Mrs. HM Might Have Dodged A Winner

When I set out to buy my daily scratchers, I have a plan. I know where I'm going, and which tickets I want. Any deviation from my goal throws me off. Is The Universe telling me my plan was wrong? Is there something better waiting? Or is The Universe deliberately thwarting my chances to win?

Thursday, the plan was fine when we stopped for T-Hoe's gas at Casey's. I had given The Pony some ticket money, but The Pony said nothing stood out in the lottery display, and decided to wait for Country Mart's machines. I got my tickets, which later turned out to have a $30 winner.

At Country Mart, BOTH lottery machines were dark. NOT WORKING! So we went without tickets, and bought our groceries. I offered to go to the School-Turn Casey's before dropping off Pony, but after careful consideration, that idea was nixed. I had thought about stopping by myself, on the way home, and use their bathroom while there, but decided against it.

I sensed a bad omen as I approached the Gas Station Chicken Store. Traffic was so backed up at the light, I had to wait two light cycles before I could even make my left turn into the alley. That's never happened before. The parking lot didn't look all that crowded. Just a couple of trucks with work trailers attached, and a couple other cars. My rightful handicap space was available. But Fave's car was missing! AND it looked like Man Owner's truck was there.

Well. This is unusual for 4:45 on a Thursday. I took in the weekly tickets I give Fave, but in my pocket, unseen, in case she was truly not there. She wasn't. I'll tell you who WAS there: Man Owner on the second register, Woman Owner on the main register, and 8 MEXICANS lined up down the middle aisle.

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against Mexicans. I am just describing, as usual, the people I encounter who affect the smooth running of my life. They were obviously a work crew, all wearing jeans and white t-shirts and yellow vests. Kind of dusty. Sweaty. Each holding a bottle of soda and a snack. One was already checking out with Woman Owner. He was choosing a couple scratchers from the case.

Here's the thing. There was a bit of a language barrier. So the transaction was slower than a regular transaction. At least he was paying with cash, not having to try a card three times in their old-fashioned card-reader. Also, Man Owner is really slow. So I could imagine how it was going to go when he took the next customer.

NO WAY was I going to wait until my turn. I am not a hot-headed hurrier needing instant gratification. It's just not physically comfortable for me to stand for a long time. Not to mention, the GSCS makes me claustrophobic when it's full of people. So I left. I hate to do that, after having my parking space, and expending that knee energy to walk inside. But I could not wait.

I went over to 10Box to the machines. Where I got a few small winners, but nothing special. I wonder what magificent jackpot I might have missed! I called The Pony later to tell my tale of misfortune.

"So you're complaining about the Mexicans for doing what you do? Buying lottery?"

"YES! Nothing against them! They are obviously hard workers, happy to be getting a snack after a hard day before going home. But there were SO MANY of them! At least 15 or 20 minute's worth of transactions! Fave would have been faster by herself than those two Owners. But I've walked out on Fave, too, when it's crowded. Usually five people is my limit. I had no idea there were so many customers inside. I don't know where all the Mexicans fit in those two trucks. I hope they weren't riding in the trailers! I think there were probably lawnmowers and stuff in them."

At least I didn't lose my money or winners in the machines at Country Mart, because they were turned off. The best scenario, besides me getting a big winner at the GSCS, is that one of the Mexicans got a good winner. They are working for a living, you know, while Mrs. HM sits on her rumpus and complains...

Moochers Gonna Mooch

Beware when the Hillbilly family comes to town! Lock up your valuables and assorted and sundry items that might be lying around. They not safe! You have been warned!

At the closing for the sale of our upper 10 acres, the title company had a couple of jars sitting on the table. One held red and blue pens, and the other held peppermint Lifesaver candies, indivicually wrapped. The Pony and I were only a couple minutes behind Farmer H when we entered the conference room. Yet Farmer H already had two empty wrappers in front of him!

I know these items were set out for the taking. Hospitality, you know. And when we are the BUYERS at a closing, we get a little gift bag with advertising merch like magnets and notepads and such. They write it off their taxes, get free advertising, and the clients feel special. Like they've gotten something for nothing, although thousands of dollars have just changed hands.

Anyhoo... when Closer came in, she took three pens out of the jar, and shoved them across the table to us. I had already taken one red and one blue from the jar, because I like pens. But I sure did accept a third one! 

On Thursday, before I picked up The Pony for our errand day, I asked if he would bring his monthly house payment. 

"Actually, I will write it in the car. I don't have a pen."

"WHAT? Didn't you just get one on Tuesday, at the closing?"

"No! I put mine back in the jar. Because I was not a part of this transaction. Only there to help you. So I didn't DESERVE a pen!"

Huh. I hope The Pony wasn't switched at birth! How could The Pony NOT take a pen? A pen that was actually GIVEN by the closer running the closing? Something's fishy here. We are MOOCHERS, by cracky! Maybe The Pony was still getting over last week's under-the-weatherness...

Delicacy Is On The Tongue Of The Chower-Downer

Years ago, while attending graduate school in Springfield, (the future) Mrs. HM worked in an insurance salvage store part-time. It bought railroad cars full of stuff that businesses had declared a loss. We had everything from boots to lumber to bedspreads to toys to furniture. One big deal was the Winter in July sale, where we had winter coats out on the parking lot, hung up in semi trucks, for the shoppers to peruse. To steal a line from a country song, it was hot enough to make the devil sigh, working to hang coats in that heat.

Anyhoo... my boss, the owner, was a big bald man. He kind of looked like Mr. Clean, but without the pirate-y earring. He wasn't around all the time, but when he popped in, he would tell us stories about when he was a kid.

Owner grew up on a big farm, with a big family. They had to work all the time, raising cows and pigs and chickens and crops. His mom "didn't work," what with being so busy cooking all the time to feed that hungry family. Owner said they butchered their own livestock, and his mom was a good cook. But the very best meal, that he didn't get often, was SPAM! 

You know, SPAM, the canned meat that is popular in Hawaii, that was mainly used for U.S. military rations in WWII. Owner said he LOVED IT! That it was so different from the wholesome home-grown foods that he was used to. It was a real treat when his father brought home a couple of cans of SPAM.

Heh, heh. I found this entertaining, because the off-brand of SPAM, like Hydrox Cookies are to Oreos, was a canned meat product called TREET.

Wash Your Produce, People!

That's something I shouldn't have to tell you. Whether you get your fruits and vegetables from your own garden, a farmer's market, or the grocery store, it's common sense. Like washing your hands before eating. You never know what kind of vermin might have been lurking around your produce. So unless it's something like a banana that gets peeled, with the fruit having been hermetically sealed inside, wash your produce!

I was in Save A Lot on Monday. Had just cart/walked in, headed for their scratcher machine, when I heard it. A COUGH. A deep hacking cough. Over in the produce section. The lemons, oranges, and grapes specifically. A family of four (mom and three teenage kids) was standing around a cart, debating what to get. Again, THE COUGH. It was a boy (of course), not bothering to cover his mouth by elbow, hand, or shirt neck. Just spraying out to land on the produce!

Wash your produce, people!

I only bought a half-loaf of Nutty Oat Bread, and seven bananas. I even wiped my bananas with a damp paper towel when I got them home. And washed my hands, of course!

The Squirrels!

Too bad Alfred Hitchcock isn't around to make a sequel to The Birds. He could save on animal trainers and just film our porch for footage of THE SQUIRRELS. 

I don't know why Farmer H's buddy hasn't been out here hunting them. He could have enough to fill his freezer for the winter, just by taking the legal limit per day. I think that's 13, but I'm not sure. I guess maybe he has a real job, and can't be filling his idle hours to fill his larder.

These beasts grow bolder by the day. Saturday, one jumped from the porch rail to the WINDOW SCREEN at my right shoulder. Well. It would have been at my right shoulder, had I been sitting at HIPPIE at the kitchen table. Thankfully I was at the sink washing dishes. I might have had a heart attack. That couldn't be blamed on Farmer H!

That dang window squirrel went up the screen, then back down head first, then up again, making sure to cover every path imaginable across that 4 x 6 foot screen. There are several punctures in it, but no long cuts. I hate squirrels! I clapped, I yelled, I thumped on the wall so it could feel vibrations, but it paid me no mind.

On the side porch, the squirrels have knocked down several items this week. A see-through flat red apple that was part of a wind chime. A big ceramic thingy shaped like a hornet nest, with little colored lights embedded. I think that was made by my grandma, and given to The Pony, though I'm not sure why it was on the porch shelves. Also, Farmer H's BBQ tongs were on the porch, having been knocked off GassyG Jr. 

