left-side lottery machine at 10Box... 

It's really NOT! Which I discovered when I was yesterday years old. 

That left machine has been working for several weeks now. Rain or shine. No excuses about "cloudy weather." I was leery at first. I'd only scan in a simple $3 winner at first, to try it out. Then I wouldn't fret about getting a worker to open the machine if it took my money. I was willing to risk it. Of course if other people were there, I first observed whether they were having any problems with the left machine. If they got tickets out, I put in my money/winners.

So I thought nothing of using both machines yesterday. I had gone in for ice cream. That's what Farmer H and The Pony want for desert after our cookout on Thursday. I got some cherry chip ice cream, and regular cones and waffle cones. Then I got a box of Drumsticks, which Farmer H specifically requested. And also some chocolate-coated vanilla ice cream bars on a stick. He had asked for Heath Bars, but 10Box didn't have them.

Anyhoo... after I checked out with enough sugar to put Farmer H into a coma, I wheeled over to the lottery machines. A woman and an old man were at the left machine. I don't know if they were together. The woman picked up tickets out of the tray, and said, "I'm going to get an attendant." I didn't know what that was about. I thought maybe she had scanned in a winner that didn't take. Sometimes they do that. They don't add it to the total, and if you try to scan again, it says already redeemed.

The Old Man saw me coming. He darted to the right machine. Then back to the left. He was muttering something, but not speaking directly to me. I scanned a $20 winner into the right machine, and got two Tetris, a Christmas Lights, and a crossword. The Old Man was getting tickets out of the tray of the left machine. Then he walked away.

I scanned in a $15 winner. I selected a crossword, a Tetris, and a Christmas Lights. As I was picking them up out of the tray, careful to put them with my other tickets so I could remember to mark which machine they had come out of... The Woman and a Manager came up behind me.

"Did you just get a crossword ticket?" asked Manager.

"Yes..." I was still trying to organize my tickets.

"THIS one?" asked Manager, as she pulled it from my hand. I didn't like that much. 

"I don't know. I'm trying to organize my tickets. I got some out of the other machine, too. But yes, I pushed that one to get a crossword, and I only have one in my hand."

"Yes. It would be THIS ONE, " said Manager. 

As if I was an idiot. Which maybe I AM, but at this time I was just confused because I was trying to count up my tickets and she had snatched one while I was still mentally counting. She wasn't rude or anything, just assuming I was on the same page as she was, when I was just about to turn it.

"THIS ONE. This half. She has the other half of it." Manager motioned to The Woman. "The machine didn't tear it right. So I'll take out two crosswords, and give you each one. So you can play your crosswords!"

That made perfect sense. The Woman and I declared that we both loved the crosswords, because they take longer to play. And the new Christmas Lights, which is very confusing.

"I'll give her the first one, because she bought one first. And you the second one." Manager handed us each a crossword ticket. "Then I'll have to write up a report about the torn ticket, to resolve the machine."

Yes. That was fair. But I wonder if the torn ticket was a winner. And if The Woman had a winner, on the ticket I was SUPPOSED to get out of the machine. You never know when such an odd occurrence will set up a big win.

My crossword lost. I suppose I'll never find out about the other two.

A Mistake Not To Be Repeated

Dang phone scammers! So annoying. I had a repeat caller on Monday. At least this one makes no pretense of changing the number. They called a couple weeks ago. Usually, when you block one, they resort to another number, and continue calling. I guess my block didn't work. I'll have to try again.

Anyhoo... my phone didn't warn me SCAM LIKELY. That's not a big deal, because it's often not accurate. It's "warned" me before on legitimate calls, but I recognized the number. I don't answer unknown numbers. I just let it ring. If the caller leaves a voicemail, I will listen.

Here's the deal. This one was tricky. It starts out saying, "HM? HM? If this is HM, press 1. If it is not HM, press 2. If you want to stop receiving these calls, press 3. If you want to speak to an agent, press 4."

Well. I knew I did not want to speak to any kind of "agent." And I did not want more calls. So like an idiot, I pressed 3. Of course all that did was let the scammers know they had reached a working phone number. Because once I pressed 3, the recording started on the same loop again. AND I got another call from the same scamming number 98 minutes later!

This time, I just pressed 7, which is the cue for my voicemail to delete the message. I should have done that in the beginning. I don't know if it would have stopped these scammers, but I think it would have been better than giving a response to their prompts.

