Do-Gooders Come In Assorted Forms

I've been shopping for Christmas supplies this week. I don't want a big list to buy all at once. That is too much effort for my not-nimble knees. Every day or two, I stop by Save A Lot or 10Box for a few things. I have a nice bone-in Brown Sugar Baked Ham. And all of my Chex Mix fixin's. And enough Oreos and mix for three cakes. The perishable foods have to wait.

Anyhoo... on Monday I pulled up to 10Box, first handicap space to the right of the door. A man was standing out front. Kind of lurking. Maybe smoking. He looked like Smokey Lonesome in Fried Green Tomatoes. Like a guy kind of down on his luck. Just a scroungy kind of man, though not giving off any menacing vibes, or begging. 

"Your lights are on!"

I was sliding out of T-Hoe.

"Your lights are on, ma'am. Your lights are on!"

"Yes. They'll go off in a minute. I have those daytime running lights. I can't turn them off! They come on every time I start the car, and go off on their own when I turn it off. But thank you!"

"You're welcome. I just didn't want your battery to go down."

Such a nice guy, trying to help me avoid undue hardship.

On Tuesday, as I wheeled my cart/walker full of cereal and nuts and garlic salt and garlic powder to the checkout, and old man was approaching from the other side. I wasn't sure if he was coming across the front aisle, or headed for the register. I had been the length of the store. He had only been through produce and cereal and canned goods. I didn't know if he was done shopping. I proceeded to get in line. He got in line behind me. Then another man got in line.

"Here, you go ahead me," said Old Man to the Other Dude.

"No, that's fine. I'm okay."

"I don't mind. God has blessed me with this day, and I'm spreading the joy."

"Really, it's okay. But I can go ahead if you want. And if they call someone else up, you can jump over and be first."

So a compromise was reached, neither taking advantage of the other. Indeed, a young man WAS called to the front, and Old Man moved to that register. The Universe's reward, I suppose. He bagged his groceries alongside me, and followed me out the door.

"Isn't this a beautiful day?"

"Yes! I'm really enjoying the sun. I'm afraid it's not going to last long!"

"It might not. But we have today. God bless you ma'am."

"And you too."

I don't particularly care for people showering me with their religion, but I'm not going to complain about it. Old Man was strong in his beliefs, meant well, and wasn't hurting anybody.

Not every day is full of rumpusholes.

Things Are Back To Normal Around The Mansion

I was starting to feel like I am living in Fantasyland, and not Hillmomba! Farmer H got T-Hoe fixed. He brought home a heated water bowl and bag of cedar shavings for Jack. He put new batteries in my garage door opener and T-Hoe's clicker. He gave me that giant box of chocolates for our anniversary, plus a card with a handwritten message!!!

Last night, that gravy train came screeching to a halt. The phonograph needle scratched the record. The other shoe dropped. The party is over.

I was getting Farmer H's supper warmed up. It was BBQ pulled pork on hot dog buns, with a side of potato coins. So simple. You might imagine that even a hick could do it... 

I know better.

The potato coins were in the oven at 425 degrees, almost ready, just crisping the edges. The BBQ pulled pork was in a glass bowl in the microwave. I set out a plate for Farmer H on the cutting block. I set the package of hot dog buns on top. Surely I don't need to do EVERYTHING for him! I didn't want the buns to get stale sitting on the plate. I had drained three flat pickle slices. They were singly a little short to fit on the bun, so I cut the third one in half to fill in.

"Hey! Will you want the ketchup? In a ramekin, or will you put it on the plate? Will you use a fork, or your hands?"

Farmer H said he'd put ketchup on his plate, and that he'd use a fork for the potato coins. I laid a fork across the top of the bun package, and set out the ketchup bottle, along with a paper towel. I heard Farmer H groan in getting up from his recliner.

"My eye itches! I'm going to put in my eye drops."

"Okay. Then you can some get your buns ready."

Welp! Here came Farmer H directly to the kitchen!

"What are you doing here? I thought you were putting in eye drops."

"Oh. Well. I was going to. Didn't you say it's ready?"

"Yeah, I said AFTER your eye drops. But you can go ahead. I just had another 30 seconds on the BBQ." 