As I left for town, ranting about those squirrels, who were scattering down the porch posts, my poor little Jack looked sad. I assured him I was NOT talking to him. I know he's a GOOD BOY, and has never bothered the BBQ tongs. Without Pupsie around, I don't want Jack to be blamed for the squirrel shenanigans.

Farmer H's theory that the squirrels would be drawn away from the porch, to eat corn from the feeders The Hunter put in the woods, does not seem to be accurate.

The Giver Of Guilt

Mrs. HM is feeling guilty today, my friends. Guilty! Through no fault of her own! Guilty for losing on a $5 scratcher. That's not under her control, you know! It's the LOTTERY, for cryin' out loud! It's not like she can snap her fingers, or twitch her nose, and VOILA, a winner appears.

Friday I went in 10Box for crosswords and the new Tetris-themed tickets. The day was sunny, so I planned to get some out of each machine. With my recent rumpus/leg struggles, I took a cart from the corral to push inside.

A lady was scanning draw tickets at the right-side machine. She had her cart of groceries parked in front of the left-side machine. I do that, too, because of how the machines are arranged in a corner. I move it if somebody walks up looking like they want to buy lottery. I was not at all annoyed as I might have been with different circumstances. I had a cart/walker to lean on. The lady was polite.

"Oh. Do you want to use that machine?"

"I'm planning to use both of them, but you're fine. I brought in this cart to lean on, because me knees get sore when I stand. I'm okay."

"Here. Go ahead."

The Lady moved her cart over behind her, as I do when at the right-side machine. I went to the left-side machine, and scanned in my winners. We had a pleasant conversation about the new ticket. And how you have to watch those machines, because they will scan in to show how much you won, but they don't always give you the credit when you tap the screen. So you have to scan again.

I got two crosswords and two Tetris. Then moved my cart around to be out of the way, and wait for The Lady to finish at the right-side machine. She did, and moved to the left. We made our purchases. As I was putting the tickets in my purse, The Lady turned. She held out a $5 bill.

"Here. Buy yourself a winner!"

"Oh. Well. You don't have to do that!"

"I want to!"

"Thank you so much! I'll give it a try."

I felt bad. I don't need her $5. But she wanted to give it to me. It made her feel good. Who am I to ruin her happiness? So I bought a $5 ticket that I hadn't planned on.

It lost.

That's not my fault, right? I shouldn't feel guilty. But I wish I could have gotten The Lady some return for her do-gooder-ness.

Helping And Not-Helping The Handicapped

On Thursday, without The Pony as a helper for my errands, I eschewed the Country Mart visit, and went instead to the Save A Lot out by my bank. It's a smaller store. I was a bit shaky when I got there, due to an incident that will be shared on my not-so-secret blog.

Anyhoo... of all days, there was no cart in the cart corral at the end of the building. AND, there was a small pickup truck parked in my regular handicap space. No placard, no handicap plates. I had to park in the other one, giving me a longer walk. That was NOT helping my situation.

I thought about using my cane to walk to the main cart corral. It's out in front of this Save A Lot, on a sidewalk with a roof over it that runs along the mini-mall. Of course I don't like this set-up, because it's PAST the door, and I have to walk farther to get a cart. I went without the cane, because it's awkward to deal with having a cart. It wants to slide through the openings. I was starting to regret my cane decision by the time I got to the sidewalk. Yet on I hobbled. I was already halfway there.

A lady crossed over from the main parking lot, on her way to the cart corral. She backed one out of the line, turned around, and said, 

"Would you like a cart?"

"Yes. Thank you! That is so nice."

"You're quite welcome."

She saved me about 30 feet of walking to the carts, and 30 feet back to the entrance. It might not sound like much to a normal person, but it was very helpful to someone (ME) with sore knees.

THAT is how you help the handicapped!

Every Day Is Brand New For Farmer H

Sweet Gummi Mary! Can you believe it? It's only been two days since I last complained about Farmer H, and it's time to do it again! 

I had told Farmer H on Thursday morning that The Pony was probably not going with me for Errand Day, because of feeling sick. I also asked Farmer H if there was anything he wanted from the store. In addition, the night before, Farmer H had declared out of the blue:

"I think I'm going to get myself some drumsticks."

With him not being in a band, I immediately surmised that he was talking about the little ice cream cones sold in the freezer section in boxes.

"Oh. Well. I guess you'll have to get them for yourself, because I don't think they would hold up very well if I get them at Country Mart tomorrow."

Flash forward to Thursday afternoon at 4:22. I tried to call Farmer H, but only got voice mail. So I sent a text:

"Starting home with groceries on the back seat."

At 4:27, while driving, I got a return text:

"I paid Lowe's bill and at my locker doing some straightening up be by 530"

I couldn't read it, because I was driving home. When I had one foot out of T-Hoe in the garage, Farmer H called.

"I didn't know you were going shopping. You never told me that. Can't you leave it in the car until I get home?"

Well. A couple things I could leave in the car. But not bananas and lemons and bread, which would get all hot and steamy if I left them in the garage for 90 minutes, which would shorten their shelf life.

Funny how Farmer H had NO IDEA that I do shopping EVERY Thursday...

The Loneliness Of The Post-Rumpus/Leg Shopper

It's Errand Day, and Mrs. HM is without her shadow. Without The Pony, who has been accompanying me for the past two weeks as I recover from my mysterious couch injury of my left rumpus/leg. The problem is almost completely resolved now, but occasionally, a knee goes all wonky without notice. I think it's from favoring that injury with different posture.

Anyhoo... The Pony has been riding along, and running back to T-Hoe to put the gas in after I pay, so I don't feel the need to rush. I'd been taking my cane for that longish walk, but was planning to go without it today. Also, The Pony had been bringing out a cart at Country Mart if one was not left outside by the handicap spaces. 

I got a text at 5:30 a.m.

 

"I'm about to go back to bed, but it feels like I might be getting sick. Sore throat starting i think. Will let you know later once I'm up - I just don't want to spread anything to you!"

When I hadn't heard anything by 11:30, I called The Pony. Who sounded a bit nasally and cloggy. I knew right away I would not have my faithful companion for Errand Day.

Better safe than sorry. I don't need anything else wrong with me! The cane will remain.

He Had ONE Not-Job To Do!

As I've mentioned, we've been trying to eat out of FRIG II's freezer for a couple weeks. To get rid of partial packages of stuff, and leftovers, so the shelves will be bare, and we can start over in a more organized fashion. There are several portions of hamburger that will make pasta for Farmer H, and tacos. A big space-taker is a ham bone, and several baggies of diced ham, that are destined for a pot of beans. I'm waiting on the weather to cool a bit for that.

Sunday, I baked some boneless skinless chicken breasts with a use-by date of August. And the Sister Schubert's Rolls, and thawed out a container of roasted vegetables. Monday, I warmed them up again for Farmer H's supper. He didn't have to do anything for himself, except come to the kitchen and put it on a plate.

I had the chicken in the oven, and for the last five minutes of warming, I put in the rolls. Farmer H's plate was on the cutting block, with a paper towel, fork, knife for chicken-cutting, knife for butter. The vegetables were on the back burner in a saucepan. I called Farmer H to the kitchen, and said I was going to change out of my town clothes. I set out the chicken and rolls on top of the stove, over the two left-side burners.

"There's the vegetables, and here's a spoon. That's the hot burner. Don't put the pan back on it."

When I started back to the kitchen after changing, Farmer H was on the long couch with his food. I could really smell the roasted vegetables. Huh. They hadn't smelled that much when I was warming them. I stepped into the kitchen, and saw the explanation.

THE PAN WAS ON THE HOT BURNER!

Of course the residue in the bottom of the pan, and the tiny remnants of onions, carrots, and potatoes were at that very moment charring to the metal as the lid held in the heat.

"You had ONE simple instruction, and you couldn't even follow that!"

"I did too! I heard you say to put the lid back on the pan."

It's not like this is the first time I have told Farmer H not to put a pan back on the hot burner. And it's not the first time he has done so anyway. 

Maybe I should start telling Farmer H the OPPOSITE of what I want him to do...

Maybe A Lesson Learned At 10Box

School is back in session, you know. Which means I really need to get to town earlier, to avoid other people's kids. My regular cashiers at the Gas Station Chicken Store start their shift at 2:00. So that's a good target time, allowing me to miss the after-school rush, buses on the road, and the bus-waiters down by Mailbox Row.

Unfortunately, I have not yet altered my schedule. I've been relying on Farmer H to be home when I come back with groceries. So I found myself at 10Box on Monday, shortly after 5:00. It was crawling with kids! I suppose people had just gotten off work, and picked them up at an afterschool program. 

