Farmer H Might Need A Whacking Stick

As I type this on Monday afternoon, I am anticipating GRILLED BBQ PORK STEAKS for supper! The temperature is supposed to reach the 70s today, and since Daylight Savings Time just went into effect on the weekend, we'll have sunlight until 7:00. Farmer H is a good griller!

This will be the first time he's attempted grilling since Pupsie came to live here. We'll see how that goes. Pupsie shies away from Farmer H, ever since that ONE TIME he cornered her and caught her as a wee pup. Still, Pupsie is quite agile, and has now grown taller than even Scarlett. It is not beyond the scope of possibility that Pupsie could jump up and grab a pork steak off the grill, and run away with it. Farmer H will have to be on his toes while he's sitting on his rumpus at Gassy G Jr.

Farmer H wanted potatoes to go with the pork steaks. He used to slice and wrap them in foil and cook them on the grill, but now I make them in the oven. Usually just layers of potatoes alternated with slices of onion, a dab of butter, and let them bake. They turn out like potatoes fried in a skillet, though they usually don't get a crispy portion except along the edge.

This time, I put them in my small roaster pan. Layered, with some vegetable oil to keep them from sticking, and some ground black pepper. I'm not sure how Farmer H will like this version, though it would seem to me that they'll be the same as the foil and oven versions. Of course I'll offer him a small salad to go with his meat and potatoes, but I already know his answer...

Mrs. HM Serves Up A Cold Dish Of Revenge

I was dismayed on Sunday to see the white F250 pickup parked at 10Box. I know who drives it. That RumpusHole who always parks in the handicap space at the Gas Station Chicken Store. I knew it was not another white F250. It was running! That RumpusHole always leaves his truck running. I don't know why. At least he was not parked in one of the six handicap spaces at 10Box.

When I entered, I saw that RumpusHole at the checkout. I know his face, and his gray goatee. I proceeded to the right-side lottery machine. Dang it! That machine was on the fritz again. It would not take cash! I SEEMS like it will take cash. But then makes several clicky-spazzy sounds, and spits the bill back out. No matter if you try a different bill, or a different denomination. I suppose it might be too full of cash. 

Anyhoo... I had a six dollar winner and a three dollar winner to scan. So I got my $3 tickets out of it. While I was doing that, RumpusHole pulled his cart up to the left-side machine. I didn't notice what tickets he was buying. When I've been behind him at the Gas Station Chicken Store, he  buys draw tickets and $10 tickets. He wheeled his cart away, so I moved over to the left-side machine.

As I was making my purchases, I realized that RumpusHole was back, standing at the right-side machine. I suppose he noticed that it was not taking cash. Because he just stood there, with his body turned my way. Well. I usually try to hurry up if somebody is waiting. But this time, I was careful about choosing my tickets. Contemplation, you know. I even put in more money. The money which had been spit out at the right-side machine. Then I made sure to take care when picking up my selections from the tray. You know, because sometimes a ticket will get stuck and not fall down. So I arranged them in price order, making sure I'd gotten out all my purchases.

As I was walking away, my peripheral vision saw RumpusHole move over to that machine. I really hope he bought one of the newest $10 tickets. Because it would have been the one after my $27 winner.

Pupsie Keeps On Pupsin'

Our newest dog Pupsie seems to be getting over her loss of Scarlett. She and Jack are fast friends. Pupsie has grown larger than Jack. Larger, even, than Scarlett, I think. She looks like a black German Pointer. She tries to play with Jack by slinging herself at his legs. Kind of in a submissive position, her back to him, crouching. Sometimes he plays along, sometimes he snarls and makes her yip with a snap. Pupsie grows anxious if Jack runs to the woods with Copper Jack, chasing squirrels they'll never catch, when I come home from town. She runs around barking for him, and won't come to the door for a treat until Jack is back to accompany her.