I turned the microwave on as Farmer H stepped up to the cutting block. Over my shoulder, I heard something hit the floor.

"What was that?"

"My fork. I didn't see it on the buns."

I resisted the urge to ask, "ARE YOU BLIND?" Because he is. In one eye. I saw Farmer H put the package of buns away. Baby steps! As I turned sideways to take the potato coins out of the oven, I saw Farmer H's plate. It held one bun, and two half-buns. Ripped in half, across the middle.

"What in the Not-Heaven?"

"It tore when I was getting out my buns."

"I guess I need to do EVERYTHING for you! Next I'll have to cut up your food and feed it to you!"

"I can get my food, HM. Just not the way YOU want me to."

"Just not the way a NORMAL person would do it, you mean..."

I used my oven mitts to take the glass bowl of BBQ pulled pork out of the microwave and set it on the cutting block beside Farmer H's plate. He was busy putting one flat pickle on his regular bun, the other flat pickle on the big half of his torn bun, a half flat pickle onto the small half of his torn bun, and the other half flat pickle into his mouth.

"This bowl is HOT! It will burn you. DO NOT touch the bowl."

Farmer H looked at me like I was crazy.

We all know I saved him from a trip to the burn ward.

Mrs. HM Feels Bamboozled

I have a yearly doctor appointment later this week. Now that I am older and decrepit-er, and have less insurance, I am suddenly healthy enough to only be seen annually, rather than twice a year! Fine with me. I'm pretty sure they called to schedule this appointment with me way back in mid-summer. I said that was pretty far ahead and I'd forget, but the gal assured me I'd get reminders.

Anyhoo... I got my reminder, even though I remembered the day, since it happens to be Genius's birthday. I was within a half hour on the time. The thing that annoys me about the reminder is that I had to log into YourChart to see the actual date and time of my appointment. C'mon! Don't tell me that's the safest way to do it! Medical records get hacked all the time. I don't see how emailing me the day and time of an appointment is so dangerous.

Anyhoo... I logged into YourChart. I have to do that on HIPPIE, not my phone, because they always want something else. Like to complete an eCheck-In before my appointment. You know Mrs. HM. She toes the line. Follows (most) laws and instructions. So HIPPIE and I spent 45 minutes, on 5 screens, updating information and e-signing forms. Whew! That was almost as stressful as an appointment.

With a sign of relief, I clicked that final button. And got the message that I might be asked to complete additional paperwork when I arrived.

Horse Pills For The Pony

After switching Errand Day from Thursday to Friday, due to frigid temperatures, I was looking forward to seeing The Pony. Alas, The Pony was feeling under-the-weather, and declined my standing invitation.

"I have a really bad headache that won't go away. My head is stuffy, and my poop stomach is upset. I don't feel like going. Maybe I shouldn't have tried that new spicy food yesterday."

I went on about my business, not wanting to shame The Pony into going along. I was sure I could pump my own gas before the paid-for pump shut off. I'd just have to use a different Casey's bathroom before going to get gas. Or go before paying, which usually doesn't work out, because a giant line seems to form while I'm out of sight of the previously empty counter.

Anyhoo... The Pony was sorry to leave me in the lurch. I got a text the next morning.

"Mystery solved. I'm sick with something. Sore throat this morning and a bit of cough. Phwegh."

Of course I called The Pony. I don't have my helicopter working, but T-Hoe has been refurbished. I offered to drop off some vitamins that Farmer H and I take, which have seemed to keep such ailments away. We prefer the gummy version which includes elderberry, but they are out of stock. The Pony had some, but used them up a month or so ago. Now all we have are giant horsepill capsules. The Pony eschewed them back then, but now said they were worth a try. They have Vitamin C, Vitamin D, Zinc, and Quercetin. 

"I'll give you seven days' worth. Take one at night and one in the morning. We just take one a day, unless we get sick. Which Dad has before, and said he got over it in three days when he doubled up on the vitamins."

So off I went to take horsepills to The Pony. Who was having a hard time deciding on what to disguise them with for swallowing. The considerations were peanut butter, jelly, pudding, ice cream. I'm not sure which was chosen, and if it was a success.

