tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81125149953330465182024-03-18T23:06:40.980-05:00Hillbilly MansionA 20-acre utopia smack dab in the middle of Hillmomba, where Hillbilly Mom posts her cold-hearted opinions, petty grievances, and self-proclaimed wisdom in spite of being a technology simpleton.Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.comBlogger4602125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-83446152189806366142024-03-18T08:00:00.001-05:002024-03-18T08:00:00.140-05:00I'm Pretty Sure They Weren't ACTUALLY Trying To Burn Down The BARn<div style="text-align: left;">When I left for town on Sunday, the dogs did not come running for their treat. I smelled smoke, and assumed Farmer H was burning stuff on his burn pile over by the BARn. I filed this assumption away for discussion during This Is the Time We Talk About the Most Recent Thing You've Done Wrong.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When I pulled out of the driveway, I saw three trucks around some smoke billowing from our across-the-road neighbors' field. Actually, it's the field next to them, owned by the previous across-the-road neighbors' brother, though they pastured their horses in there indiscriminately.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... during the storm that rolled through a couple evenings ago, some spindly trees were twisted, and their branches lay partly in the gravel road. That's what was being burned. It was not a smart decision, with the trees whipping around all day in winds of 20 mph. All those flames had to do was send a spark across the gravel road, and the dry grass in our BARn field would catch, and send fire down that field to the BARn. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">At least there were five or six men standing around, as if they might do something to attempt to stop such a conflagration. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Farmer H was off the hook for clueless burning. The BARn survived. I suppose those guys might work during the week, and wanted to do this task on Sunday. I would have gladly suffered swerving around those spindly road limbs in lieu of worrying about a wildfire destroying the BARn.</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-50386319894939485152024-03-17T08:00:00.001-05:002024-03-17T08:00:00.130-05:00Mrs. HM Rants On<div style="text-align: left;">Saturday, we got an insurance bill for Pony House. While he's making payments for it every month, we have not signed it over in his name. Our main insurance company does not handle "rental" property, which is what they term Pony House, since it is inhabited, yet it is not our primary residence. They have another company that insures "rental" property. Plus a different company that insures "rehab" property, like our flip house.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... we get the insurance bill for Pony House, pay it, then The Pony pays us for the premium. Here's the problem. Saturday, we got THREE BILLS for insurance on Pony House. What in the Not-Heaven? There was a bill addressed to our trust, which holds the title to Pony House. And a bill addressed to Mrs. HM. And a bill addressed to Farmer H.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The trust bill, and the Mrs. HM bill were in regular envelopes. They showed a cost of $1100-something, and a premium due of $808. The Farmer H bill showed a cost of $1100-something, and a premium due of $1100-something. Huh. Such a curious billing. None of the three envelopes included a payment stub and envelope. Said it could be pain online, or by mailing to "the above address." </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Well. Suppose we mailed in a payment. Would the other two unpaid billings be reflected as overdue or unpaid? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Farmer H is going by our insurance office to discuss this matter on Monday. Because as usual, the bills are scheduled to arrive over a weekend, so you can't contact anybody with questions. At least our insurance bills, and medical bills. That's when they always arrive, regardless of date.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Our regular insurance agent is named on the billing. I assume he gets a commission, as with our regular insurance. So Farmer H is correct in going to the office to inquire as to the triple billing. He will also pay at this office, so there will be a record of payment on this account. I don't trust sending a payment without an official stub and a return envelope.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Imagine people who simply receive a bill and make payment. You can't trust anybody these days. Especially insurance companies. We have a different one for the flip house. It sends a bill three months before it's due. We hold off paying until a few weeks before the due date. Because if you pay so far ahead, and the property sells, good luck getting a refund on your payment! At least they include a payment stub and envelope.</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-45882270849549555002024-03-16T08:00:00.004-05:002024-03-16T08:00:00.247-05:00Mrs. HM Is Having One Of THOSE Days<div style="text-align: left;">Friday was not pleasant for Mrs. HM. From the get-go, at 5:30 a.m., something was afoot. My knees were extra-painful. No idea why. I hadn't done anything strenuous the day before. Just the regular errand trip. Yet upon standing, I felt like gravity had doubled. Perhaps the barometric pressure was falling, due to the severe storms on Thursday night. Thank the Gummi Mary, it mostly skipped us, aside from some strong wind and a brief downpour. 