When I tried to do a free phone lookup of the number, it just showed that it was a SCAM CALLER, and a ROBOCALL. Nobody had left any comments, but it was being reported frequently. I suppose nobody ever talked to an actual person, because they usually leave comments about the entity behind the calls. They probably make money off of selling lists of working numbers to other scammers.

There are worse problems I could have. This is just annoying. 

Mrs. HM Protests An Instant Reward For Her Selflessness

Sometimes, Even Steven is out of line. At the grocery line, no less!

Saturday, I stopped by Save A Lot to get some Stove Top Stuffing. I had a box in the pantry, but the date said it was best by 2022. I figured I could do better. I normally don't go to the store on Saturdays. It's busy with working people who have no other time to shop. Or with people bringing their kids, because there's no school to babysit them. And I especially do not go on a Saturday at the first of the month, when so many people get their government or social security or retirement benefits deposited in their accounts, or loaded on their cards. It's a hectic time.

Still, I wanted to use the Save A Lot lottery machine. I'd just been in 10Box the day before. I bought tickets there, and I was unable to find the Stove Top Stuffing. Even the lottery-playing checker was not sure what aisle. She suggested the one I had just looked on. And added that A LOT of people ask about it, and it is apparently on the bottom shelf somewhere.

Anyhoo... I pulled into Save A Lot, and saw a multitude of cars. But my rightful handicap parking space was open! I figured that must be a sign. It's right next to the cart return. I grabbed one and hobbled in. I didn't have a big winner from my scratchers, but my good-deediness almost got me a payout!

As I expected, the store was FULL. In fact, right in front of me, a woman and her three teenage kids strolled inside. I could hear a younger kid screaming. A dad and young son were on the bean aisle, and he was on his phone. I'm pretty sure they had a list, and he was making sure not to get the wrong thing.

This was also a special weekend, because Save A Lot had been advertising on the radio (Farmer H said) that you could get 6-for-$25 this weekend, on their usual 5-for-$25 meat deal. Also, you could get $10 off on any $50 purchase. AND they were giving out vouchers for $50 FREE groceries (no alcohol, tobacco, pet food) to people with electronic benefit cards. Local law enforcement officers were supposed to be there handing them out until they ran out.

Anyhoo... I was just there for a few items. Hopefully quickly! I grabbed a can of biscuits. A bottle of Caesar salad dressing for when The Pony comes out for grilling. Two boxes of stuffing. And three bananas. So basically, I had five items in the child seat of my cart when I headed up front to check out.

Only two lines were open. The man in front of me had a cart full. He was setting things onto the conveyor. A couple had pulled into the second line, also with an overflowing cart. I waited. A black lady around 30-something walked up, glanced at both lines, and stood in the second one. She had obviously just come in for a few things. She was wearing pink pajama pants, and some fluffy house slippers. It was the day after Halloween, or I might have thought she was in costume. She didn't even have a cart. Just a bottle of Coke, a plastic square container of blueberries, and two things I forget.

"You can go ahead of me. I have a cart to lean on."

I didn't mind, because I'd hate to be holding awkward items while waiting in line. She thanked me and got in front of my cart. I could tell the checker was frazzled. She must have had a Not-Heaven of a day, with these specials and the resulting crowds. She was young and blond. I've not seen her there before.

Of course That Lady's blueberries did not have a price on them! "Do you remember how much these were?" Nope. Frazzle took them and started over to the produce section, which is fairly close to the registers. Then she came back. "I'm just going to charge you $X for them." I don't remember how much, but it seemed fair enough.

Then the phone rang. Frazzle answered, while ringing up That Lady's other three items. I put mine on the end of the conveyor. Frazzle kept that conveyor going. Stopped it when it got to her end. That Lady had her card out and ready for the total. 

THEN FRAZZLE SCANNED A BOX OF MY STUFFING!

"Wait! No! That's mine!"

Frazzle was startled, but took my stuffing out of the cart where she had been putting That Lady's items. Then she subtracted it off her register.

"You almost bought my groceries for me, heh, heh!"

That Lady laughed. I hope she looked over her receipt. Frazzle should not have been trying to do so many things at once. Still, I could not stand there and let That Lady pay for my stuffing. 