A Near-Hit At The Sis-Town Casey's

What's with people referring to a near-miss accident? Like two planes almost colliding mid-air, or two cars almost crashing into each other? What they really mean is a near-hit! If it was truly a near-miss, then the collision would have happened!

Anyhoo...we're not talking about planes. And only partially about automobiles. We're here to play the world's tiniest violin in sympathy for Mrs. HM, who was the victim of a near-hit at the Sis-Town Casey's on Friday.

The cold weather put my errand day on hold until Friday. The Pony couldn't go. The Pony, perhaps, could have saved me from this near-catastrophe. 

Casey's was a bit busy, but Pump 3 was available. I parked T-Hoe, and began the trek across the parking lot to pre-pay. I usually have The Pony walking along beside me, consciously trying to rein in those long strides. I was halfway across, in no-mom's-land, when a lady got into a small black SUV that was parked in the handicap space, to the left of the handicap striped walkway to the sidewalk ramp.

Lady started backing out, swinging the rear of her small black SUV in my direction. AND SHE KEPT BACKING! I stopped, but she kept coming! I'm not a fast-enough hobbler to rush across before being hit. I was afraid I would fall. I tried backing up my own self. Still slow, but it feels better to my knees. I was getting really worried. I made it backwards about 5-7 steps.

Good thing it was a small car. The rear bumper was about six feet from me when she stopped, put it into DRIVE, and went forward to leave the lot. Such a relief! I can't believe she didn't even look before she started backing. Either her backup beeper wasn't working, or she just didn't care! This small black SUV was newer than T-Hoe. It might have even had a backup camera. A-Cad has one, and A-Cad is a 2016 model.

Anyhoo... that little adventure got my heart racing. I was imagining myself flat on the pavement, with tires running over me.

Sometimes A Sung Hero

You might think I do a lot of complaining about Farmer H. That's because I DO! You might also think that a fraction of these complaints are valid. THEY ARE! But there are also times when Farmer H is an unsung hero to his buddies he helps for free (and seemingly donates entire trailers to, heh, heh). And to the elderlies in the senior apartments when he answers his phone 24/7/365 to go let them in when they lock themselves out.

Thursday night, Farmer H became my sung hero. I'm singing his praises here now.

You know I've told Farmer H for years that my garage door opener doesn't work. It takes up to 10 squeezes to make that door open sometimes! He always brushed me off with "It might have a bad battery." Yet would make no effort to get me one. Or even pry that thing open so I could see what it needed.

This week, T-Hoe's clicker has been cantankerous. I figure some of it might be the weather. I've been bringing the garage door opener in the house, rather than let it linger in the below-freezing temperatures in T-Hoe's garage lair at night. But my key clicker is always with me. Inside. Warm.

I told Farmer H on Wednesday night about it. Along with several other things that were vitally important then, which I can't remember now. How I was going to get locked out of T-Hoe and freeze to death! He kind of chuckled. But said he thought they both took the flat watch-style batteries, and he had a bunch of them at his SUS2.5. He was going to Illinois for business on Thursday, but said he'd bring batteries home when he passed by his store on the way back.

Thursday was so cold that I put off errand day until Friday. I didn't want to get stranded if Farmer H was in another state. I DID go to town, just for my scratchers. T-Hoe's clicker took several tries, but worked.

Farmer H came home with the batteries. I said he didn't have to put them in right that moment, because I was starting my tickets. He said he was going to run a hot bath. Temps were dropping from the low 20s into single digits overnight.

Farmer H made his own supper after the bath. A generic Hot Pocket filled with pepperoni and cheese. Because he ate a big restaurant lunch on his trip, and wasn't very hungry. He came to the kitchen for three desserts. Good thing he wasn't hungry! He had a marshmallow cookie, a Drumstick, and a handful of Payday mix that I keep refilling until the candy corn runs out. He was just in his tighty-whities after the bath. Meanwhile, I was sitting at the kitchen table in my regular sweatpants, shirt, sweatshirt, socks, and Crocs, with my under-table heater going, freezing to death.

Shortly after 8:00, Farmer H returned to get the batteries and my clicker and garage door opener from the kitchen table. He took them to the living room, where I heard prying, and the plastic of the battery package. About 20 minutes later, Farmer H was back in the kitchen, 

PUTTING ON HIS SWEATSHIRT!