For a dog who seems to detest us and fear us, Pupsie sure does spend a lot of time barking to defend our homestead. AND she likes to lie on the porch outside the kitchen door while I'm at HIPPIE. She will take proffered food from our hands. On Saturday, I tossed out two old hard-boiled eggs. They weren't bad. Didn't stink. But I did not feel comfortable putting them in my big salad.

Jack turned up his nose at his egg. Pupsie was curious. Sniffed and then walked away. But she came back. Picked one up and went around the corner. Then came back for the other egg. She laid down with it between her paws. Nibbled a bit. Then ate that boiled egg. She is, after all, a dog who came here with no sign of regular feeding, as a pup, probably stolen somewhere by Scarlett. Pupsie likes her food.

That mentality is going to get her in trouble. Pupsie is fed morning and night by Farmer H putting dry dog food in the self-feeder. But any time I give out treats, Pupsie eats hers, and rushes Jack for any crumbs, or food he has been eating too slowly. 

Saturday afternoon, Farmer H was once again conveniently late getting home. So I had to carry in five bags of groceries. The bags of slaw mix, five pounds of potatoes, three pounds of onions, two pounds of lemons, two heads of lettuce, and two cans of biscuits, were not a problem. The tray of four large pork steaks for future grilling WERE! I kept them on my arm, and set the other bags on the metal chair on the side porch before walking up the steps.

Pupsie has not learned her manners. Every time I put groceries on that chair, she thinks she's entitled to them. She comes to sniff and nip at the bags. Numerous times, I've scolded her. She does not seem to get the message. This time, Pupsie was on my side of the chair. Trying to get the edge of a bag in her teeth. 

"PUPSIE! NO!"

Huh. It was like I was talking to Farmer H. Pupsie acted like she didn't hear. So I tapped her on the head with my fingers. 

"PUPSIE! NO!"

It took two taps. Two NOs. But Pupsie retreated to the top of the steps. Sat there puzzled. Her expression said, "What's this, then?" Her expressions take on a British accent.

We are careful not to spook Pupsie. We REALLY need to be able to catch her, to take her to the vet for her very special operation. But I cannot have a dog that gets into the groceries while I am climbing the steps. The NOs and the head-tapping seem to have made an impression on Pupsie. I sweet-talked her some more after she left the grocery bags alone.

Pupsie is a work in progress. Next, we will try to stop her from dismantling the Mansion piece by piece. She's a chewer, that Pupsie.

A Miracle Between 4:00 And Midnight

Ever since FRIG II's icemaker went on the fritz at the beginning of November last year, I have been buying ice in bags from 10Box. You may recall this saga from back then. I'm sure I had several posts about it, because Farmer H was so frustrating in his response. Yes. I realize that must be quite a shock for you to hear, heh, heh. He basically just gave up, after repeated reminders from me, and said that he couldn't find a replacement icemaker to fit FRIG II. I call poppycock! How many different dimensions can there be in a side-by-side freezer? 

Anyhoo... Farmer H's solution was to just buy a new refrigerator/freezer. I was not keen on that idea. I don't like adjusting to new things, and I don't like shelling out $1000 randomly (or more!) to get a new refrigerator when everything works just fine except the part that makes ice. So I have been schlepping in those heavy bags of ice every few days. I would get the large bag, but that's too hard for me to carry. So the small one has to do. I put half in the bin, and the rest of the bag in the mini chest freezer in the laundry room until we need it.

A couple times, I told Farmer H to stop and bring home ice. He uses it too, if he has a Wild Turkey in the evenings. Otherwise, he doesn't care, because he always drinks Diet Mountain Dew out of the bottle. I am the one who likes my ice, putting it in my metal water bottle every day. Farmer H is not the best ice-bringer. I always wrap a coat around the bag on the way home, then bring it in, drop it on the cutting block to loosen the cubes apart, then put it in the mini chest freezer. Farmer H tosses it on the floor of SilverRedO, then brings it directly to the mini chest freezer, in one solid semi-melting block. So when I break it up for putting in the bin, I don't really get cubes, but more like assorted sizes of shards and crumbs.

