I Don't Know Whether To Mark The Calendar Or Check For Fever

A strange thing happened here at the Mansion on Sunday. So out of the ordinary that the occasion must somehow be commemorated.

FARMER H ASKED FOR TWO VEGETABLES!

That's right! No need to rub your eyes, thinking you misread my pronouncement. The man who only eats meat and sugar asked for two sides to go with the meat, and they were both vegetables!

I had bought some pork loin chops at 10Box on Saturday. They looked fresh and meaty and delicious. It was a huge pack of thick pork chops. I thought there were 8, but it turned out to be 12. It was $1.57 a pound. The whole pack was under $20. I don't regularly buy pork chops, but I think this was a good deal. 

Farmer H was going to put 8 of them on GassyG Jr, to grill with BBQ sauce. I froze the other four, for the future, to be coated with Shake N Bake and cooked in the oven. Now we have four nights where I don't have to "cook" supper, only warn it up.

But here's the freaky part. When discussing the meals, I offered Farmer H several side dishes. They included baked beans, salad, baked potato, fries, mashed potatoes, mac & cheese, other noodly pasta from a packet, green beans, or frozen Chinese vegetables.

I figured Farmer H would pick one side dish for each night, because we also had Hawaiian Rolls, and the pork chops are really big. But no! Farmer H wanted both green beans AND the Chinese vegetables!

Sunday morning I made the green beans, because they take a while. I didn't have any bacon to throw in, but I found some ham in the freezer that I had already cubed for beans when the weather cools off. I browned that in a saucepan with a small diced onion, then added two cans of green beans. I added a grind of black pepper, and let the pot simmer for an hour. That's how we like our green beans: cooked down until they're limp and full of flavor. I added a can of sliced new potatoes, and let it simmer another 15 minutes. Then it was satisfactory to cool off and sit in FRIG II until time to warm up for the meal.

The Chinese vegetables were in a bag in the freezer. I had bought them to add to my leftover Chinese food a couple weeks ago. They were disappointing! I had used the first bag, and discovered that it was 80% carrot coins, with about 4 pods of peas, a few crumbly broccoli florets, and five slices of water chestnuts. Back then, I has sorted out the carrots, of which I'm no fan. Farmer H ate them as a side dish and liked them. So now this bag of vegetables was just right for him, though he accepted my offer to put some cheese over them.

Farmer H ate his meal and pronouced all foods "Good." I had my chop with a side salad. The meat was quite tender. Farmer H IS a good griller. 

Tonight he'll have the same thing, and I am planning to have some mashed potatoes in place of my side salad. The green beans will last him all four meals. Farmer H says he's fine with just the meat, green beans, and rolls. I guess he doesn't want to overdose on vegetables.

Even An Old Gal Like Mrs. HM Can Dream

You know I don't ask for much. Just the occasional oil change for T-Hoe every couple of years, a Reuben Sandwich once a month, and Farmer H to do my bidding. But for the past couple weeks, I've had a yearning. Not for myself, mind you. I'm selfless like that. No, what I wish for is a companion for my little dog Jack.

Jack is lonely. First from the disappearance of Pupsie months ago. At least Jack still had his neighborly companion, Copper Jack, who has always pretended he lived here during the day, and half of the night. Now that Copper Jack has gone over the rainbow bridge to live on a big farm upstate, my little Jack has no canine companionship. He runs to greet me as I leave and come home, all wriggly with excitement, his long body undulating with pleasure. He follows Farmer H when he's outside doing chores. But most of the day and night, Jack is alone.

I have been perusing the local animal shelters every day, looking for a suitable adoptee. Farmer H had at first agreed, soon after Pupsie's disappearance. But then cooled on the idea. Now, he agrees that little Jack seems lonely. I told Farmer H that I think I found us a dog. He even looked at the picture on HIPPIE, and said that dog looked okay. We have agreed that a medium size dog would be best, with no pit-bull lineage. Any age or sex or color.

Here's my dream dog:

I hope I'm not jinxing it! He was found wandering the streets of Sis-Town last week. The stray hold time is up. He's ready to be adopted, and has limited time before something bad might happen. Supposedly Sis-Town is a no-kill shelter, but they are full. 