"Wait! What are you doing?"

"I'm goin' out to make sure these work with the new batteries."

"LIKE THAT??? You'll freeze to death! The temperature is about 14 right now! If you fall down, I can't rescue you! You'll die!"

"I'll be fine."

Off he went. Bare legs and camouflage Crocs and a non-hooded sweatshirt! The arctic blast as he shut the door set me to shivering.

About five minutes later, Farmer H was back. "The garage door works. But your clicker don't. I'll take it apart again and see if there was a back on the battery."

There was not. But he hadn't pushed the battery all the way down, so it wasn't making a connection. Farmer H WENT BACK TO THE GARAGE to test T-Hoe's clicker again. This time it worked.

Good thing he tried them out. Otherwise I would have been fumbling around with freezing hands, using a key to lock and unlock T-Hoe.

Farmer H is my hero. Albeit a not very smart one when it comes to possible hypothermia.

Farmer H Can't Feed Himself

Farmer H has had no problem with eating some form of ham for supper every night since Thanksgiving. He loves ham. Now it's almost the weekend again, and I have put off the weekly errand day because of the frigid temperatures. I asked Farmer H if there is anything he wants from the store.

"No. Not really. Nothing I can think of."

"You never think of anything. Until the day after I do the shopping. You're out of the little sandwiches you take to your store for lunch. Do you want the cheeseburgers, or the chicken, or the Buffalo chicken, or the sausage patties?"

"I like them all. It don't really matter. But I wonder if you could find some Hot Pockets."

"I'm sure I can find them. But they're not on the 5-for-$25 deal."

"They can't be THAT expensive."

"Everything I buy at Country Mart is about $2 more than what I could get it for at 10Box. I'm pretty sure 10Box and Save A Lot also have Hot Pockets. But I'll get you some tomorrow at Country Mart. Just this once! What kind do you want?"

"I think they have pepperoni. Or ham. I like both."

"Okay. I'll look."

"I have trouble eating my lunch. I'll warm it in the microwave, but then a customer comes in, and I don't get to eat it. And I always forget the chips, because there are people coming in. My buddy said I need to go out to the truck for 30 minutes, just to get a lunch break. Or lock the door."

"Yeah. You could lock the door, with a sign that says what time you'll be back."

"I could do that. Or I won't get a chance to eat some days."

We all know that Farmer H is not a logical thinker. At least he has people telling him how to eat lunch.

Bringing Home The Bacon

Roles were reversed here at the Mansion on Tuesday evening, and I ain't talkin' about Sister Schubert's! 

When temps were not rising on Tuesday to melt the snow, I stayed home. Farmer H said he'd bring me lottery tickets. YAY! I was happy to relinquish that daily duty to him! I was also happy when Farmer H declared that he would just cook himself some eggs for supper Tuesday evening!

After all, I had brought home the bacon (before Thanksgiving, when I got two smaller packs, but then found the thick-cut kind I use for the roasted vegetables). And also, I had bought another dozen eggs on Monday, and some biscuits, thinking Farmer H might like them with some ham for a supper this week.

Here's the thing. I don't fry eggs. I don't like them that way. I will scramble or boil, but if you want a fried egg around here (or three), you have to do that for yourself. I offered to make the (canned) biscuits for Farmer H, but he said no, he didn't need them. He couldn't decide on ham or bacon. When I said I had two extra packs, he picked bacon.

While I lay down for a late nap, Farmer H fried himself bacon and eggs, and added three Hawaiian rolls to the meal. He was happy. I was happy. 

All I had to do was clean up the bacon grease left in the pan before washing it and the egg-encrusted plate and fork. Baby steps...

Trapped Again

I made it to town just fine yesterday. The snow was light, and had just started adhering to bridges. The roads were okay. I got a wet head because I don't have a jacket with a hood. I had to drive through the Gas Station Chicken Store parking lot, because a handicap car was in my rightful space, and a FREE AIR guzzler was in the other space. I'm not walking across the lot from the moat in freezing wind and snowfall!