Before I was out of T-Hoe, a man, woman, two girls, and a boy parked on my right and piled out of a sedan. They were in high spirits, skipping along the sidewalk. It's good to be reunited at the end of a long day. The kids were all under 7. They weren't BAD, just really loud and full of energy. I seemed to encounter them on every aisle. The came right at me on the bread aisle. Cart down the middle with the boy in the seat, a girl on each side. Dad lagging behind. I was waiting for them to veer to one side or the other so I could get by. Just when the dad started pushing the cart, the mom told a girl to get out of the way, and then STEPPED RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME to grab a jar of peanut butter. 

It's really hard for me to stop once I get moving. I had to pull my cart back to avoid hitting the mom. She stood there, made her choice, and then said, "Oh, sorry." Well. That's nice enough, but I'm pretty sure my annoyance was obvious.

Another group of high-spirited young 'uns had also entered the store right ahead of me. A mom and three daughters around 8-11. They got out of a large white SUV out in the main part of the parking lot. I know, because they were quite loud and boisterous. So I had looked that way while getting a cart/walker to push inside. I didn't want to be ahead of them, lest a rambunctious youngster topple me over.

I could hear this group throughout the store, but didn't see them again until the checkout. They were in another lane. It's a wonder that mom had any ears left, because those daughters were talking them off. Talking over each other. It was chaos. Even though they were really doing nothing wrong, it annoyed me.

I was at the lottery machine when the mom came back in with a tale of woe. She didn't have her keys.

"When we got here, we all got out, and I guess she (pointed to middle daughter) clicked the button and closed the door before I could reach back in and get my keys. Now I don't know what to do."

She had the new old lady wastebasket emptier, who wasn't about to do anything. She asked my checker what they should do. My checker called for a manager. Who asked if the mom had a type of door lock inside that could be grabbed with a bent coat hanger. She said she thought so. But asked if they could call somebody for her. I don't know why she couldn't call for herself, unless her phone was also in the car.

The manager and my checker said they COULD try to call the police, but it was unlikely that they would take the time to come try to break into a car, and they didn't want to bother them. But they got a coat hanger and gave it to the mom.

When I left the store, I could see that it was still chaos. Two of the girls were sitting on the hood of the large SUV, and the other was walking around on the running board. The mom was trying to use the coat hanger. Lucky for her, a man got out of a car, and while walking by asked if they had everything under control. NO! There was no control at all!!! He went over and took the coat hanger as I was loading my groceries.

People need to teach their kids how to behave in a store. Neither of these families were setting a good example. Maybe Lost Keys will think twice about controlling her brood next time. But from their actions while waiting to get unlocked, I don't think that will happen.

Yes, I DO Think She's Lucky

You know that Mrs. HM has a favorite cashier where she buys her scratchers. Even though I go there every day, I seem to have more winners from Fave than from the other cashier at the Gas Station Chicken Store. Saturday, I cashed in a $50 winner on a $5 ticket.

"I hit the Instant $50 symbol. Not sure which of your two rolls it was from."

"Oh! Another lady was just in here, and she had an Instant $50 winner on it, too. I don't know if she bought it here, though."

"That's okay. I wasn't going to buy another one of those tickets today, anyway, after just winning on it."

"That lady was really happy to win $50. She cashed it in and got that newest $50 ticket there (pointed to the ticket case) and won $500 on it! She had me scan it to make sure. I said, 'It's a $500 winner, but I can't cash it for you. I can only go up to $300.' Still, she was really happy."

I did okay. Got two $5 crosswords, and a $5 red ticket that Genius won his $1000 on. I won back $25. Not great, but not bad. Now I have to wait until Thursday when Fave is back on duty. 

Oh, I'll still be buying my scratchers. I just won't be so optimistic about winning.

Hindering The Handicapped

After waiting on the cockeyed-parking ne'er-do-well handicap space usurper to vacate my rightful parking place, I did my business in the Gas Station Chicken Store. I walked without my cane. Felt okay in the rumpus/leg department. Still improving with baby steps. Or maybe it's the result of four ibuprofen and three acetaminophen per day.

Anyhoo... I went from there to the Liquor Store. The plan was for Casey's, but the gas pumps were full of customers, and most of the parking spaces taken. I didn't even drive onto their parking lot, figuring I couldn't stand long in line. But the Liquor Store only had three cars, and a line at the drive-thru. They have a separate clerk for that.

I've already made one sortie to the Liquor Store for scratchers, without using my cane. (I have not done so yet at Casey's.) I started in, walking along the building, where I could touch it for support if I lost my balance on the slanted pavement. I got up the ramp, into the door. It always announces my presence with:

"FRONT DOOR OPEN!"

I took three of my baby steps. I was only three more steps from the counter.

Around the end of the aisle, over by the fake slot machines, came a Tasmanian Devil. She was about 10 years younger than me. Should have had gray hair, but it was coal black. Kind of teased up, like a short '60s beehive. She was in shorts and a tank top. CARRYING 9 BOTTLES OF WINE! I know that, because she darted in front of me, and I had plenty of time to count it while I waited.

Here's the thing. Tas could see I was headed to the register. She could also see that I was limpy and slow. That's why she almost ran to get to the counter ahead of me.

Let the record show that I don't expect special treatment. It's my choice to go into a store, and whether I use a cane or not. Nobody has to hold doors for me, or offer to let me go ahead. In fact, on Thursday a lady tried to let me go ahead in the Sis-Town Casey's, when I was using my cane. I told her no, that she had been in line ahead of me, and I was fine. I also told that to the lady after her, because I couldn't see around the aisle, and suspected she might have also been there before I came in. So I'm NOT asking for or expecting favors.

I DO expect fairness! Which I don't think encompasses running to beat somebody to the counter. If we had both been equally-abled in our mobility, and in a dead heat to reach that finish line, I would have motioned Tas ahead, because she was CARRYING 9 BOTTLES OF WINE. But the fact is, I was struggling to walk unaided, and she was in a hurry to drink. IMO.

There's nothing good to lean on in the Liquor Store. At least in the GSCS, there's always a stack of beer cases across from the register, holding the cardboard box for the weekly gas drawing. In the Liquor Store, there are only flimsy wire racks, holding bottles of assorted alcohol. I stood, swaying a bit, trying for my cartilage-less leg bones to balance their rounded ends, and not lock up or slip out of place.

Tas apologized to the clerk for carrying her 9 BOTTLES OF WINE in a black plastic milk crate. "It's all I saw back there. I should have gotten a box."

"That's okay. I'll put them in bags," he said.

Great. How long would THAT take? Was he going to offer to carry them out? That's HEAVY. And he only put them in single bags. An accident waiting to happen. I worried that Tas would make a sharp glassy mess in front of the door, and I would be trapped, standing, for too long. But wait. She wasn't done. She needed three packs of cigarettes that were on the bottom shelf. And two lottery tickets.

Tas picked up those bags like a sturdy Sherpa, and hot-footed it out of there.

I made my knees cooperate, and inched to the counter where I could lean and take some pressure off. My transaction went quickly. I had to use the brick wall for assistance on the way back to T-Hoe. I wished I had brought my cane. The wait would probably have been shorter in Casey's.

I Swear, There's One Born Every Minute

Even if the law enforcement officers who enforce the law in Hillmoma went on a round-up spree and locked away every ne'er-do-well to ever park in a handicap space without reason...there would still be people parking in Mrs. HM's rightful handicap space. It's generational, I think. Those parents must have been begetting huge broods of children 35-45 years ago, and teaching them this entitled behavior.

Saturday, I drove onto the parking lot of the Gas Station Chicken Store, and saw only three cars there. It was Fave, the cashier's car, parked out by the front. Then a car at the FREE AIR hose with a lady airing up her tires. And a maroon small SUV parked nose-in IN MY RIGHTFUL HANDICAP SPACE!

You know from my plethora of pictures of the parking space violators that there are only those two spaces along the building. FREE AIR, and HANDICAP. End to end. The lines clearly show the outline. There is no angle parking. I have no idea why somebody would park nose to the building, at a 45 degree angle. They still used up the whole handicap space. There was no room for me to park like an angled idiot beside that maroon SUV.

As you might imagine, Mrs HM was mighty perturbed with this Maroon. Since nobody else was on the lot, I decided to wait in line for my handicap space. I've got a bad rumpus/leg, you know! And only the day before, I'd made my walk inside the GSCS without my cane! So proud! No way was I going to park farther away. I could wait this time.

