Mrs. HM, The Confrontationalist

Most days, Mrs. HM slides through life not making waves, her picture next to milquetoast in the dictionary. Remember the dictionary? Anyhoo... on Thursday, Mrs. HM made a stand. It involved scratchers. Nobody messes with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's scratchers!

I was in the Sis-Town Casey's, paying for T-Hoe's weekly gas, and getting scratchers. The cashier was a slim chick I've had wait on me many times. She's always polite and businesslike. I told her I wanted $20 of gas on Pump 3, and to get scratchers. She put the gas purchase in the register, and asked which scratchers I wanted.

"A number 25, and three number 27s."

Slim Chick tore off my tickets, and laid them on the counter. She did not fold them over on themselves like some cashiers. I could see the face of the tickets. Which revealed that the strip of three tickets was NOT what I had asked for.

"Oh. Sorry. Those are not the tickets I asked for. I wanted three of the number 27s. That's the crossword. Not those Fun 5s you gave me."

"That IS the number 27."

"Out here in your case, it shows the crossword ticket as the number 27."

Rather than taking those Fun 5s back and giving me the crosswords, Slim Chick leaned over the counter and tried to look around at the case. With a bit of an attitude! Like she was going to prove me wrong, instead of just giving me the crossword tickets that I said I wanted. She could not lean around enough to see the case. So she walked all the way around the counter, up beside me. Where I pointed to the crossword tickets with the number 27 label.

Then Slim Chick went back around the counter, and called over another clerk. Who asked what she had already rang up. Which was my gas and the other ticket, but not the Fun 5s. Other Clerk put the Fun 5s back in the case while Slim Chick stepped to the next register, to wait on the line that had formed.

Other Clerk asked if I meant the $3 or $5 crosswords. When I said the $5, she said, "Oh. There are SO MANY $5 tickets in here." Not rudely. Just matter-of-factly. With a bit of despair. Then she found the right tickets, and scanned them and told me the total. Took my exact cash payment, and apoligized for the inconvenience. I told her it was no problem.

Really. It was no problem with HER. But Slim Chick did not need to be so rude when I asked for the ticket I wanted. I'm not paying for some random ticket just because whoever stocked the lottery tickets did not do it right. Finding the ticket I asked for would have been fine. No apology necessary. But instead she acted like I was an idiot or a liar, and huffed around the counter to prove me wrong. Yet she couldn't.

Fave at the Gas Station Chicken Store would never treat a customer this way.

Not So Regrettable After All

More on yesterday's story of the Dude who was panhandling at the stop sign exiting Orb K. He was still there on Wednesday as I passed on the way home. That makes three days in a row Dude has been waving his unreadable cardboard sign.

If the sign really said something about needing money, and not having lunch (which is the best I could make out while watching for traffic), then Dude needs a better plan, before he starves to death! OR... Dude could be finding this panhandling to be profitable.

Seems that if he can spend three days hanging out at a stop sign asking for donations, he has time to look for an actual job. There are places around here that hire people who don't even speak English. They hired our neighbor Tommy, who had no work experience. There's the rat poison factory just through the stoplights. Dude could even walk to work. Or there's the produce company that employs the non-English-speakers to load potatoes and other vegetables onto trucks. They made Tommy a kind of manger after a short time.

Just saying... if I HAD given Dude a donation, I wouldn't regret it now, or hold it against him. But I don't feel the need to offer him anything, seeing as how he seems to be having success. Otherwise, why would he be there three days in a row? 

This time, he was walking around rather than sitting, pointing his sign out at the road. And he was wearing a nice two-toned jacket against the wind. I think Dude's gonna be alright.

A Glimmer Of Regret, But It's Passing

We don't see a lot of beggars around Hillmomba. So when one appears, they stand out. Something of a novelty, but not in a good way. Sometimes I'll give something, sometimes I won't. Depends on how they look, or if I get a feeling they are scammers. No judgement. People have to get money to eat. Somebody with a cardboard sign, holding out their hand, is not stealing from me. Not tricking me. It's MY choice if I give them something or not.

On the way home from town Monday, I saw a guy sitting on a box at the entrance to Orb K. He was a bald (or shaved-head) black dude, maybe mid-40s, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. He caught my eye as I drove by, and nodded. I couldn't read his sign. 

Well. That was unusual. It's not like when we had the community of homeless people living under the bridge who would have their signs at the exit of the McDonald's, or at the stoplight by McDonald's, Burger King, and the Devil's Playground. I assumed he could be staying at the ill-reputed motel behind Orb K, where a city policeman was shot and killed a couple years ago while responding to a disturbance. That motel has weekly rates for people who need somewhere to live. It's not really a traveler's motel like the one across the road by Save A Lot.