First I went over to Casey's, where my space was available. I should have saved myself the trouble, because none of their tickets won. The GSCS paid back $10. And the Liquor Store gave me $25. I'm glad I didn't walk out. I waited 15 minutes for those winners!

Two women had entered as I was hobbling along the front of the Liquor Store. They had driven onto the lot, parked, and made it inside just ahead of me. I hoped they were shopping the aisles, or playing the fake slot machines. But no. They had just bellied up to the checkout. Fair and square, but I was not happy to cool my knees in line while the snow was coming down harder.

First Gal wanted smokes. The guy clerk had to go look for them. They were making small talk about her Thanksgiving. She had some kind of drink that was really good. It was in orange juice, but she couldn't taste the liquor. Which seems that she must really like orange juice, since she raved about how good that drink was. She had her customer number memorized. I think there's some kind of bonus benefits for that. She took her stuff and left.

Second Gal wanted cigarettes. A large Sprite with 3/4 ice. They have some special kind of soda here, that people are always coming in for. Since the fake slot machines now take up the wall where the soda fountain was, the clerks have to go make the soda from the one by the drive-thru window. THEN she wanted some little whiskey shooters. The clerk told her it would be cheaper to just buy a bottle.

"Oh, I'm not that kind of drinker."

Second Gal wanted five of them. I'm pretty sure she was going to share with First Gal, saying that she just THOUGHT she didn't want any after her Thanksgiving bender. I think they were headed for some kind of party/get-together, from what I heard on their way in. 

Anyhoo... then she paid with her card, but it was rejected for not being inserted fully. I was glad she FINALLY left, even though she was friendly and telling me about the weather while the clerk was getting her soda. I'm pretty sure a couple of those shooters got poured right in the minute she got to the car.

I made it home fine. More snow/ice came later. All the schools called off for Tuesday. So I didn't get out. The high temperature was 26 degrees. With clouds all day. The main roads were probably fine, but I can't stand the cold. 

Farmer H got scratchers for me. We'll see how they turn out.

Dang Forecasters

Such a career! These news "meteorologists" dress up nice and go on camera and tell us based on their scientific knowledge and unlimited electronical gewgaws WHEN we are getting snow, and HOW MUCH there will be in our area. POPPYCOCK! The Farmer's Almanac could probably forecast just as well!

How in the NOT-HEAVEN is Mrs. HM supposed to plan her day?

I checked the news Monday morning, because I'd seen online that snow was in our forecast again. I watched at 5:48 AM, and again at 7:00. Hillmomba would be okay until around 8:00 PM. I was a little worried about Farmer H coming home from an auction. But it would just be starting, and we were only in the trace/1 inch band.

At 11:00, I looked again, to be sure. I was planning my town trip for 2:30. Nothing to worry about, said the meteorologist. Some schools in the county above us were dismissing early. The radar showed that we were getting snow. She even showed the radar. "It looks like we're getting snow, but we're not. It's still to the northwest. The air is so dry that this is not reaching the ground. I just stuck my head out, and there's nothing." 

I went to the kitchen to wash some of the leftover dishes. I had cut the turkey off the thighs and wings earlier, to freeze with the white meat, for a future turkey pot pie. The night before, I had frozen some "vinchtables," and the green beans. Farmer H finished off the deviled eggs, and the hash brown potatoes. He didn't want the rest of the stuffing. So I had those containers as well.

WHAT'S THIS???

I glanced out the window, and saw SNOW! I'm pretty sure it was reaching the ground. That would explain the white coating.

It's 12:30 now. I'm trying to decide if I'm going to town. I can put off my shower and innernetting until I get back home. None of the schools around here have called off early. 

Whoopsie! Farmer H just called and said the auction is cancelled. He SAID the schools are calling off, but I find no evidence of that on the closings list. 

GOTTA GO!

Suddenly, I'm More Persuasive Than Usual

During the frigid weather and windy snow on Saturday, I looked out the laundry room door window, and saw ICE covering my little Jack's water bowl! It wasn't solid yet. A cracked layer on top. The thing is, it's a HEATED water bowl! And it was plugged in.