I sat with T-Hoe running, my handicap placard dangling in full view from the mirror. A man who looked like a younger Geoffrey Zacharian (the Food Network chef) came out with a cup of coffee. Did not even look my way. He got into the driver's seat. Then opened the door and held that cup of coffee out, wiping it with a brown napkin. 

Heh, heh! Is it wrong of me to find pleasure in that action? First of all, he had to fill his own coffee cup at the GSCS. They only have white napkins there. So not only was this guy a bad parker, but also a bad cup filler, and somebody who has fast food napkins in his car because he's messy!

Maroon finally started up. Backed away from the building. Then squeezed right past me on the left, where there was barely room. He turned to go through the gas pump lanes, but didn't stop for gas. He seemed oblivious to the ire that was emanating from Mrs. HM. Ain't that always how it goes?

Mrs. HM Babies Her Own Rumpus To Spite Her Scratcher Addiction

I am still recovering from my sharp shooting rumpus/leg pain that occurred mysteriously a couple weeks ago. It's a smidgen better every day, but I'm taking no chances on aggravating that nerve again. I have been using my cane to access the Gas Station Chicken Store, and making sure there's a cart/walker within a few feet of T-Hoe when I go in a store.

Anyhoo... a few days ago, I went to town with the plan of cashing in my winners at the GSCS, then heading over to 10Box for bananas and some more scratchers from the machine.

The GSCS was surprisingly busy for that off-time between 4:20 and 5:00. Usually the workers who get off at 4:00 have already done their business, and the 4:30 quitting-time workers are not yet there. The gas pumps had four cars, plus a truck over at the diesel pumps, and a couple of cars on the upper lot past the door. I could have waited for some to leave, except

A TRUCK WAS IN MY RIGHTFUL HANDICAP SPACE!

It was a white work truck, with a guy in a yellow safety vest sitting in the driver's seat. I gave him the stinkeye as I drove past, off the lot, and over to 10Box. I don't know if he was waiting to go in, waiting for a passenger, or if he'd just come out. But he was sitting in the truck, not making any movements that could lead to leaving.

Normally, I might have pulled into the FREE AIR hose space, nose-to-nose with his truck, my handicap placard swinging, and hobbled on past him, hoping to induce guilt. Not this time. My rumpus/leg was having none of that. Not with a CANE, though it would have helped with the guilt trip. Maybe.

Anyhoo... I just went to 10Box, and didn't even feel like going back to the GSCS when I came out. I did not have a good scratching day. Won $30, but I had cashed in more.

I guess I taught myself a lesson about changing plans. But my rumpus/leg thanked me.

If She Was On A Milk Carton, She Would Chew It Up

I am concerned about Pupsie. She is missing. Without Jack. That is suspicious. 

The dogs are usually together, except when Jack chases a squirrel to the woods, and Pupsie comes back to the porch for a treat. Even then, she goes to fetch him before coming to the kitchen door. Apparently she thinks I have mad capture skillz and can wrestle her to the ground like a calf roper.

Anyhoo... it's been almost a week! My days are all mixed up because of my rumpus/leg pain. I can't remember the days I went to town and stayed home. But it was a day that Farmer H went to his SUS2.5. So Friday/Saturday/Sunday. When I left for town that day, only Jack was there. Same when I came home. I asked Farmer H if he'd seen her. He said before he left for his SUS2.5, both dogs were here. But around 10:00, I had only heard Jack barking in the front yard, and not Pupsie's shrill bark.

I have not seen or heard Pupsie since. Nobody in our enclave has put her picture on Facebook. You'd think if she was hanging around at somebody else's house, they would be quick to complain. I can't imagine Pupsie running away to choose a new family. Not even if they had fresh, unchewed lawnmower seats, never-ending poop boxes on their front porch, or tasty plastic children's toys in the yard. She always brings stuff like that home, except for the lawnmowers.

Nor do I suspect that somebody has dognapped Pupsie. She won't even get close to US. She's a regular contortionist when it comes to shying away from the hand that feeds her.

I'm sad that Pupsie is missing. Not despondent. It's not like when problematic Scarlett was given away without 24 hours notice! Scarlett was a pet, even though she didn't ADORE me. She was happy and pettable. I am fond of Pupsie, but she's more of a freeloader permanent stray than a pet. She always seems happy, wagging her tail, dancing just out of reach. 

I am holding out hope that she will return. But I fear that she has come to no good end.

Freedom Restricted, Once Again

I planned Tuesday around my trip to town. With school starting, I wanted to leave during a specific window, to avoid the bus-waiters right after dismissal, and get out before the setting sun was low enough to blind me.

I was really proud of myself, running right on schedule, with actually 10 extra minutes of nap time before my shower. But wait! As I was heading into the master bathroom, I heard thunder! The sky had darkened! I went to the living room to see if any channels had a radar map in the corner of the screen, or any warnings scrolling across the bottom. Nope. At least not in the 30 seconds I was allowed to look, because THE SATELLITE WENT OFF!

That's generally not a good sign, you know. Rarely it's just cloud cover between the Mansion and the orbiting satellite. Usually it means heavy rain or snow. We all know that snow wasn't the culprit in these 98-degree days.

When I got out of the shower (after three scares from flickering lights), I heard rain. The satellite was still off. I called Farmer H to see where he was. Getting gas over by the Devil's Playground. I asked him to bring me some scratchers, because I didn't think going to town was a good idea. What if the rubber stopper on the end of my cane SLIPPED on the floor of the Gas Station Chicken Store? Better safe than sorry.

I asked for my crosswords, and a $10 ticket, either gold or silver. Those are the ones that are newest. Farmer H said he'd get them at Casey's on his way home, which is the other store I'd been planning on getting tickets.

The weather cleared off right after Farmer H got home. I said I might have been able to go anyway, if I had known the rain would stop. Farmer H said it had poured when he was getting gas, and then the tickets. He had called The Pony, who said there was not a drop of rain at his house.

Farmer H was playing around on his phone, and said that a drive-in theater had been destroyed by straight-line wins, in a town over past Newmentia. It's 20 miles from here. Where Farmer H sometimes goes to the auction.

I'm glad I didn't go to town. My crosswords won nothing, but the silver ten that Farmer H brought me won $30.

The Functioning Idiot

I don't like to call Farmer H names, unless it's in jest, in an over-the-top exaggeration (as opposed to an insufficient exaggeration). He knows a lot of technical stuff that I can't fathom. But when it comes to common sense, Farmer H is sorely lacking. I often question how he has survived into elderlyhood, with some of the antics I've observed.

Tuesday morning, Farmer H started down to the basement at 6:00 a.m.

"While you're down there, would you bring up my old red Crocs? They're in my office. Just knock the dust off of them."

Farmer H did as asked. There's a small victory! Baby steps.

"You can set them anywhere. I'm going to wash them in the sink. The ones I have on have been hurting my heels."

There's my mistake. I should never have told Farmer H to put them "anywhere." I thought he would set them behind the short couch, where my other shoes are. But no.

Farmer H put my old red Crocs by the glass case that holds my grandma's two sets of dishes she gave me. The red depression glass, and the china. That case is at the end of the piano in the hall that leads to the boys' bathroom. At the area where the living room turns into the kitchen. There's nothing there for me to hold onto to balance myself while leaning over precariously to pick them up. Or even to step into them, if I hadn't been planning to wash them.

"Um. That's not a good place. I don't want to fall into that glass and break it. Maybe you could set them in the kitchen, by the wastebasket."

Farmer H went off to the kitchen. I didn't turn to watch. After he'd left, and I was ready to go take my meds and wash dishes (BEFORE the Crocs, of course!) I saw where Farmer H had put them.

ON THE CUTTING BLOCK!

That's right. Filthy Crocs that had been in the basement for three years, soles black, dust bunnies attached, sitting on the paper towel I use to dry my hands, on the cutting block.

Farmer H is a functioning idiot. That's all I have to say.

So THAT'S Where My Luck Went!

I was riding a winning lottery wave at the time I mysteriously injured my rumpus/leg while sitting on the short couch. Not wild jackpots, but I had two days in a row with $100 winners, and also two days in a row (one overlapping) with $50 winners. That stopped when I took several days off. I haven't been shut out, but my wins are on the low side of my usual return percentage.

August 6 was the day of my unfortunate incapacitation. The start of my not-winning streak. Even when I ventured back to town, my scratchers were not producing much. On August 13, I got a text from Genius. You may recall that he just bought his dream home, and had a month to get moved while waiting for his apartment lease to end. During the transition, Genius and Friend moved a few items at a time, every night after work.