This little fellow is described as a heeler mix. Looks to me like he might have some beagle in him. He has a hurt leg! He was holding it up when he was found. I fear that it might be broken. The lady who found him said she knows somebody interested in adopting him, but that was seven days ago. I realize this dog will need vet care for the leg. Of course he will need shots and neutering, because this shelter requires the adoptee to sign for such, and provide evidence. That is fine with us. We can afford to "fix" him. I'm not saying we'll fork out thousands for surgery, but hundreds are in our budget. An x-ray and a splint/cast should at least help him recover.

Now I fear that somebody else will take him. Friday was when he was first available for adoption. I have not seen any updates on the Facebook page. Monday is a holiday, for Columbus Day. Tuesday will probably be the first time somebody at the city/shelter will respond to our interest.

Farmer H agreed Friday evening that we could get him. City employees don't work weekends. Farmer H says he will try to go and adopt my dream dog. Saturday night, he came in from the front porch, talking to my little Jack, saying, "Yeah, we'll get you a buddy."

"YOU PROMISED JACK! So now you HAVE to get this dog!"

We'll see how things go. Poor doggy. Lost and hurt, held captive and probably in pain, but at least out of harm's way, with food and water. 

I hope I am not getting my hopes up for nothing. I imagine Jack and New Dog romping in the misty morning, play-fighting while feinting to snap at each other's forelegs, chasing after Farmer H on the Gator, barking to greet me as I come down the driveway. It's a Lifetime Movie kind of rom-com fantasy. I really want to rescue this dog.

Overconfidence Does Not Cure Helplessness

Here we go again. Some people should not be allowed in a kitchen. Not for the simplest of tasks. I'm sure you know who we're about to discuss. I'm sure you will not be surprised at the outcome. I could just stop here, and let you each use your imagination to pick the atrocity inflicted on my kitchen, but I'll leave that exercise for another time.

Friday evening, Farmer H came home a little later than 5:00. Of course that meant he wasn't there to carry in the 8-lb pack of center-loin pork chops that I bought for him to grill on Sunday. I had the groceries carried in, and had just sat down with my scratchers when he arrived. He had stopped to buy colored pencils for his NEW LOVE, the wooden sign made for his SUS2.5 by a buddy.

Anyhoo... supper was just going to be a section of the BIG SANDWICH that I had bought at Country Mart on Thursday. I had already carved it up, with a single serving for each of us in our own color-coded Chinese Tupperware containers on the bottom shelf of FRIG II. He was having potato chips on the side, and a dill pickle spear.

"I guess you want me to set out your pickle for you..." (I usually set it on a folded paper towel to drain off the liquid before it gets put on the plate.)

"No. I can get it."

"Well, let me tell you how."

"I think I can get a pickle, HM."

"I don't. You need to get a fork. A CLEAN fork! And the jar is on the bottom shelf of the door. Closest to the hinge."

Farmer H got out the pickles and took off the lid. "There's one sticking up right there. I can just use my fingers."

"NO! You'll get your dirty fingers in the liquid."

"I'm not gettin' my dirty fingers in the liquid, HM. See there?"

"You are tilting the jar! And the pickles fell down to that side. With the liquid!"

"No. I'm just grabbing a pickle."

"You have that jar practically on its side! GRAVITY! The liquid runs that way."

"It's fine. I didn't get my fingers in the liquid."

Sure he didn't. Funny thing, much later that night, when I went to FRIG II to get my own sandwich and pickle, my CROC stuck to the floor. Then made that sticky noise when I stepped back. I took a look at the floor. Halfway between the cutting block and FRIG II was a stain. Shaped kind of like a triangle, invisible unless I leaned back and looked at an angle. Mostly transparent, barely opaque, with a slight tint of greenish gray.

A fork would have prevented that problem. Me getting up to get out his pickle myself would have been easier than scrubbing pickle juice off the floor.

How can Farmer H not do the simplest thing without making a big mess?

A Day Later And A Shopping Companion Short

The day after highway maneuvers to get a friend to the bus station, The Pony tried to sleep in and rest up. The sleep was fitful. The Pony wasn't quite sure why, but said it felt like an ear infection coming on.