Anyhoo... on Thursday afternoon, I was excited, because the bag I'd had stored in the mini chest freezer was the GOOD ICE. The little hollow cylinders, not the flat squares. When I had bought this bag, 10Box had just gotten a recent shipment. So I got a bag that had been near the top of the two big stacks in the outdoor freezer. That meant the hollow cylinders had not been melted by the pressure of being on the bottom. They retained their shape, and broke apart as actual little cylinders. Not crumbs or shards.

I happily poured half that bag of cylinders in the bin. That requires sliding out the whole bin, and setting it on the cutting block. It's pretty heavy lifting it back in, but nobody else is going to do it for me! I had chopped loose some of the remaining shards on the bottom of the bin, and saved two big ones for my soda. They don't fit in the top of my water bottle. I put that little lever back down. It's the one that senses too much ice in the bin, and stops the making of ice. Heh, heh! AS IF FRIG II was still making ice. The bin won't slide in and out unless that lever is clicked up and out of the way. When put back down, the lever rested on one of my large shards, but I knew it would click back down in a few minutes when I took out the shard. Not a big deal anyway. No action in there.

Next, I squeezed a lemon into my red Solo cup. Poured in my Diet Shasta Cola. Did you know that if a lemon seed gets through the squeezer, that carbonation brings it right to the surface, easy to be picked out with a spoon? You're welcome for that new knowledge. I've really been enjoying lemon juice in my soda for the past month or so. Maybe it's because of winter. Or that I got a good deal on a bag of lemons at 10Box.

The rest of my evening went as normal. Farmer H came home and did some fiddling with T-Hoe's tire. He was on his own for supper, warming up the noodles/chicken/peas/ mushrooms for himself, with a couple Hawaiian rolls. I had mine later. Farmer H watched Swamp People then went to bed. I shut down HIPPIE shortly after 11:30, and went to FRIG II to add some of those ice cylinders to my water bottle for overnight.

I reached into the bin and pulled out a few cylinders. As I was putting them in the water bottle, I saw A CRESCENT ICE CUBE in my hand.

WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN???

I looked into the bin, and saw a couple more. AND the prongy section that spits out the completed ice cubes was moving! How did FRIG II start working "suddenly," on his own, FOUR MONTHS after breaking?

The next morning, I told Farmer H. He did not have the common decency to appear surprised. He looked in, and said, "It definitely made some ice."

"HOW does that happen, after four months, without us doing anything? You tried all that stuff that didn't work. And now it just starts again? Randomly?"

"HM. There could have been a clog in there that worked its way out."

Sure. After four months. Something is definitely weird around here. I don't know if FRIG II will continue making ice. With the made ice on top of those hollow cylinders of store-bought ice, the lever is up, signaling not to make any ice right now. I guess I'll find out tonight, when the level goes down and the lever goes back into place...

Has Mrs. HM's Faith In Humanity Been Restored?

The Magic 8 Ball needs a new plastic triangle to display on its liquidy screen. "Signs Point To MAYBE." The jury is still out on Mrs. HM's humanity faith. Thursday was a good day for eternal optimists.

I was heading into the main post office to mail a letter to Genius, three water bills for the flip houses, and an annual payment to Sirius XM for music in A-Cad and The Pony's Rogue. I'd parked in the lone handicap space, and hobbled up the ramp, bracing myself on the metal handrail. 

An older woman with a gray pixie haircut started out the door, and saw me on my way across the sidewalk. She backed inside, holding the door open for me.

At the very same time, a 40-something gal with dyed black hair, looking like a once-upon-a-time rock band groupie, was approaching from the other end of the sidewalk. 

 

"Hang on a minute! I'll get the door for you!"

"Two people helping me at once! That's okay, this lady has the other door for me."

I started inside the open door, nodded at Gray Pixie. "Thank you so much!"

"You're very welcome."

Rock Groupie was now inside the lobby, headed to the double glass doors of the inner sanctum and clerk counter. "Are you coming in here?"