Anyhoo... the next day, Tuesday, I stopped at Orb K on my way into town for scratchers. As I was waiting to pull out at that dangerous crossing, I noticed the same Dude there again, sitting on a box, with his sign. I still couldn't read it. I think the bottom line said NO LUNCH. T-Hoe's radio was turned up, because I heard a song I haven't heard in a long time: Vern Gosden's "Way Down Deep." Which is kind of a gospel-sounding song. Dude smiled, started bobbing his head, and gave me a thumbs-up. I smiled back, but I was preoccupied with looking for traffic. 

I don't think Dude could have picked a worse place to panhandle. You've got after-school traffic coming from the right, stoplight traffic and highway off-ramp traffic coming from the left, with a left-turn lane into Save-A-Lot/Subway, and the traffic across from you coming out of Save-A-Lot/Subway, either turning the same way towards town, or coming straight across into Orb K, or turning the other way towards school/out-of-town. It's a hairy traffic situation. You have to be on your toes to avoid an accident.

Anyhoo... here's the thing. I was torn. If I had The Pony riding shotgun, I might have handed him a twenty to give Dude. I figure if I can spend money on scratchers, I can spend money to help out somebody who might need it. Even if they might make a "job" of roadside begging. I'll take that risk, unless it's somebody on a highway off-ramp who is there for weeks or months.

Location, location, location. People could not pay attention to Dude while trying to exit the parking lot. As a woman alone in a car, with my purse sitting on the passenger seat, I did not feel comfortable calling Dude over to hand him money. As trusting as you'd like to think yourself, do you really think it's wise to open up the window with a chance your purse could be snatched out of the car? AND, Dude really needed a more readable sign. Did he need money to eat? Money to get car repairs? Money for gas? Was he willing to Work For Lunch? Most signs are specific enough to draw you in.

I am wondering if Dude will be there today (Wednesday) as I go to town. Not that it changes anything above. It's just not convenient to donate to Dude. He'd have better luck standing where people walk by, not at a stop sign where traffic is hectic.

Another "I Told You So" Might Be On The Horizon

Our little Pups is still here. He seems to spend a lot of time on the porch while Farmer H is gone to town. I see him prancing by with Scarlett, who always looks back to make sure he's coming. I suppose they spend time in the sun on the end of the house by our bedroom, where the southern sun lingers through the day, and two dog houses sit. Pups is still very shy, but when I baby-talk as he walks by, he stops and tilts his head, rather than running off.

The dog bowls have been scattered all willy-nilly across the side porch. Scarlett's is often missing, but Jack's metal bowl, and Pups' smaller metal bowl are there, just underfoot and out of position from where Farmer H feeds them.

Tuesday evening, Farmer H started out the kitchen door. 

"I'm going to fill that dog feeder. Then I'll know they always have food."

"Are you planning a trip?"

"No. But the food will be there, and they can all eat."

"The squirrels will be all over the place! Like when you had the feeder filled up before. That's why you stopped."

"We'll see what they do."

"You really think Scarlett is going to let the other two eat? Haven't you seen how she treats Jack? When he goes to eat out of his bowl, she runs over and shoves him away. Then he goes to her bowl, and she runs back and shoves him away. Scarlett will be the size of a hog, and Jack will be a skeleton. And that poor puppy won't get ANY food!"

"Scarlett will let that pup eat! She shoves him over to the bowl."

Well. This is something I've never seen. Farmer H has also told me that when he was trying to catch Pups the first time, over on Shackytown Boulevard, that Scarlett pinned him down with her leg so Farmer H could get to him, but Pups got away. Uh huh. I imagine Scarlett was just bullying him.

We'll see, indeed. I don't like the feeder idea, unless it's because we have to be gone for a few days, and can't find anyone to check in on the dogs.

It's Always Mrs. HM's Fault

Sunday evening, Farmer H got the container with the Big Sandwich pieces out of FRIG II, to put his supper on a plate. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, wielding the large butcher knife.

"Hey! You can't cut that while it's in my container! I've had that for years. You'll cut through the bottom."

"I can't eat this much, HM!"

"YOU are the one who told me to cut it in four pieces this time, instead of six like last time."

"It's too much!"

"That's not the point! Don't cut it while it's in the container! Set it out on a plate. And it's only too big because you told me to cut it that way!"

"Well, next time cut it in six pieces!"