"I have that pain in my ear. I know what an ear infection feels like. Tomorrow I have to go give blood for labs, and I'm going to ask if the doctor can look in my ear. They're usually really good about working me in like that. I'll be home in time for our shopping trip."

Well. The person who was supposed to be there wasn't. The Pony gave the blood, and got an appointment for Friday at 8:30, with a recommendation to get some Aleve to help with the pain until the appointment. That worked, a little.

"I'm sorry. I'll have to miss shopping with you this afternoon. The thought of bouncing around in your T-Hoe without shocks is not at all appealing to me right now."

Dang Farmer H and his lack of maintenance on my automobile! I had to go alone. I was fine. But I DID miss The Pony trotting back out to T-Hoe to pump gas, clutching my scratchers, while I had time to use the bathroom in Casey's. I had to do that before paying, and hoof it out to the pump myself.

Anyhoo... I had asked The Pony how an ear infection came about. "Did you get it underwater in your big tub?"

"No. I think maybe I was too rough with a Q-Tip."

Anyhoo... The Pony went to the appointment on Friday morning. Got a prescription for doxycycline, and a steroid for the swelling. We have to be careful, with me and The Pony both being  allergic to the -cillins. I also can't take the cephalosporins, and The Pony had a bad reaction to Cipro one time. Doxycycline should do the trick. It cured my pneumonia after my Unfortunate HospitVALzation.

At 11:16 on Friday, The Pony sent me a text:

"The Aleve and steroids seem to be kicking in now. Or at least starting to. Still clogged with gunk but feels muchhhh less swollen shut, and pain is slightly better."

I hope The Pony is on the mend.

Headed For The Hoosegow?

It's bad enough that Farmer H "stole" $200 worth of flea market merchandise on Monday, when Old Buddy loaded stuff into SilverRedO that he "thought" had been paid for. Luckily Farmer H straightened it out with the seller, and is returning it this Monday.

Mrs. HM had her own brush with criminality last Wednesday at 10Box.

I had stopped by for bananas, and picked up some lemons as well, plus some sardines in mustard sauce. I don't remember the total at the checkout, but it was under $20. As usual, I put my debit card into the scanner. The scanner wouldn't take it. Said to try again. So I did. Twice more. It wouldn't work. The cashier said to use the magnetic strip. So I slid my card through that notch. Nope. Twice more. Nope.

"Oh, no! I don't want to spend my LOTTERY CASH on food!"

"I know, right?" said the checker, who is the gal who always asks me if I've won anything lately. "Now it says your card has been declined."

"What? That's ridiculous!"

"Sometimes it does that when it can't read the card. Here. Does it have the TAP feature?"

"Yeah, but I never use that. My son did it for me in Country Mart the other day."

"Here, let me see it." She held the card on the TAP area of the scanner, and it worked. 

"Whew! I think I need to order a new card!"

How embarrassing is THAT? There was a line, too, because the other checker, a young guy, had gone outside to take a propane tank return. I've never had my card declined! That's preposterous! Our checking account was fatter than it's ever been, because we had not moved our money around since selling those two properties recently. Yet it seemed (to the people in line) that I didn't have less than $20 to pay for my few items.

Late on Thursday night, I called the automated bank phone number, and requested a replacement debit card. The computer voice told me it would be here in three business days, plus mail time. I got it today. Whoopee! I can make a less than $20 purchase again!

I also balanced my checkbook the next day, as I do once a week. It mentioned that a transaction was DECLINED for a mechanical issue. I wish those people in line behind me could have heard that news!

Meanwhile, Farmer H and I are going to try to stay one step ahead of the law...

A Whole Squadron Of Helicopters

Just when I thought it was safe to stop worrying about The Pony, I was pitched a screwball by The Universe. Dealt a bad hand. Poked with a sharp stick, to bring me back to reality.

You may recall that The Pony had a friend visiting from out-of-state. After the fireworks call on Saturday night, I left The Pony alone to enjoy his company. As far as I knew, the guest was leaving on Wednesday. I had no contact at all with The Pony until Tuesday afternoon. I was in town, coming out of the Gas Station Chicken Store, when I got a text at 3:48.

"Dropped friend off. Starting home."