A reward for my good deed should not result in a "fine" for somebody else!

Technology Is Killin' Me!

Progress! Bah! Humbug! Technology is a burr under my saddle. A thorn in my side. A fly in my ointment. Supposed to make our lives easier, huh? Not this ol' gal's life. 

Today it's been extra irritating. HIPPIE lost the innernets again. No amount of fiddling with HIPPIE's innards could bring it back. My phone still had the innernets. HIPPIE also professed to being connected. Until he didn't. I gave up after 15 minutes. I recalled that in the past, the innernets have come back after a time. Through no efforts of my own. So I went to make a pot of green beans with onion and bacon, for tonight's supper with Shake N Bake pork chops, and Stovetop Stuffing.

I kept thinking about past outages of the innernets. It happens a lot, you know. Through my experiences, it seems like HIPPIE shuts me out for an hour. That's right. After an hour, things magically start working again. No amount of shut-downs and restarts and turning the wifi on and off have any effect. It's like I'm in timeout. Yep. When I tried again after an hour had elapsed, nothing was amiss. Except, of course, I lost an hour that I would have preferred to be typing this complaint.

Don't get me started on my phone. Not just MY phone, but the phone service here in Hillmomba. How in the Not-Heaven could we send multiple men to the moon multiple times 55 years ago, but we can't let Mrs. HM call Farmer H on a cell phone when he's 100 yards away in the BARn???

And those dang debit cards! You may recall that I got mine replaced a few weeks back. The new one works just fine. Now it has the TAP feature, which I am loathe to use, since it requires no PIN to suck money from my account. The Pony uses the TAP. We were shopping in Save A Lot on errand day, with The Pony putting stuff on the conveyor first. Then couldn't find the TAP area on the scanner. After much moving around of The Pony's card, it took the data. My chip worked like a charm.

And how about just typing in what you want over the innernets, and having merch delivered to your home? Well, at least to your mailbox a mile down the gravel road. I ordered three items earlier in the week. Since I have Amazon Prime, I get two-day free delivery. Right? That's what I pay for, right? But I was being a friend of the earth, and agreed to have all my items come in one package. Which made it four days, but that was fine. EXCEPT... they were supposed to be here today, and only TWO of them say they've been delivered, with the other cooling its heels at a facility 30 miles north. So there was really no point in my selfless consolidation of my shipment

The good news is, I looked at my cell phone and saw another big crack. This time near the top, not one of the branching cracks at the bottom that distorts my reading of texts. It's been cracked since a casino trip when Genius was home one Christmas. As I got out of A-Cad on the concrete carport, I leaned to pet Jack and Juno (that's how long ago it was), and my phone fell out of my shirt pocket, landing face down on some gravel. If not for the gravel, it probably would have been fine.

Anyhoo... getting back to the good news, I discovered that it was NOT a new crack in my phone, but just something (probably lemon juice) that had splashed onto my phone while it was charging on the kitchen counter. It rubbed off with some mom-saliva. YAY, me!

But seriously. I am not a fan of technology. Except of course my working innernets and HIPPIE.

A Deserving Usurper

I was not happy to see a usurper in my rightful handicap space at the gas station chicken store on the second rainy day in a row. It was bad enough the day before, when my space was available. But this time, I'd have to walk even farther. I put T-Hoe nose-down in the FREE AIR space. Nobody was in the vehicle. Normally, I'd wait until the usurper left. But his day, it was only going to rain harder, according to the futurecast. I wanted to get back home. So I got out, shoes squeaking on T-Hoe's running board, careful not to slip.

As I hobbled past the white SUV parked in the handicap spot with neither marked plates nor placard, I sensed someone on the other side opening the driver's door. As I rounded the back of the vehicle, the guy said something to me. I looked up through the rain, and saw AN OLD MAN. Okay. I was not mad about the usurper any more. He was an OLD MAN, kind of hunched over. Probably arthritic and aching that day, just like I was.

"Do you need this space? I can move."

"No, I'm already parked. It's easier just to go in."

"I don't know which one of us would be faster."

"We could have a race, heh, heh! If it wasn't raining."

I went on towards the roof and the door, and he got into his SUV. Here's the thing. That OLD MAN was polite about it. By calling out to me, it seemed like he was apologizing. Unlike the Ram truck guy who is not even old, who just sits there, taking up the space. Or the lady who sits in her sedan, scratching her tickets.