There had been two heated water bowls. Unplugged, for summer. When we got Lucky (the still missing rescue dog), I told Farmer H to take one of the water bowls out to his house. That's because Farmer H said that on one day, Lucky had stepped in his water bowl and turned it over. These have sloped sides. Not easy to tip over. Even when Pupsie (the still missing dog Scarlett [the happily re-adopted Australian Shepherd] had stolen and brought home) used to dig all the water out with her paws.

Anyhoo... I told Farmer H in a text. He replied that he'd have to take a look at it and see why it wasn't working! Well. That would do my little Jack no good when he was thirsty! The fake fish pond has had ice on it for a few days, never thawing during the day in the shade. So he couldn't drink there.

Also, I'd been telling Farmer H to put more cedar shavings in the doghouse outside the kitchen door. It used to belong to my Sweet, Sweet Juno. But both The Pony and Farmer H said they'd seen Jack come out of it. He used to prefer sleeping in the haybales over on Shackytown Boulevard during cold weather. Maybe he wants to stay closer to us, now that his companions are gone.

Anyhoo... Farmer H had been putting me off. Saying, "I'm pretty sure I have part of a bag in the garage." Yet he never brought any out.

I told him by text:

"Please get cedar shavings and a water bowl! I'm worried about Jack in the cold."

AND HE DID!!!

On the way home Saturday, Farmer H stopped by Rural King, and indeed came home with a bag of cedar shavings, and a new heated water bowl.

I wish I knew how to be that persuasive all the time! I think Farmer H might feel a bit of guilt for not yet getting me another dog.

The Never-Ending Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Routine Thanksgiving Ritual

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

I even went through a checklist before they departed.

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

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

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

"You forgot to give me a bread loaf!"

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

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

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

Mrs. HM's Work Is Never Done

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

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

HIPPIE Is Dying

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

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

BLACK SCREEN OF DEATH!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Been A Long Time

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

Monday was our 36th wedding anniversary. 

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

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

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

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

Farmer H liked it when he discovered it Monday morning.

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

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

I'm Sure It Was An Honest Mistake

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No. I counted it three times."

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. HM's Strategy For Becoming A Millionaire

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

WAITING!

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

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

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

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

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

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

On The Nose, With A Rubber Hose

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

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

Indeed. It WAS. 

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

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

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

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

"Okay. Looks like it! Thank you!"

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

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

I'm Not Getting My Hopes Up

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

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

Wednesday night, I brought up that assumption.

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

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

"Scarlett. Scarlett ran away."

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

"We had her that long?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And how's that working out?"

"Nobody has any right now..."

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

More Questionable Behavior From The Man With No Common Sense

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

"TURN DOWN THE TV!"

Just as he finally did, his phone rang again.

"Maybe that's her!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Give me the remote."

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

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

MALARKY!

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

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

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

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

What in the NOT-HEAVEN???

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. HM's Weirdo Magnet Has ReCharged

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN???

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

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

Little Girls Shouldn't Hang Out At Liquor Stores

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. HM Is Offered A Tip By Her Nememsis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe Not An Insult After All

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

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

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

"Oh, mah LAIG!"

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

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

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

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

Well. No need to send out my invitations now.

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

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

Welcome Back To Possum Central

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I cain't see it."

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

I don't think possums carry rabies."

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

"NO! He's gonna get me!"

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

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

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

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

"Now! Knock him in the head!"

"I don't wanna hurt him."

"WHY NOT???"

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

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

Not Quite A Thwarting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes. I'll do that."

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

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

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

"Oh. I haven't seen these before." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh. Will you be open tomorrow?"

"Yes. Why? What's tomorrow?"

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

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

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

"Do you need a bag?"

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

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

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

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

The Universe Gives A Wave To Fave

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

"What are you doing, throwing a party?"

"I guess so! Only nobody invited ME!"

Fave greeted me with good news.

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

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

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

"Yes. That's my code!"

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

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

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

Side-By-Side Invasion

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

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

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

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

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

The Possum Re-Visited

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

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

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

"Did you see it?"

"No. He must of got away."

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

"Yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE DOOR WOULD NOT OPEN ALL THE WAY!

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

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

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

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

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

"I didn't move the seat."

"I never said you moved the seat."

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

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

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

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

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