Well. That was a surprise. Also a bit worrisome. This put The Pony in downtown St. Louis, starting home in the middle of rush hour. I did not reply, lest it take The Pony's attention off the road. In my mind, I calculated The Pony's ETA. It would probably be at least 90 minutes in that traffic. I got back home, and kept my eye on the clock. By 5:30, I was expecting a text any minute.

Nothing. I did not want to call. Maybe there had been a wreck, and traffic was stopped. I'd just have to wait. And wait. Then I got a text at 6:05 that made matters worse!

"Home. Had to loop back. The bus driver turned her away twice for some reason so I had to pick her back up. They rescheduled her for one at 1:30 a.m. so will drive her back then."

"Yikes! PLEASE be careful! Make sure you have gas!"

"Yup. Filled it on the way out."

"Okay. You might need a Coke on the way home. Might want to get one to take along, and not be in a downtown convenience store at 1:30 a.m. At least you will have conversation on the way up."

"Yeah."

"Keep me updated, but not while driving!!!"

"Yeah. Will text when leaving, then when we get there. Will wait this time to make sure they let her on."

Here's the thing. The Pony is not a night person. Sometimes goes to sleep at 6:00 p.m. Now, after a 3-4 hour round trip to the city, The Pony would be repeating the drive in the dead of night/early morning. Let the record show that the Thanksgiving car-totaling accident occurred when The Pony fell asleep at the wheel in the middle of the afternoon! Yes. I was worried. All evening, night, and early morning.

Midnight:05

"Leaving now. Will text you when I'm at the station waiting for the bus to actually accept her."

1:16

"Dropped her off. Waiting for the confirmation she's on the bus safe."

1:21

"Shouldn't be more than ten minutes to know."

1:31

"She's on it. Starting home, will message once I am."

2:40 a.m.

"Home safe. Gonna use the bathroom and pass the Not-Heaven out. Could I get a call at noon in case I sleep in? Just to make sure I'm up in time for an appointment."

"Okay. Sleep well."

WHEW!!! That is too much stress for Mrs. HM without a helicopter! I need to contract out some of my worrying.

I talked to The Pony the next day, trying to figure out WHY the friend got turned away by the bus driver. The Pony said nobody knows! That she had an actual ticket printed out there at the station. The bus driver scanned it, said, "Nope!" and motioned her away. She went back inside, and the ticket agent looked at it, and said, "That's the right bus for your ticket." The friend went back again, and the bus driver wouldn't even scan it. Just told her no again. So the friend went back inside, and the agent booked her another ticket, this time on a Greyhound bus. I think the other was FlixBus. The Pony said the friend said people she knows have had a lot of trouble with FlixBus before. So who knows what the issue was.

Farmer H said they should have just stayed in the city, and waited until the later bus. That might have been fine during daylight hours, when there were things to do like visit museums or shopping malls. But not late at night! Downtown St. Louis is NOT a safe place to be in the dark! And sometimes not in the daylight.

Fave Has A Bee In Her Bonnet

On my way into the Gas Station Chicken Store on Friday, I saw a dude standing out front collecting money. He had on a vest thingy, so it was legit. It was whatever charity gives out Tootsie Rolls when you give a donation. I don't normally give to people standing around collecting money in plastic jugs that look like hospital bedside urinals. But it's a real charity, and I had the right bills in my shirt pocket. So I handed him one on my way past. He offered me a Tootsie Roll, but I declined.

Saturday, ANOTHER dude was out front. This was an old guy with a scruffy white beard, sitting in a yellow-and-white webbed lawn chair. He started talking to me from the time I rounded the corner.

"Would you like to make a donation?"

"I just gave yesterday. Didn't even take my Tootsie Roll!"

"Thank you for donating! Do you have kids at home?"

"Not at home. My kids are in their twenties."

"Would THEY like a Tootsie Roll?"

"Nah, they're fine without it!"

He kept chatting as I finally reached the door. It wasn't busy that day. I was the lone customer inside. Fave was looking out the front window.

"I wish he'd quit asking people for donations! Most people give him something anyway. He doesn't need to ask. Something about it just bugs me. I guess I'm just bored."

Heh, heh! Fave is usually cheerful to everybody. I guess this guy was wearing on her, having to listen to him through the window. Even though at that time, she'd only been on shift for about four hours.