Farmer H got his plate, and set out the sandwich piece to cut it in half. It's not my fault that he eats a banana while leaving the Mansion, then stops by Casey's for a couple of donuts, then eats lunch at his SUS2.5, then comes home and has a drink and chips before eating his supper. I asked him how he wanted me to divide that Big Sandwich, and HE'S the one who told me to cut it in four pieces this time, rather than six.

Farmer H never takes responsibility. He acted like I'm trying to kill him by force-feeding him to death!

No Respite From Scammers

We no longer have our landline phone. That's a story for another day. Today Mrs. HM's ire turns to scammers. You'd think there would be fewer of them without a landline, right? No more calls trying to finagle personal information out of Mrs. HM, or more likely Farmer H, though he never answered any calls. But no. There is a new source of aggravation.

EMAIL!

I don't think the 10 emails I got this morning between 7:50 and noon are related to the landline. I think they're related to our DISH service. That's the only plausible answer. Two things occurred within the past week. I ordered some vitamins from a company I have ordered from for a couple years now. They have always had my email address, and I only get emails from them, for notifications, and a newsletter that I could stop if I wanted. DISH has always had our email. No problems before with junky phishing schemes. Until...

I paid the DISH bill online. Once I finally got logged in, it occurred to me to update our account, since we no longer have the landline phone number. So I changed it to my cell number. And changed the "office" designation to the "cell" designation. Then I had the trouble with my laptop updates, and not wanting to let me access BLOGGER. In the midst of getting that sorted (how it came about is still a mystery to me!), I went back and changed the phone numbers to how they were originally. Don't worry, we can still be contacted, because Farmer H's number has been on file all along. The BLOGGER issue resolved, perhaps due to another update.

HOWEVER... I started getting a bunch of scam emails. I assume. I only opened them to see what they were. Never clicked on any links inside. I got some calling me GLORIA, as I used to get, telling me I had won something, and others wanting to give me beauty products. I had some saying thanks for subscribing to a financial newsletter, which I had not done. Some saying they could help me pay down my debt, of which I have none. Just annoying things I never asked for, and certainly don't want.

I can't think of anything else that could have triggered this recent spate of unwanted emails. Now I will be forced to unsubscribe from multiple places where I did not subscribe in the first place. 

The Capture

While Farmer H was over on Shackytown Boulevard on Wednesday evening, getting a picture of Pups, he saw an opportunity to make a grab. Pups was sitting on the porch of the Barber Shop, which in true Farmer H style had "collectibles" sitting on both ends. The Barber Shop is across from the chicken house. Farmer H was blocking Pups' path to his safe haven.

"I kept getting a little closer. He couldn't get off the other end of the porch because of the stuff in his way. I grabbed him, and he tried to bite me."

"Well, he's a PUPPY! That's his only defense. He was scared to death."

Anyhoo... I found out about this when I heard Farmer H at the kitchen door, telling me he had something for me. He walked in carrying Pups against the side of his stomach, holding him with his forearm behind Pups' front legs. Farmer H looked like he was toting a flour sack that he was about to drop.

"Bring him over here! He's so cute!"

I started baby-talking to Pups. His little white-tipped tail started to wag. That's the first time I've seen that happen! His head was silky soft. Such a sweet puppy. Scarlett was prancing around outside the kitchen door, like a nervous mother. She knew better than to step in with Farmer H there. 

Farmer H took Pups out, saying he was going to put him in Scarlett's old cage (wire kennel), even though I again said it was not a good idea. How can a puppy keep from peeing and pooping in a cage all day? Anyhoo, the kennel was not where Farmer H thought it was, so he just took Pups to the side porch, and put some food in the littlest dog bowl.

Scarlett was trying to eat the food, and Farmer H yelled at her. Dummy! A puppy does not know who he's yelling at. Pups went under the shelf against the garage, and Farmer H put his food bowl there so he could eat, while Scarlett could not reach under. Then he let Pups go in the yard, and he promptly ran over to get under the chicken house.

Thursday morning before Farmer H left the Mansion, I told him I heard Pups knocking things over on the porch. All of Farmer H's fake animals that Copper Jack's former doggy sister named Penny, a yellow lab, used to carry home with her, to be returned after several were collected. Anyhoo... Farmer H opened up the door, and in a gruff voice that he thinks is sweet, said, "Yeah, there you are!" Which scared Pup into scampering back to Shackytown Boulevard.

Pups is still here. He just walked around the porch with Scarlett to get a drink. If Farmer H can stop scaring him so much, maybe he can be handled enough to catch and take to the vet for shots. Which would again be traumatizing!

We are really trying to make a pet out of that little guy.