I had asked if Genius was getting his mail okay at the new address, and he said he was.

"I've read your letters, but there's a stack of lottery tickets here on the kitchen counter. We don't have any coins to scratch them! We don't carry money, and the coins are back at the apartment."

Anyhoo... on August 13, I got a text from Genius:

"Holy cow! Won $1000 on a lottery ticket this morning! It's labeled CH. It's one of the 50X. Not sure exactly when it's from. I was 4 weeks back on these from when we moved."

"That's from the Gas Station Chicken Store. Those red tickets, that Dad bought the $1000 winner from that guy at his store. And Dad's friend won $100 on it twice, and then I won $100 on it. Congrats!"

"I'll get these mailed back soon! Haha. I actually went 3/4 on the tickets this morning. Won a total of $1015 on the four tickets."

So that kind of explains it. My luck is in Pittsburgh! I was fortunate to have my moderate winning streak, what with this big winner lying on a kitchen counter in Pittsburgh!

Farmer H's Rumpus Must Be Breathing A Sigh Of Relief

Hopefully, Farmer H's rumpus has one less check to cash. You may recall when he got a bit mouthy about the "nuisance" notice he got from Sis-Town about the state of The Pony's yard, and trees growing in the gutter. Farmer H had a phone "discussion" with the guy from the city who wrote the nuisance letter. And went to city hall and asked to speak to someone in the street department, and was turned away. Then he left a message for his councilman to call him back, with no response.

Well. Farmer H tricked the mayor!

The regular monthly meeting for the city was last week. Farmer H presented his report on the apartments for the elderlies, including his lock box plan. The rest of the meeting continued. The mayor spoke last. As she closed the meeting, Farmer H said, 

"Do you have a minute so I can ask a question?"

She said of course. So Farmer H said it was about his property over on Pony Street, and the nuisance letter he had received from the city.

"I ended up mowing the yard that same afternoon that he wrote the letter. I don't have no problem about the weeds out front between the sidewalk and the road. I cut them as soon as I got the letter. My problem is with them trees growing in the gutter. He said I'm supposed to clear them out. I'm not going to cut those trees out of the gutter."

There were murmurs from the "crowd" of other city officials."

"You shouldn't have to do that."

"That's not your job to maintain."

"I talked to the guy who wrote the letter. He said he would talk to the street department and see. I never heard anything back from him, even though I called him. I went to city hall, and they said I should go out to the street department myself to talk to them. I also called my city councilman, and never got a response."

The mayor said that this guy HAD been out writing nuisance letters, so Farmer H wasn't the only person who got one. But the mayor also said that removing those trees in the gutter should not be Farmer H's responsibility. That she would drive by and have a look.

Whether she did or not is unknown. We'll see if Farmer H gets another letter. He is quite proud of himself for his cunning.

"I knew if I asked her right there in front of everybody, she'd have to listen to me, or look like a jerk. And when them other people said I shouldn't have to cut those trees, she agreed with them. Maybe I'll get an answer now."

Mrs. HM, The Scavenger

When I parked in my rightful handicap space at the Gas Station Chicken Store on Friday, I saw a scratcher on the pavement beside T-Hoe. It was face-down, and looked like a big one. My eyes weren't good enough to see the gray denomination number that's on the back. I was guessing it could have been a $20, $30, or $50. People don't just drop these tickets. They toss them out when they're losers!

Anyhoo... with my back/rumpus in recovery from the shooting pain, I had no intention of bending over to get it. In fact, a man was walking past me from the FREE AIR hose, and I pulled T-Hoe's door closed to let him pass. He stepped right over that ticket.

When I came back out after my purchase, that ticket was still there. So I balanced precariously with my cane, and picked it up. As I expected, it was already scratched. But the bar code had NOT been uncovered. It was a $50 ticket. So I scratched off the barcode, and entered it into my MOLOTTERY app.

As I've said before, I don't often enter my ticket points, because there haven't been any good prizes to buy with them for many years. Now all we can get are obscure gift cards, or a coupon for a ticket. Since I don't have a working printer, and the clerks don't seem to know how to scan it off a phone (from when I've seen other people ask), it's not worth the time for me. The app is time-consuming, and awkward to move around in. I use it to scan and make sure I don't miss a winner, but you have to do it all over again to enter the points.

Anyhoo... I DO scan in points for special drawings, like the one they have monthly for the "big" tickets like the $50s and $30s. I occasionally buy a $30, and The Pony likes the $50s. That's how "we" won $300 in a drawing last year.

I like to think of my act of scavengery as being selfless. I was picking up litter, you know!

Here We Go Again, With The Tickmonger Deigning To Take Responsibility

I made it to town for errand day, an abbreviated outing to baby my rumpus/leg nerve. The Pony rode along with me to the bank, and pumped my gas after I paid, so that I didn't have to rush back across the parking lot before the pump shut off. I took my cane, and felt better than I expected. 

During this outing, I kept feeling an itch on my left side. It was about midway down my ribs, a little past the midline, towards my back. It was in a convenient spot for my thumb to reach and scratch. Watching TV later that night, while Farmer H was downstairs in my Old People Chair, watching a different show, I pulled up my shirt and sweatshirt to get a good scratch, nail to skin. I couldn't see that area, but I felt something. Something I didn't want to feel. Something flippy.

It was a tick. I got a grip on it, with my thumbnail and finger. Ripped it out of my flesh, and smashed it, then mummified its remains in a Puffs With Lotion. 

Dang Farmer H! When he came upstairs to watch the next show with me, I informed him of my attack by a parasite he has once again brought into the Mansion.

"I don't know why you always blame ME. You get 'em from the dogs. That's where I get 'em. It's not my fault."

"Seriously? I walk from the house to the porch to the garage. I never step on grass. I've only been to town a few days this week. I only pet Jack, for about a minute when I leave, and a minute when I come home. I don't hold him. Just a hand on his head and chest. But YOU are out on that mower for hours. You walk around the pool messing with the filter. You walk around the trailer, loading the mower for town, where you MOW MORE GRASS! You go out in the yard to pick up Pupsie's trash. But I'M the one bringing it ticks???

I probably got it from the bed. That's the side I lie on. My left side. You don't even take a shower at night anymore. Your shoes sit right there in front of the recliner. You brought me my phone from my jacket one day when you had just come in. And you carried my jacket to the kitchen for me another day. My jacket never goes outside anywhere around the dogs. AND you said you've had several ticks this summer."

"You're full of it. It's not MY fault. I just got one off my leg yesterday."

Farmer H was doing nothing to prove his innocence! His statements could be used to prove MY case! In fact, in the wee hours before he woke up the next morning, I found ANOTHER tick! It was on my left arm, inner elbow. I could see this one, and dispatched of it the same way. They were both small, maybe half the size of a pinhead. Both on my left side.

Clearly, these parasites were introduced to the inner Mansion by Farmer H. They either went from the sheets to my jacket when I laid down for my nap, or from Farmer H to my jacket when he touched it, twice. I don't think the ticks migrated across the carpet and climbed the couch. I think they were on my jacket, and finally worked their way to my flesh. 

That river in Egypt is Farmer H's favorite body of water... There's nothing to be done about it after the fact, but Farmer H could at least take responsibility for bringing the ticks into the Mansion.

Evidence Of More Pupsing

I don't think I revealed the latest antics of Pupsie. Not because there were more interesting things to share. We all know that not much happens around here. More like it's a subject I don't like re-living. If I already told this one, skip on down to the latest Pupsing...

Last week, Farmer H stepped out on the porch to take a pee. At least it was dark. Almost. He came back inside and put on his camouflage Crocs.

"What are you doing?"

"Going out in the yard to pick up what that stupid dog tore up now."

He came back with a trash bag containing small pieces of paper/cardboard. Said it had my name on a piece, and that it was a POOP BOX! Don't get me started. I did not order a poop box, I did not WANT a poop box, I tell that to my NP who I haven't seen since December, and I avoid answering the million calls I get from Humana. No poop box for Mrs. HM, ever since I did it and insurance didn't cover it and it cost me almost $700 out of pocket. PLUS I never even got my results. At least this one was a nice "present" for Pupsie. 

Funny how you can get a package delivered that you DIDN'T order, but not half of the packages you ACTUALLY order!

______________________________________________________________

Anyhoo... Farmer H stepped out on the front porch again Wednesday evening. 

"Look what that stupid dog has NOW!"

It WAS somebody's doll. Lest there's any question of the identity of the perpetrator, I direct your attention to Exhibit A during the evidentiary proceedings. She's right there in the photo! 