Fave Dispenses Advice

When I got to town on Saturday, the rain started to fall more heavily than I judged necessary! It had been a mere mist when I left home, yet NOW, when I wanted to walk from my rightful handicap space into the Gas Station Chicken Store, I was going to get wet. I ducked my head and plodded on.

At least I was the only customer inside. Fave was bemoaning the weather.

"I know! I don't mind the gloominess. I kind of like it. But I hate to get wet!"

"You ARE really wet." Said Fave, as she took my winners and swiped them across her ample bosom, covered by her employee apron. "So are your tickets!"

"Well, I'm an old lady. I walk slow. And it's pouring!"

"I'm just so bored. Nobody's coming in. The time goes slower."

I bought my tickets, chatted few minutes, and started for the door, grasping them in my hand as usual.

"I'd put them tickets in my titties!" advised Fave. "So they won't get wet, and you can still scratch them."

"You know, I think I WILL!" I stuffed the tickets under my jacket, shirt, bra strap. "That's a good idea." 

They stayed nice and dry. Can't say the same for the rest of me. But my tickets were fine. In hindsight, there was such a lack of business that I might as well have parked under the roof. No cars were waiting for those gas pumps.

The Lucky Conspiracy

The strange disappearance of our adopted and lost rescue dog, Lucky, grows stranger and stranger. You may recall that we had him for seven days, with several escapes from collar and harness. Yet he still stayed here, looking for Farmer H, and roaming the yard with my little Jack.

The biggest question was how Lucky got his collar UNDONE on the day he disappeared. It was not broken, not chewed. The plastic prongs were somehow squeezed just right to "unbuckle" that collar, which was left attached to the lead which tethered Lucky to a big screw in the ground.

Well. I am currently formulating a new theory, which smacks of CONSPIRACY!

I have been telling Farmer H to call the Animal Control Guy (ACG) and tell him that Lucky got loose, we can't find him, and will take him back if he is captured again. That's just common courtesy, and also a heads-up as to why we will not be providing proof of his shots and neutering. [Still haven't cancelled that vet appointment yet.]

Farmer H finally sent him a text on Monday, one week after the disappearance. ACG asked Farmer H to send a picture, so he could remember which dog. Farmer H did. And got a response.

"Okay. You adopted my friend's dog, Officer Somename. He will be devastated! Don't tell him yet. I hope the dog comes back."

Are your conspiracy juices flowing? Something is not right here!

First of all, why would Officer Somename be devastated to hear that his former dog Lucky is lost? Because it seems to me, somebody who loves a dog so much would NOT HAVE LEFT IT IN THE DOG POUND FOR TWO WEEKS before it got adopted! Especially if his "friend" was the ACG at the dog pound!

Secondly, how would Farmer H know Officer Somename, and his contact info, to tell him that we lost his dog that we adopted? Why did ACG tell Farmer H not to tell Officer Somename about Lucky disappearing?

HOWEVER... if a true friend like ACG was to tell his supposed friend, Officer Somename, that he had just given away his beloved dog that he hadn't told him about for two weeks... then a true friend might "accidentally" leak the name and address of the adopter to his supposed friend, Officer Somename. 

It's possible, right? That Officer Somename could get our address and come looking around for his beloved doggie. That he might not want to just knock on the door and say, "Can I have my dog back?" Because that might be frowned upon, as well as being an embarrassment that he hadn't bothered to look for his dog at the most logical place for two whole weeks.

If Lucky's former owner were to show up, say, on a Monday, when most people are at work, and walk up to Lucky and unsnap his collar... Lucky would go right along with him, not needing a collar or leash, and get in the vehicle, wherever it may be parked, and thus there would be no sign of him along the roads or in a neighbor's yard. AND if that former owner were to declare, "Hey, my dog just showed up again!" then nobody would even question it. He's a police officer, you know.

Something is very fishy here. If Lucky's former owner had come to ask about Lucky, we would have given him back. No money was spent on him, aside from the $31 harness he chewed up in 20 minutes. Of course there's the emotional toll now, of not knowing what happened to Lucky.

I really hope one of these guys DID come and take Lucky. And that he's being loved, and is safe and fed and happy.

This conspiracy theory makes way more sense than Lucky magically opening his collar and vanishing into thin air.