"No, thank you. I'm just going to the drop box here. But thanks anyway!"

Not only those two gals, but a gray-bearded man at the Gas Station Chicken Store on my next stop waited to hold the door for me as he was coming out. Of course I thanked him. 

AND, when I started in to Country Mart before I visited the post office, a late-20s guy in a trench coat, wearing a backpack, moved down the narrow sidewalk to let me pass. He was on his phone, I assume waiting to be picked up by a friend or Uber, when he noticed me. The sidewalk there is taken up by displays out front, this time pallets of firewood, and he moved down past the main entrance so I didn't have to step out on the slanting blacktop of the roadway between the store and main parking area.

Let the record show that Mrs. HM does not expect people to cater to her. Only to show common courtesy as one would to any other equal human. Just because I am lame does not make me special. These folks deserve good karma for their consideration. Even Steven, please take note!

Enough Of The Lion Already! Where's The Lamb?

Mrs. HM is in self-imposed exile again. Not snow this time. WIND! I hate the wind. I know it's only March 5 as I type this, but I'm tired of March roaring in like a lion. 

We have sustained winds of 31 mph all day, with gusts up to 50+. I'm not getting out in that. Aside from the temperature of 30 feeling like 17 degrees, I'm leery of falling. Not that I'm so flimsy that a gust of wind could topple me. I'm no dandelion fluff. It's my balance. One little zephyr can stagger me. I'd hate to think of being surprised by a 50 mph gust. I have no desire to be picking my teeth out of the asphalt of the Gas Station Chicken Store's parking lot.

I'm glad this was The Pony's day off. He even decided to do an appointment online, rather than drive over to Bill-Paying Town in person.

"Just because I don't particularly trust other drivers on the road with 50 mph wind gusts!"

"I worry about trees blowing over on me. And that I'll fall over because of my balance."

"Yeah. Even yesterday I was dodging trash cans and the occasional small limb."

Indeed. Good thing The Pony is not working today. I think my parental helicopter should be grounded in this weather.

Unless, Perhaps, You Count The Mental Deficiency Of ENTITLEDNESS

Let's revisit the Gas Station Chicken Store, the place where only 1 percent of the people using the lone handicap parking space actually have a different-abledness. It's not their choice. It's due to the other 99 percent of the people who park there showing no regard for the people who actually NEED that space.

Tuesday, during a lull in the rain, but still with high winds, I pulled onto the parking lot of the Gas Station Chicken Store to see a tiny pickup truck parked in the handicap space. Of course there was no handicap license plate. No placard hanging from the mirror. A not-quite-tubby guy, with a red beard, stood beside the truck, smiling and chewing the fat with a guy parked in the FREE AIR space, putting air in the tires of his red pickup truck.

Well. No way was I going to park across the lot at the moat. No use waiting on these yayhoos to finish up their chat and make either of those two spaces available. I proceeded to 10Box and its lottery machines.

Once again, somebody figured their needs came before those of the handicapped. Why not park in that handicap space, rather than behind the red pickup, beside the dumpster and alley, to wait to use that FREE AIR hose? After all, the handicapped would surely be staying home rather than come out in the rain and wind to buy something at a convenience store, right?

If only I was as brave as Blog Buddy Kathy! Then I would have pulled up alongside Redbeard, and put down T-Hoe's window, and asked, "Do you need this handicap space? Or are you just waiting for the air hose?" Nothing too confrontational. But Mrs. HM is a chicken. Blog Buddy Kathy would have made the point much more clear, I'm sure!

Hopefully, It Can Be Like A Semi-Open Adoption

Every Thursday, I mail a letter to Genius in Pittsburgh. Some of them have been taking two weeks to arrive. Like he got a January 29 letter alongside a February 13 letter. He got one on Saturday. The letter I wrote him the Thursday morning after Scarlett left us on Sunday. I couldn't bring myself to write it earlier, and I had trouble seeing through the tears as I wrote it. Genius sent me a text Saturday afternoon.