Farmer H brought it in, waving it around, but I think he threw it back out! I don't remember. I was preoccupied with the last half hour of the 90-minute Big Brother episode. If he did throw it out, rather than putting it in the trash, I guess he figures Pupsie will finish eating it, and not leave particles on the porch, sidewalk, or yard.

I caution you not to look at the bottom edge of the picture. NOOOO!!! I warned you! Nobody needs to see Farmer H's toes, despite his monthly pedicures.

HOW Has This Guy Survived Into Elderlyhood???

Despite my stabbing rumpus/leg pain, I made supper for Farmer H on Monday. It was burritos, and I took some shortcuts. Rather than standing at the stove frying hamburger, I used some fajita frozen chicken in the microwave. Still, I performed other tasks that were taxing with my mysterious injury.

I opened a can of refried beans to warm in a saucepan. I diced an onion, poured shredded lettuce and shredded cheddar from bags onto a plate. Set the salsa and sour cream on the cutting block, with a spoon for each. All Farmer H had to do was pick up a paper plate from the stack on the counter, get two large tortillas out of a bag beside the paper plates, and start building his burritos. 

I thought that would be easy enough for him, as I leaned on the counter, telling him where things were. You know, because he's apparently a stranger to this kitchen, and blind.

"You'll have to get a plate. And your tortillas out of the bag next to the plates. I hope your hands are clean!"

Farmer H declared that he had washed his hands when he came home, in the bathroom and not the kitchen. He picked up his plate, and opened the microwave.

"I don't know what you're looking for. Your chicken is right there on the stove. I already took it out."

"The tortillas." 

"Over there, where I told you!"

Farmer H stepped back to the other side of the stove, the direction of the paper plates, and picked up A BOX OF INSTANT OATMEAL PACKETS!

"What in the Not-Heaven are you doing? Does that look like tortillas? They wouldn't even fit in that box! They come in a BAG! Right there beside the paper plates!"

Again, Farmer H picked up that oatmeal box.

"NO! What is wrong with you? Look at the plates! Right there!"

"Oh."

Maybe I should have let him open up that box of oatmeal packets, and see if he tried to put his ingredients on them! It just shows how much I do for him that he takes for granted. I'm surprised he didn't starve to death while I was severely down in my rumpus for the previous five days.

Once Again, The Mail Makes Deadbeats Of The Hillbilly Family

I'm sure you won't be shocked to hear that Mrs. HM is past due on her bills again. Through no fault of her own, mind you! There is plenty of money in the coffers. We just sold a flip house(s), you know! Got all our investment back, and more. Nor is Mrs. HM a scofflaw who thinks she deserves something for nothing. When she gets a bill, she pays it. Usually that same day, or the next.

Saturday evening, Farmer H brought in the mail. That was August 9, you know. It included an oversized square envelope with the return address of our insurance company. Not the one we've had for over 30 years, but the newest one that we use for the Bargan House flip, and our Hillbilly Mansion, since Farmer H switched our coverage for our home in January. He said the old company's rate was too high, and our agent agreed, but said he couldn't change it, and was losing a lot of customers.

Anyhoo... we left all our cars insured with the old company, out of loyalty. And also The Pony's house and the Double Hovel flip house(s), though they were through separate companies associated with the old insurance, only for rental properties. Let the record show that we always paid our Mansion and Pony House annually. When Farmer H changed our policy to the new insurance, he put it on a 2-pay plan. He went to the agent's office and paid him with a check in January. I made a note of it in the checkbook register.

Back to Saturday evening, when I opened the insurance envelope, thinking it was the bill for the next six months.

IT WAS A CANCELLATION NOTICE!!!

That was quite a shock. Unsettling. Embarrassing. We pay our bills! IF we GET them! 

I do not contemplate paying a bill six months down the line. I have other things rattling around in my head. I figure I'll get a bill when I owe something. I'm not setting up autopay for a twice a year bill that is thousands of dollars. 

Anyhoo... the letter said that the payment had been due by July 31. And that unless payment was received, the policy would be cancelled on August 17. Thank the Gummi Mary, the mail had been on time with this cancellation notice, having been sent on August 6, arriving on August 9. Well. There's no way to pay that bill on a Saturday night. Or Sunday. But Monday morning, Farmer H was at the insurance office, with a check made out for the amount we paid on January 31.

I didn't know if that was the right amount, because sometimes there's a few cents difference, or there might have been a late fee because we missed the deadline. I told Farmer H that I doubted that would keep them from accepting our check, and that if it was more, he could just pay that portion from his pocketful of cash he uses when he finds a bargain.

The Agent is a young guy. He told Farmer H he'd been watching our account, and saw that it wasn't paid. He had thought of calling, but he didn't. I WISH HE HAD CALLED! Farmer H explained that we hadn't been getting much mail. Sometimes days without it. He is missing a package. And our separate financial statements that always come at the same time did not, with mine arriving five days before his this month.

The Agent said he understood, and took the check. Heh, heh! He probably ran right to the bank with it, lest we stop payment, or not have the funds. I wouldn't fault him for that. His living depends on a percentage of his policy payments.

Farmer H came home with the big envelope, but not the cancellation notice! Of course he got a chewing-out for that.

"It had all the policy and account numbers on it! How am I supposed to keep a record of this? What if it happens again? How am I going to find out the details?"

"He kept it! He attached our check to it. He give me that receipt."

"This receipt is the size of a Post-It Note! It just has the amount and his signature. No policy or account numbers or dates of coverage! I don't know why he needed that notice. He has all the numbers in his records."

"I don't know, but that's all he gave me."

I guess we're lucky that the policy didn't get cancelled on July 31. The way my luck has been going, the Mansion might have been struck by lightning on August 1.

A Bad Day At 10Box

Mrs. HM does most of her everyday shopping in 10Box. It's conveniently located in Hillmomba, the workers are really nice, they have most of what I want, and the produce isn't rotten. Even when the left-side lottery machine rips me off, I'm not TOO discouraged, because it's my own fault. I know that machine is glitchy.

Saturday was not a good day. Only my second day to venture out after my couch-injured rumpus started giving me shooting back/rumpus pain and a numb ankle/foot on Tuesday. I went in 10Box for a large bottle of acetaminophen tablets. While there, I got some cookies for Farmer H. No, it's not a plan to try to kill him. He will find sweets without my help.

Anyhoo... as I was cart/walking to the checkout, the newest checker was closing up her lane at the end, the one I prefer. She's an older lady, with a helmet of gray hair. Looks like she might have once been a professional bowler. She's all businesslike, and not nearly as friendly as the other checkers. The checker who always asks me about scratchers was going off duty. I had just seen her outside smoking, and now she was buying a big jug of sweet tea. Helmet Hair had already put her CLOSED sign on the conveyor, as well as having her light off. Of course she agreed to ring up the tea for her colleague.

Only one more lane was open, with the Young Guy with strawberry-blond hair. He's a pleasant fellow. I wheeled over there, and was second in line. A couple was buying what looked like a month's worth of groceries. Most was already at the end, with the skinny guy bagging it and putting it back in the cart.

This is when other people decided they had to check out RIGHT THEN. Behind me were two girls, maybe 21 or just under. They had one item in their hand. No cart. I only had three items, so I didn't feel a need to let them go ahead. They were young, on four good legs between them. One had out her phone. They were giggling. Talking about guys.

Those Gals kept getting closer to me. There was no need for that. People behind them had to curve down the main aisle anyway. I turned to give them the stinkeye, and Gal One put her phone down. Gal Two giggled. That made me suspicious. Were they FILMING ME? I don't know. Didn't think so, from their conversation. But they'd shut up when I turned around, and put the phone down. SO ANNOYING! Most people would catch on that such a look means to GIVE ME MY SPACE. Not Those Gals. I could have been holding one on my left hip like a toddler, she was so close. 

I was getting more steamed by the minute, because Those Gals wouldn't back off. So I quit turning around and fumed silently. The customers ahead of me had all their groceries rang up, bagged, and in the cart. The lady took out her phone. Oh, no. Here we go again. A Save A Lot replay. Maybe she was using her store coupons from the app. Or trying to pay. She made many attempts to do something with her phone. Then the skinny guy came around and used her phone. Then he took out HIS phone. Whatever they were trying to do didn't work. So he took out a card and paid.

While all this was going on, Hemet Hair was flitting around, watching, and BAGGING TRASH. Seriously? You see a bunch of customers backed up, nothing moving, and you can't leave that trash for 10 minutes to help Strawberry Blondie get caught up? Shame on you! She even caught my eye. Which was NOT a welcome glance in any way.