When I left, Chair Man started talking to me again. I was kind of a captive slow-moving audience.

"It's hard to get old, isn't it?"

"Yes, but I'm still moving. I'm just glad I can get out. A few weeks ago, I hurt my back. Hurt it sitting on the couch! And I could hardly walk. I had to take my cane everywhere. (Too late, I noticed his cane propped against the brick wall.) I was afraid I may never get out again. So I'm doing okay."

"God bless you for your donation. Take care."

I think the old guy was just lonely, and liked to talk. For all he knew, I was lying about donating the previous day. It was a social event for him, having a purpose to be out among strangers and bend their ear for a while. If he had been there the next day, I would have given another donation. 

On Sunday, nobody was collecting. I suppose that was a relief for Fave.

The Lying Isn't Really Necessary

You may recall that when I prepare supper for Farmer H, I do just about everything short of chewing the food for him. I also know that he will find a way to make a mess for me, even though I leave very little opportunity. I'm used to it.

Sunday night, Farmer H had eaten up all of his Chinese food that we got Friday night. So he was having chimichangas, the frozen version. I put them on a foil-lined pan to bake, along with some of the crispy potato coin thingies that are like tater tots. No, they don't really go together. But that's what Farmer H wanted. He turned down a salad (again, not really something that goes with chimichangas) and tortilla chips.

I asked if he wanted the usual cheesy salsa dip for his chimichangas, and he said no. I asked if he wanted cheese on top. Yes. The choice was some shredded cheddar, or a slice of pepper jack. He wanted the shredded cheddar. I sprinkled it on top and put the finished chimichangas back in the oven for it to melt. I knew it would run onto the pan. I figured it would become like a "cheese skirt" that I've seen on the cooking shows. A flat portion of melted cheese that drapes over the sides of a cheeseburger. Customers supposedly go crazy for the cheese skirt.

When Farmer H came to get his food, I had already put some ketchup in a ramekin for him, and twice as much salsa in a bigger container, like a giant ramekin. Farmer H would just dump these on his plate all willy-nilly. It's a paper plate, so no work for me, but I don't like seeing stuff all running together. He can at least be partially civilized.

Farmer H got his potato coins off the pan. Then started wrestling with the cheese-draped chimichangas. I had told him to do them last, and that had given the cheese a little time to solidify. They actually came off just right, with only a little left behind, which Farmer H scooped off the foil with his fork. Successfully!

Farmer H was happy with his meal. I was happy that there was not a mess. I set about scratching my lottery tickets. When he was finished, Farmer H returned his plate to the kitchen. He threw the paper plate away, and started rinsing the ramekins. RED FLAG! This never ends well!

"I hope you wiped that out! Don't be washing chunks of salsa down my sink! I have to pick them out of the drain with the end of a knife!"

"There ain't no chunks!" proclaimed Farmer H, while filling the larger container with water, and sloshing it along the sides of the sink. Twice.

"Then why are you doing that? Why are you rinsing the sides of the sink if there are no chunks?"

"I'm just rinsing out the containers, HM." He set them in the sink.

"If they're rinsed out, why are you setting them in the sink?"

"Because that's what you tell me to do!"

"No. That's when you wait a while to bring them back to the kitchen, and they have sauce stuck to the sides, and they need to soak. If you just rinsed them out, they don't need to sit in the sink. Put them on the counter with the silverware."

Of course you know what happened. Later, when I went to rinse off my plate (having wiped the rice particles off with a paper towel into the wastebasket (so as not to clog up my own sink that has no garbage disposal), I noticed that the water was draining slowly. I took out the strainer plug. [Pardon the condition of my sink. It DOES need a good scrubbing, but it's 27 years old. Even when it's clean, it's not sparkling.]

Of course there were chunks from the salsa blocking my drain! They had gone through this strainer, and were stuck underneath. I didn't take a picture of them in place, because I didn't have my phone in my pocket. It was over on the table, not worth walking around the counter when I had a more pressing job to do. 