"Sorry to hear about Scarlett. That's very sad."

"Yes. I'm finally starting to get over it." It has been two weeks now, you know.

A few minutes later, I got a text from Farmer H: 

"Now I'm the bad guy with Genius about the dog."

"I didn't say anything bad in my letter. Just told how she was given away."

"Okay. He just can't believe I gave your dog away."

"Me either! The letter I just mailed this week tells how the guy is keeping Scarlett. I hope that's true!"

"He is here right now."

"Find out how she's doing!"

"They said she's doing great."

When he got home, Farmer H read me the text from Genius: "How could you give away Mom's dog? How incredibly cruel."

"You even told me we might have to give her away!"

"Yes. Because I didn't know what else we could do. I didn't want her tied up or in a pen. How often could I walk over and pet her like that? She'd just be a prisoner. That's not fair. But it's the WAY you got rid of her. Less than 24 hours. You didn't even tell me when you were loading her up. I didn't think it would be so soon. I didn't even get to say goodbye, or give her extra treats."

"Well. I DID do that, so fast and not giving you time. I'm sorry."

I couldn't say much more, because once again I was crying over that darn dog, who wouldn't give me the time of day if the object of her ADORATION was around. But Farmer H went on.

"The guy said Scarlett seems happy, and they're happy with her. She's in the house with them except at night, and when they leave. They're feeding her Blue Diamond dog food. He let her go this week, and she ran off. He called her. This time it took 20 minutes, but she came back. They got rid of their other dog."

Hopefully, the guy will be a regular shopper at Farmer H's SUS2.5, and can give him updates on Scarlett. She is very fond of people, and has never really believed she's a dog, I think. So being in the house with them, getting all the attention, will make her happy.

My Wish Was Not A DeSIGHer

When the broken-down car of the Gas Station Chicken Store rumpushole handicap parker FORCED me to take my scratcher business elsewhere, I went across the road to the Liquor Store. There was a new worker behind the counter. A middle-aged woman I hadn't seen there before. When I walked up to the counter, she SIGHED!

Ain't that a fine how-do-you-do? Well. It's not like I was the only customer in the place. A woman was playing one of the three or four fake slot machines they have against the wall. Don't get me started on those right now!

"I'm just here to get some lottery tickets."

"SIGH."

"A number 10 and a number 11..."

"SIGH." 

Put-Upon Gal tore each off. As I was getting ready to name my crosswords, she stepped to the register to scan those two tickets. Okay. Sometimes clerks do this. Some can remember a string of numbers, others have to ask again after just one. I try to gauge the response of each clerk, and time my requests to their advantage. So I let Put-Upon Gal scan these two without interrupting before she was ready again with her attention. Let the record show this happens A LOT in the Liquor Store, where they also sell a lot of vaping supplies, and have T-shirts for sale with logos like "The Devil's Lettuce," which is now legal in our state.

"And also two number 19s..."

Put-Upon Gal just stood there. Didn't make a move. I looked at her, my left eyebrow raised, a teacher technique for nonverbally asking, "What's the deal?"

"SIGH. I'm just waiting for you to be done. I'm not bending down there more than once."

"Oh. I thought maybe you were out of them. Two number 19s, and three number 26s."

"SIGH."

Put-Upon Gal tore off my tickets, scanned them, and rang them up. I paid cash. Got a dollar back in change, thanks to my three $3 tickets. I stuffed it in the tip jar on the counter. Not because she especially deserved it, but because I almost always leave that dollar change at the Liquor Store, because the usual clerks are polite and appreciative.

I'm thinking maybe Put-Upon Gal has some kind of respiratory illness. Maybe that's just how she breathes. She didn't seem unfriendly. Just reluctant to expend any extra energy, like stooping, or making small talk.

Another RumpusHole Handicap Parker Rant

On a rare day that I managed to avoid the RumpusHole in the White F250 who takes up the lone handicap parking space at the Gas Station Chicken Store... I found someone else ensconced in that space.