Finally I got my turn. It was quick. I got away from the giggle girls. Went to the right-side lottery machine. I'll be ding-dang-donged if Helmet Hair didn't come over there and hover. It looked like about five tickets in the wastebasket between the machines. I moved my cart/walker so she could get around, but she just hovered. Distracting me. I was scanning in winners to play on. I always wait to see the worth, and make sure I tap the selection for using it in the machine, and wait for it to show up in the total. 

Well. Helmet Hair shook her big trash bag, which she was using for dumping in the smaller bags. Leaving the bags in, just shaking out the trash. I scanned three tickets, and tossed them in the wastebasket. Helmet Hair said, "Excuse me, I'm just going to dump this wastebasket." She came around the end of my cart, dumped the trash, and went on looking for more trash.

When I turned to make my selections, I saw that my total was not what I expected. One of those tickets had scanned to show me the amount, but had not added it to my total! That happens sometimes on all the machines. I either did it too fast, or the screen didn't recognize that my finger was a living appendage. Normally, I would pick my tickets back up and scan them again, to find the right one and apply my winnings. But I couldn't, because my just-scanned tickets were in Helmet Hair's big trash bag. It was a $15 winner!

No way was I going to try finding that ticket. My rumpus was acting up. I just had to eat that loss. Of course I blame Helmet Hair, but if I had been feeling my normal self, I would not have been rushing, and would have had no qualms about making her wait to get my trash.

It was just a bad day at 10Box.

Another Attempt, I'm Pretty Sure

Farmer H grows craftier with each attempt to kill me. So many (possible) accidents, so little time (before I naturally kick the bucket).

I don't remember if it was here or elsewhere, but I revealed that Farmer H was stung by a wasp in POOLIO last week. It was right on the chest. He whined over it for a couple days. Kept picking at it, saying there was a stinger in it. I didn't feel or see a stinger. You know if there was, with all his picking, it would have squeezed more venom into him. Anyhoo... I guess it's better.

It was the day before, or day after the POOLIO sting that I told Farmer H there was a wasp nest over the kitchen door. It's a favorite place for them. I used to go on a killing spree every summer, then knock down the nest. With less mobility, I am loathe to write that check that my rumpus can't cash. I don't want to try running from angry wasps if my first RAID doesn't get them all. I have never had an allergic reaction to a wasp sting before, because I have never been stung by a wasp. But my dad was allergic, and had to carry an epi pen when he was a telephone lineman. That's back in the day when an epi pen wasn't really a thing.

Anyhoo... Farmer H supposedly sprayed that nest while I was in town. I cautioned him not to use too much, because it would drip down where the dogs lick the porch after a treat.

Indeed, when I got home, there were no wasps sitting on the nest, and the porch was dry. I didn't think anything else about it.

Today (Sunday) while sitting at HIPPIE at the kitchen table, I saw a wasp buzzing around the window. I had seen him yesterday as well, and meant to ask Farmer H if maybe he should spray again. Being preoccupied with my back/rumpus pain, it was not a high priority.

Anyhoo... as I was watching the wasp flit around, a chill went down my spine, stopping short at my rumpus nerve. The wasp was on the other side of the mini blinds, but on THIS SIDE of the wooden window pane trim. The flitting was INSIDE THE MANSION!

But wait! It gets worse! The wasp was on the window by the kitchen door. It would fly/crawl up so far, then get a wing caught on the blinds, and fall to the sill. Next thing I knew, I heard that bumping/buzzing/bumbling at my right shoulder. The wasp was at the window beside me, where I look out into POOLIO! It's pacing along the top of the bottom window. The part where the locks are.

I have contemplated using Farmer H's grabber from his back surgery to poke it to death. I fear that it might slip and break a hole in the window pane. Or that the wasp will not take kindly to my attempts, and come after me. Or what if I only wound it, and it falls into my gambling purse that hangs on the back of a chair. I think this is a job for Farmer H.

He must have "accidentally" let the wasp in this morning as he left for his SUS2.5. It was not in the Mansion yesterday.

Surely Farmer H is not crafty enough to make a wasp sting him in POOLIO, and then let one in the house a few days later, so if I succumb to a possible allergic reaction to a sting, he can tell investigators: "We've been having a wasp problem lately."

A Wanker And A Yanker

Mrs. HM has been homebound since Tuesday, with a sharp shooting pain in her rumpus when she walks. With around the clock alternating ibuprofen and acetaminophen, and walking bent over to assuage the agony, there has been limited improvement. Tears only a couple times a day.

Friday, I took a chance and ventured to town. The hardest part was getting from the Mansion into the garage. I took my casino cane out of A-Cad, just in case. In fact, I used it at the Gas Station Chicken Store. There was still pain, but I felt more secure, because my balance has been off from the leaning walk, making other muscles stiff.

Anyhoo... before I went to the Gas Station Chicken Store, I stopped by Save A Lot to get a couple giant baking potatoes to go with Farmer H's BBQ pulled pork supper. I also needed bananas. There's a scratcher machine just inside the door, too! 

My rightful handicap space was open! And there were two carts in the return corral next to it. I figured that was a good sign. As I slid out of T-Hoe, a lady came pushing a cart to the corral. 

"I'll take that, if you don't mind." 

"Sure." She even turned it around and put the handle where I could grab it.

The bread and produce are right up front. I don't like buying bananas there, but it's not as bad as the other store. I got the bananas, and buns, because the baking potatoes were smaller than a regular potato that comes in 5 and 10 pound bags! So I didn't get any. 

All I had to do was wheel my cart/walker to the closest checkout, the only one open. There was just one guy there, with something in his hand. Not even a cart. I got in line. That's where my luck ended.

The guy was in shorts, with a cap, kind of reminded me of Kid Rock, only in his 20s. He paid for his items. I think it was a 4-pack of something like Gatorade. A colored liquid in plastic bottles. Maybe something else, because his bill was just over $9. He handed the checker cash, and pocketed the change. Then he told the checker guy that he also needed three packs of something. It was behind the counter. Some kind of tobacco product. That bill was $11-something. 

Kid Rock got out a card and tapped all his info into the scanner. Meanwhile, the line was backing up. Guy Checker called a lady up front to check. She asked me if I wanted to move lanes, but I told her it was easier for me to wait. She said, "I totally understand how it's easier not to move!" The lady behind me with a full cart followed her. I SHOULD HAVE!

Checker Guy said, "For some reason, your card is declined."

Kid Rock stood there a minute. Fished around in his pockets. Then said, "Oh. I have it locked." More fishing in his pockets. Took out his phone. Seemed like he typed half of War and Peace in there. Tried again. Declined. Told Guy Checker he was sorry. More pocket-fishing. Tried another card. It worked.

By now I had been standing there about 10 minutes. My rumpus was angry about that. At least I had my cart/walker to lean on. In fact, as I started setting my bananas and buns on the conveyor, I asked Guy Checker...

"Can we just put this back in my cart?"

He said okay. I moved up, where Guy Checker could just reach them over the card-scanner area and set them back into the child seat of my cart/walker. I noticed Kid Rock stepping around the end. I thought he was picking up his items from the waiting cart there. But he took the whole cart! I don't know why. He hadn't brought one to the checkout.

With that, Guy Checker grabbed the end of my cart, with my purse still in the child seat, and yanked it around to park there. Then proceeded to put my bananas and buns into the BOTTOM SECTION. My rumpus was quite unhappy! First with the yank that threw me off balance, and then having to walk a few steps to grab onto the cart again. And also with having to bend over and lift up bananas to put back in the child seat. The whole point of using my cart was so I could keep leaning on it, and have my items right there with no bending.

Kid Rock and Guy Checker are dangerous to the elderlies! One due to poor planning, the other not understand the fragility and immobility of old people. At least the woman checker he called up knew exactly what was going on with me.

Maybe I've Been Watching Too Many Murder Shows

Tuesday night, I heard Farmer H's phone ring. I figured it was a resident of his old-people dwelling units with a complaint. I couldn't hear very well, being in the bathroom, seated upon the throne, the door closed and the automatic fan running that is built into the ceiling light. Farmer H talks pretty loud, though. I thought I heard him saying he didn't know, and that he didn't want to "worry HM with it." 

As you might imagine, something didn't seem right. Mainly that he didn't want to worry me! So when I came out, I asked about the call.

"It was this guy I used to work with, asking if I'd seen your cousin. I told him no, I don't see him since I retired. He said he'd been trying to call him for several days, and your cousin don't answer. He called the neighbors, and they ain't seen him either. They said they picked up his mail, because it was falling out of the box. I said maybe try to call his sister, because I wouldn't want to worry his mom right now."