I used the point of a paring knife to pick peppers out of my drain. When I was closing down HIPPIE for the night, I took my phone over to get the photos. I saved the evidence on the plate I'd used to cut up a lemon for my Zero Sugar Shasta Cola:

My intention was to point out the evidence to Farmer H the next morning. To show that I KNEW what he was doing, and yet he deliberately lied to me about it. AND had continued rinsing these peppers into the drain at the time I was telling him not to. However, the evidence shriveled up overnight, so I didn't bother.

Here are the holes in the drain where stuff like this gets stuck:

It's not a pleasant task to pick out particles with a knife tip. Farmer H tries to get away with this all the time, whether it's little chunks of mushroom and hamburger from spaghetti, or diced onions and beans from baked beans. Any little pieces that are left on his plate or bowl, he thinks he can run down the sink. He CAN'T!

There's no need to LIE about not-rinsing chunks of salsa down the drain, when he's IN THE MIDDLE OF RINSING CHUNKS OF SALSA DOWN THE DRAIN! That's the worst part. He could have stopped, and wiped them out of the sink when I called him on it.

I'm getting crankyier in my old age. Farmer H should be able to take 10 seconds to wipe off his plates/utensils, rather than making me dig his garbage out of the drain.

Another Helicopter Liftoff Attempted

When we last convened, I was concerned about The Pony's whereabouts. I'd received no communication during the trip to the city to pick up a friend at the train station. Four hours had passed, and it's only an hour drive. I had been expecting a text, but refused to send one myself. You never know if The Pony might be in traffic. I didn't want any distractions.

I lay down for my nap before town. Of course my phone was next to me. At 4:18, I heard it buzz.

"Sorry. I didn't get a chance to text when I was picking her up! We're at [local Chinese restaurant] for dinner now!"

I replied with a thumbs-up, to acknowledge the knowledge, but not intrude upon The Pony's dinner. My purpose for wanna-be-helicoptering was the SAFETY of The Pony. Not nosiness.

Sis-Town was having a festival that day which blocked Main Street. I had discussed this with The Pony on Thursday while shopping.

"You know the streets will be blocked on Saturday. I don't know which way you're coming home, but keep that in mind. All of Main Street. You can't even go by the post office or Country Mart this time. It's a bigger detour."

"Really? I didn't know that."

"It's on the city's Facebook page. And the paper's Facebook page. With a map, and the times."

"I'll probably come in the back way to my house, when we get off the highway."

"Okay. But if you plan to get out..."

"Mom. I know all the streets, remember?"

Yeah. But The Pony sure wasn't aware of the closures before I mentioned them! Anyhoo... The Pony was back in town, so I wasn't worried anymore. Until...

I remembered that there would be a fireworks display at 9:00, at the top of Main Street. The Pony's house is two blocks away, and faces Main Street. At 6:55, I sent a text, saying that The Pony would have a good view from the front porch, if they wanted to see fireworks at 9:00. There was no response by 7:15. In fact, my text had not even been read.

OH NO! The Pony always answers my texts. Could something be wrong? I tried to keep my mind off the murder shows I watch every morning. Surely a visiting stranger would not do harm to my little Pony! 

Maybe The Pony's phone went dead after the trip to the city. Maybe it was on the charger, and The Pony didn't hear it. I doubt they were out in the car, sight-seeing. Because it was almost dark now. I really shouldn't bother The Pony, what with a guest being there... BUT WHAT IF THE GUEST WAS A MURDERER??? I was pretty sure everything was fine. But if I waited, they would miss the fireworks.

I called The Pony.

"Hello...?"

"I don't want to bother you, but I saw you didn't read my text."

"Oh. I didn't even hear my phone."

"Just wanted to say, there will be fireworks on Main Street at 9:00, if you want to watch from your porch."

"Maybe. I didn't know."

"Okay. That's it. I'll let you go. Don't want to bother you with company."

That's not so wrong, is it? I know it seems intrusive, but I didn't want The Pony to miss fireworks. Or be lying there murdered...

The Whirring Of Helicopter Blades Is Missing

Since The Pony returned home from college in Norman, Oklahoma several years ago, my parental helicopter has been up on blocks. Sadly, you never know when you might need it. I wish it had been properly maintained for such imagined emergencies!

It is 3:28 p.m. on Saturday as I type this. I am yearning for that helicopter! But let's not get ahead of ourselves...