It was a white sedan with no handicap plate, no handicap placard. It was NOT the lady who parks there and sits for so long. This gal was younger than me, but not young. She was parked nose-down in that space, standing by the driver's door of her car. From under the front end, I could see a pair of jeans-clad man-legs. Mind you, the car was not jacked up. Some guy had just volunteered to scoot himself on his back up under the front end. I assume it was his truck (white, ironically, but not an F250) parked behind her in the FREE AIR space.

Well. There went my plans for buying scratchers. I was not willing to brave the strong wind by parking over by the moat. Too long a distance to hobble while being buffeted with bad balance. I went to 10Box, and then to the Liquor Store across the road. When leaving the Liquor Store, I have to make a right, then left by Casey's, to come up the back alley past the rear of the Gas Station Chicken Store. 

The white sedan was still there. With a different pair of man-legs sticking out from under it. A duffle bag of supposed equipment sitting by the tire. And a white van with an obscure business name on the side. I guess that lady had called an actual repair service. It was now 45 minutes from when I'd first driven by.

Here's the thing with RumpusHoles who take up handicap parking spaces for which they have no certified need... They THINK they are entitled. They'll only be inside a minute. Surely no handicapped person will want to park there during that time. So might as well use it, you know, because they don't want to walk farther. But if their junky car won't start up again, that space is out of commission for hours. Way to go, RumpusHole!

I didn't wish for that woman to have a hefty repair bill, or be "inconvenienced" for hours. But her lack of sensitivity (and law obeyance!) seriously inconvenienced ME. I'm pretty sure she's the reason I had a bad day of losing with my substitute scratchers...

The Medium

I needed to buy stamps on my errand day Thursday. Normally, I get the young post office clerk that knows who The Pony is, and recognizes me as Pony's Mom. He's a polite young fellow, with a son about a year old. Always cheerful and helpful to all the customers in line. This time, he wasn't there.

The clerk was a woman. I always try to think of ways to describe fellow workers to The Pony, to see if he knows them, or might have an anecdote about them. This one was hard.

"Hey, I was getting stamps yesterday around 3:30, but [REDACTED] wasn't working. It was some lady. I don't really know how to describe her. She was older than you, but younger than me. Her hair wasn't really blond, or brown. Just in-between. She wasn't fat or thin. Not tall or short. She was really nice. I can't think of any way to describe her, other than MEDIUM."

"Did she have a snaggletooth?"

"Um. I don't know. I didn't really look THAT close. I was trying to decide on stamps. I knew I wanted a book of flags, but the selection of others wasn't that great. I didn't want hearts. One of them was Christmasy/wintery. I don't remember the other. So I took the Mississippi River. I've had them before, but they are pretty, and the best of those choices. So I was looking at them, not the clerk's teeth."

"That's the only way I know to describe her that would make her stand out. It was probably the one I'm thinking of. She usually fills in there for days off."

"I knew the amount for two books of stamps would be just under $30. So I was prepared. I had a twenty and a ten. She said, 'Now why did I ring that up as credit?' I said probably because nobody wants to use cash anymore, and she agreed. Now I have 80 cents in coins that I forgot to take out of my town pants that will be falling out when I unfold them to put on."

"Oh. I thought you were going to say the coins would get in the washer."

"No. I don't wash my town pants after every wearing. I'm only in them for an hour a day. Besides, they get the dried mud off the side of T-Hoe's running board when I slide out. So I'd be putting on clean pants, knowing that by the time I got out in town, they'd have dirt all over one leg again. I just dust it off when I fold them up. Still knowing that when I get out in town, they'll have dirt on one leg again. I can't see washing pants all the time, when they're not worn long, and just get dirty right back. It uses a lot of resources, and wears out the pants."

"Fair enough." Said The Pony, who wears pants all day long to walk 10-11 miles in all kinds of weather. We have different laundry needs.

Anyhoo... we both agree that I bought my stamps from a Medium.