Let the record show that this is my cousin, a few years younger than me, who bought my mom's house. He's lived there since 2016, first with his wife, now alone since they got divorced. His mom is my favorite gambling aunt, who is now in assisted living. The neighbors have been there since I was in high school. They came from Croatia, and have noticeable accents. The man is a carpenter, and the wife was friends with my mom. Their house is across the blacktop road. Both houses have rural mailboxes on my cousin's side of the road.

Of course I was worried.

"Has he been going to work?"

"Yeah. The last time my buddy saw him was leaving work on Friday."

"That's FRIDAY! How much mail could he get on Friday, Saturday, Monday, Tuesday? Maybe he hasn't been staying there. Maybe he has a girlfriend or something."

"Maybe. The mail might have been in bundles, like they do ours, and it was just full."

"That mailbox is way bigger than ours. Maybe he just doesn't pick up his mail. I hope nothing's wrong with him! Should somebody do a welfare check?"

"He asked me if I had a key to that house, but I said no. So he's trying to call his sister."

That's my cousin too, of course. His older sister. She's pretty efficient. Lives in the city, works at a bank. If anybody could solve this mystery, it would be her!

The next morning, Farmer H said he had a text from his buddy that my cousin had been found, and he was okay. Nothing more. Not where he was, or where he'd been. Not really my business, but I'm curious. Most of all, I'm relieved. 

My murder shows tell me nothing good comes of an overflowing mailbox and a person who hasn't been seen for four days...

Pupsie Minds Her Manners

WHAT is going on in Hillmomba lately? Are these signs of the Apopadopalyspe (as Farmer H calls it)? Has the earth tilted on its axis? Are Even Steven and The Universe conspiring to make this the Bizarro World? Not only did Farmer H eat leftovers for five days without complaint, but

PUPSIE WAITED HER TURN FOR A TREAT!!!

It defies Hillmomba logic, I tell you!

When I came back from town last week, I stood at the kitchen door as normal, dispensing small pieces of whole wheat bread to the fleabags. I have to be careful, whatever I give out, because Pupsie rushes to grab it first. I could be tossing out ball bearings, nails, mini spiked mace balls, or razor blades... anything but medicine, and Pupsie would have them swallowed before realizing they were not for eating.

But suddenly she was minding her manners! I'd say "Pupsie," and toss a bread bit into the air, which she would catch and eat. Then I'd say, "Jack," and toss his to the porch at my feet. Puspie WAITED! Didn't shove Jack out of the way and eat his, too.

What in the Not-Heaven? For a couple weeks, I had been tossing Pupsie's treats across the porch, so she'd have to run get them, giving Jack time to eat his unmolested. Maybe Pupsie got tired of the back and forth, and thought Jack was getting more than his share.

It's a small sign of progress. Pupsie is still unpettable and uncatchable. Not so much a pet as a freeloader using us for food and shelter.

We still don't know how to solve our Pupsie problem.

It's Farmer H's World. We Are In It To Serve Him.

As you know, Thursdays are my errand day. I now have a detour due to that dastardly roundabout construction by the Devil's Playground. It sends me in a different direction, but navigating through there is not too painful. I just drive along the road beside the Devil's Parking Lot, get back on the main road going a different direction, and go two or three miles out of my way to get back to where I could have traveled through the light for a quarter-mile to get there.

I am in town for a couple hours. Farmer H is usually home before I get back. You know, unless I have groceries to carry in! Anyhoo... he was there when I got home last week.

"I waved at you but you didn't wave back!"

"WHERE?"

"By the bank."

"WHICH BANK? Our bank?"

"No. The other bank."

"Up town by the post office?"

"No. By the pawn shop. That's where I was headed."

"I thought you said the pawn shop closed, and you can't play your fake slot machines there anymore."

"It DID close! But they were selling their inventory, so I went by to get some things."

"I don't even go by there, because of the construction. Traffic is always backed up past the pawn shop."

"I was on the road behind it. Coming up from the Devil's Playground. That's where I waved at you."

"Why would I be expecting to see you THERE? Traffic is crazy, trying to avoid that construction. I was just watching out for crazy drivers."

"Well. I waved at you, and you didn't wave back."

Just to let you know, all the towns connect around here. I drove from Hillmomba over to School-Turn Town, where I avoided the roundabout. Then out to Bank Town. Then back through Sis-Town. And again back to School-Turn Town to return to Hillmomba. 

Of course I should have been looking at every red truck just in case Farmer H passed me and waved, right? To point out the ridiculousness of his egotistical expectations, I counted all the red trucks I saw on my way to ONLY Hillmomba on Friday. 

It's five miles to Hillmomba. Takes 10 minutes there. 10 minutes back. I'm there around 15-20 minutes, depending on how long the lines are in the two places I buy scratchers. When I got home, I told Farmer H...

"While I was in town buying tickets, I saw 17 red trucks! Was I supposed to look in each one, in case it was you waving at me?"

"Yes. You should of."

Nevermind that two weeks ago, I actually saw Farmer H in SilverRedO, at the stoplight by the Gas Station Chicken Store, coming from Domino's with our pizza, waiting for his left-turn arrow to start home. I was coming from Casey's, and passed through the light right in front of him, waving. He was first in line at the light! Yet when I said he didn't wave at me, he just said...

"Oh. I never seen you."

Even though he was stopped, at the light, and should have been watching the traffic in front of him flowing across the intersection.

It's Farmer H's world.

To Help Or Not To Help

Monday afternoon I was standing in the Hillmomba Casey's, waiting for the new guy to get my scratchers. It's difficult when they only have the left-side register open. The scratcher display is on the right side, against the front wall. This store packs so many "last-minute" (heh, heh, at a convenience store!) items along the counter that you can't see the lottery display from the left-side register. Even with good eyesight! Also, the computer that scans the tickets, and prints out draw tickets, is against the front wall.

Anyhoo, I had handed him my winners, and hobbled over to see the numbers on the scratchers I wanted, when the front door opened. A little.

It was a 20-something guy on CRUTCHES! He was walking on one leg, as you do with crutches, and trying to hold the door open with it propped against his right arm and crutch, all the while trying to maneuver across the threshold with the other crutch and leg.

Such a dilemma! I WANTED to help Crutchy. But I know from experience that sometimes, it's just easier to do it yourself. You know your own balance, and have a plan. Somebody coming in behind Crutchy could have easily grabbed the door handle, and held it open for him. But I was inside. That would require me getting in front of Crutchy as he was trying to enter, while leaning over to push out on the partially open glass door.

I surmised that it was safer to allow Crutchy to proceed without my help. I DID feel kind of bad. 

Crutchy got inside, and was standing behind the guy behind me. It didn't help him that New Guy Clerk was being friendly with me and telling about their lack of large pizza boxes. I don't fault New Guy Clerk for being friendly. He's only been there a week, and is getting better. I've saved him twice from undercharging me.

Anyhoo... as I was leaving, the guy behind me told Crutchy to go ahead. Crutchy said he was okay, but the guy insisted, so Crutchy stepped up.

I was relieved that Crutchy got some help, even if it wasn't from me.

I Might Need To Check His Forehead For Fever

Are you sitting down? I don't want you to collapse with shock at this reveal. I will not be responsible for concussions! No, T-Hoe has not yet received an oil change. But Farmer H has been EATING LEFTOVERS FOR FIVE DAYS! And is willing to eat them for a couple more!!!

Don't think it's my subtle way of trying to kill him. That's not the plan. I bought a smoked pork loin last week at Save A Lot. Sliced it up. Well, half of it. I had Hawaiian sub rolls. Farmer H said he could eat sandwiches with pepperjack cheese. I figured I could get two days of that, maybe three. He added Ruffles potato chips on the side.

On day three, I said I could make some mashed potatoes and green beans to go with it, and he could just have slices of it, warm. No, he said he was fine with the sandwich and chips. Day four, I offered Stove Top Stuffing. Farmer H loves that stuff(ing). But no, he was fine with the sandwich. By now I have sliced the other half, since I have also been eating pork loin for suppers. Mine has been in sandwich form, first with sharp cheddar, then with mayo, then with pickle and onions, then cut up with some frozen fried rice and hoisin sauce.

We continue to pork-loin. It's not like it's going bad. Like ham, it's cured and will last. I was perfectly content to chop up some for freezing, to include in a pot pie when the weather cools off. But Farmer H is happy with his sandwiches. The next side dish will be onion rings, his request, though I'm not sure they go together.

I see another pork loin in our future. A bit more distant future.