The Pony told me on Thursday, our errand/shopping day, that a friend was coming for a visit. A friend not from college, but met online several years ago in a writing group. That didn't worry me a bit. Well. Maybe a tiny bit. But unless this friend writes murder mysteries, it's probably a safe demographic for an online friend. The friend was visiting a relative in another state, and would then take Amtrak to St. Louis, where The Pony would pick up the friend, and they would drive back to The Pony's house.

The Pony had made plans for local sight-seeing. Had cleaned up the house. The spare bedroom (with the dead lady's bed) was all ready, as well as the second bathroom that is connected. St. Louis is about a 60-minute drive from Sis-Town, where The Pony lives. Depends on which area you're going to. The Pony had consulted my estranged BFF Google, and said it was an hour and five minutes. The Pony would be leaving at 1:30. The train was supposed to arrive at 2:50.

I know The Pony can drive. But my fear of the highway is projected onto others. I even worry about Farmer H when he goes to the city, or very far away from Hillmomba. Anyhoo... I asked The Pony to send me a text upon arrival in the city, and once back home. You know. So my anxiety level could drop down a notch. The Pony agreed: 

"IF I remember."

Well. Now it's 3:36. The Pony should have arrived at the train station. The train should have arrived. The friend should have been picked up. 

I have heard NOTHING!

I am trying not to worry. No news COULD be good news. I've heard nothing bad, after all. So I will wait. Some more.

Around 6:00, I plan to send The Pony a text. And if there's no answer in a half hour or so, I will call. You know. Just to be sure.

A helicopter would really come in handy right about now...

A Sad Notification In Hillmomba

Farmer H called me around noon on Friday. That's rarely a good thing. Usually something has broken, and will cost money, or take up a lot of time. 

Also, I am suspicious that he was AT THE SENIOR CENTER, because I heard women talking in the background. He better NOT have been there, eating up Chicken and Dumplings, when I'd packed a lunch for him at his SUS2.5, and he had used FRIDAYS as an excuse not to get me a Reuben Sandwich a couple weeks ago!

Anyhoo... Farmer H had some sad news:

"If you don't see Copper Jack today, don't worry. Neighbors had him put down." [That in itself seems worrisome to me! But I guess it's the fact that his disappearance is no mystery.] 

"Did they put it on Facebook or something? How do you know?"

"One of the ladies at the Senior Center is good friends with Neighbor Gal, and said she wanted her to tell me."

"Well, that is very sad. I knew he was hurting, because he doesn't even come up on the porch for treats any more. And he could hardly get around. I thought it was from his back problem, like before, when he limped a few weeks and got better."

"She said he had cancer. I don't know where. But they didn't want him suffering, and had him put down."

"I just saw him yesterday, under the cedar tree, on my way up the driveway. I'll miss him. He's been over here for so long. It will really hurt little Jack. Now he has no one, with Pupsie AND Copper Jack gone."

"I know. We'll look for another one. The guys out here always said, 'That's Neighbor's dog, but he lives at Farmer H's house!'"

Copper Jack will be missed. At least he's not hurting anymore. He was a good dog, even though he was not ours.

A River Of Red After A Stabbing

Monday evening, Farmer H's supper was a "McRib" type of sandwich. Two, actually. I have some frozen pork patties shaped like a BBQ rib. The kind you get at McDonald's when they bring back the McRib for a "limited time only." I had some long "steak rolls" to make sandwiches with. All the taste of McDonald's, without the intestinal upset!

Anyhoo... I've included pictures of when I made my own fake rib, which I ate with some mashed potatoes. Kind of like a BBQ "rib" TV dinner, but without the corn, heh, heh. My picture will show you what the patty looked like, so you can understand the actions of Farmer H. More likely, you will understand what I'm talking about, but nobody will ever understand the actions of Farmer H!

I put the pressed-meat patties into the oven on a foil-covered pan, and added BBQ sauce to the top. It cooks up nicely in 14 minutes. Smells delicious. So Farmer H had two of these patties on the pan when he came to make his own sandwiches. I was slicing a Vidalia onion for him, and he had decided on a dill pickle spear on the side, rather than the flat sandwich pickles, because the sandwiches slide apart with both.

The roll looked like this:

I had everything set out, while I was last-minute slicing that onion. You know how they get hot if you let them sit, exposed to the air. They make sulfuric acid, I think! Anyhoo... all Farmer H needed to do was put his patties on his rolls. Easy peasy.

I glanced at what he was doing, and was horrified!

"You can't get it that way! You need to--"

Before I could finish, Farmer H had stabbed a rib patty in the middle with a fork, and was lifting it to his plated bun. Of course the rib patty bent at both ends, and all the BBQ sauce slopped off. At least it went onto the foiled pan. THEN Farmer H treated the second rib patty the same way, with the same result.

"Now all your sauce is gone. All you needed to do was slide a spatula under those patties, and set them on your bun. Or lay the bottom bun on top, put your fork under it, and flip it over."

"It's fine, HM. I'll get my sauce." Said Farmer H as he tried to scoop up the hot BBQ sauce with his fork, and put it on top of the rib patty.

Farmer H lives in a world without logic. A sloppy world.

Farmer H, The Keymaster

Let's face it. Mrs. HM will never have anything to call her own. She may have it in her possession, and THINK it belongs to her, but in reality, everything in her world is the property of Farmer H. At least in HIS mind.

I was minding my own beeswax at the kitchen table on Tuesday afternoon, scratching on my last crossword (turned out to be a loser), when Farmer H exploded through the kitchen door. I don't know why he does that. He can't just enter like a human being, but somehow yanks on the turny doorknob and pulls the door open with reverse-hurricane force. As I insolently informed him as he crossed the threshold: "Everything goes to Not-Heaven the minute you arrive!"

"I don't know why you say that."

"You about gave me a heart attack. I don't hear a thing, then the door explodes open."

"Huh. Do you know where your truck key is?"

"Probably."

"I need it."

"Well. I'll give up on finishing my LAST ticket, and look for the key."

"I don't need it right this second. I'm taking my medicine to the bathroom."

Farmer H was back in about 23 seconds. I had my key for SilverRedO on my regular key ring. It looks just like T-Hoe's key. They're both Chevys, you know. A long key with a black plastic cap.

"Here it is, with all my keys."

"Mine ain't workin' right. It goes in, and it turns, but it catches. I want to see if it's the key, or the ignition."

When Farmer H came back a few minutes later (my last crossword ticket was still not finished), he was fiddling with my key ring.

"You switched out your bad key for my good key, didn't you!"

"Not yet..."

"Make sure you put it in the exact same place on the ring. That's how I can tell which house key is the right one, since they look exactly the same. I don't want my hands full of groceries you didn't carry, trying to fiddle with the keys."

"There. I put it right back."

"So now I have a truck key that doesn't work."

"It works, HM. Just not every time. I'll take your key and get one made. So we'll have two good keys."

Sure. Maybe he could take T-Hoe to get an oil change, too. But I've been waiting six months at least for that. 

It's not that I ever plan to use my key for SilverRedO. Back when I was working, and had the boys here, we sometimes had an emergency that needed another vehicle. Like when the power went out, and we couldn't get the garage door open because both boys were too small to reach the pull cord that was over the top of our large SUV at the time. So we had to drive the truck at the time, my dad's old GMC that we bought from him, which was loaded with a pool filter and hoses. My (little) Pony rode in the middle, with hoses around his shoulders like a plow horse in a collar.

Anyhoo... if I need an extra vehicle these days, Farmer H will likely be in SilverRedO, and I'll have A-Cad at my disposal. A key on a separate ring.

It's just the idea that all of my "possessions" are fleeting. They belong to Farmer H.

Chef Pony Overcooks

The Pony had Chinese food for supper on Monday. And probably Tuesday as well. Perhaps longer! I got a text around 7:00.

"Made Chinese. Before/after, adding way too much rice I made."

"Chicken, garlic, water chestnuts."

"And then a ton of seasoning and sauces because. Sooooo much rice."

Looks like The Pony was using a packet of instant rice. I often use the frozen stir-fry kind of rice, but I've used this brand before. I like some color in my Chinese. Maybe some peas, broccoli, and baby corns. The Pony is not one who loves "vinchtables," though. 

I'm sure it was a tasty feast. In the very least, it was filling!