30 miles north, there were TAKE COVER tornado warmings. Somewhere there was baseball-size hail.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... the double gravity did not help when I was preparing chicken pot pie for our supper. I boiled some boneless skinless chicken breasts for that purpose. Then decided I might as well use the other half of the bag. So did it twice. The cubed hash brown potatoes I had bought for this purpose turned out to have RED AND GREEN BELL PEPPERS in them! Farmer H despises peppers. So I stood at the cutting block, picking out peppers. I went back and forth through the kitchen, gathering my ingredients.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This process took me from 9:30 to 1:30! It's like I was in slow motion. I'd get one thing done, then have to go back and do another. I had two big bowls for combining the ingredients, because it's hard to stir it all in one bowl. Of course I had to dice up the chicken once it cooled. And grease the 9 x 13 glass pan, and a 9 x 9 glass pan, to freeze, for leftovers later.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Whew! Then I had several dishes to wash. That done, I could busy myself with writing out payments for the electric bills on the flip house and the Beauty Shop. Of course during all this, The Pony was texting me, and then Farmer H also deciding to text, while my hands were in the dishwater.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Off to town, where a rumpushole was parked BESIDE my rightful handicap space. That means he was in the driving lane! Preventing people from passing by the diesel pumps. I'm so fed-up with these idiot-parkers, I just pulled into the handicap space anyway. Too bad, so sad if he couldn't get his door open. He could easily pull up beside the empty space in front of me. No idea why he thought that was a parking space.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Once back at the Mansion, I had to put the store-bought pie crust on top of the chicken pot pie, and bake it for 35 minutes. While putting ice into a red Solo cup with my Shasta Diet Cola, I dropped an ice cube. Third one for the day! Then I had to find where it had skittered, to toss it into the sink.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The smoke alarm went off when I opened up the oven to put in the chicken pot pie. When I sat down at the table to do a little scratching while waiting 10 minutes to put foil over the crust, I hit my soda with my elbow, and soda and ice cascaded onto the table and floor. So I had to mop it up with two towels from the laundry room. At least it wasn't sticky like real soda. But it wasted a soda, and the best ice cubes that I had picked out for it. Then I had to wash and dry the two towels.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">At least the chicken pot pie was delicious. We'll be eating it again on Saturday and Sunday. Me probably some more on Monday, when Farmer H is gone to the auction.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When turning to get out of my chair, I felt a sharp pain in my left rumpus-cheek. I must have tweaked it while picking up those errant ice cubes from under the cutting block. Or maybe while mopping up my spilled Shasta.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm hoping Saturday is better.</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-56824140674110053242024-03-15T08:00:00.001-05:002024-03-15T08:00:00.248-05:00Just Another Day In Hillmomba<div style="text-align: left;">I'd like to say that nothing interesting happened on Thursday. We've had quite a week so far, with The Pony falling and skinning his knee at work, then being bitten by a dog. And my rightful handicap parking spaces being FULL OF HANDICAPPED PEOPLE'S CARS, or blocked by inconsiderate rumpusholes pinning me in. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Yes. I'd LIKE to say that nothing interesting happened. But that would be a lie.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Unfortunately, I can't reveal all the details. It's a story the basics of which remain to be shared. Perhaps in a month or so. As for now, I can only share that Thursday's incident routed Farmer H from his recliner right after he'd finished his supper and a Little Debbie Zebra Cake for dessert. Sent him to town for 90 minutes. And involved a naked man, a broken cane, a big lie, and the police.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">An ti ci paaaaaa tion...</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-81589934856680098842024-03-14T08:00:00.001-05:002024-03-14T08:00:00.134-05:00Knick Knack, Jack Don't Hack, Give HM That Bone<div style="text-align: left;">I came rolling home Tuesday afternoon to find my little Jack on the porch have a blast with a bone. Scarlett was trying to be good on the side porch, so I was petting her. For once, Jack didn't run over and hope for some run-over petting, when I reach my arm extra-far across Scarlett's head to give him a pat.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Jack stood at the top of the porch steps, gnawing and dropping a bone. Just a small piece of bone, but quite loud. I thought maybe he had a piece of deer jaw. When I looked closer, that bone was all the way in Jack's tiny mouth, and it was RED! I assumed he had a fresh bone, with some meat or blood on the edge.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As I started up the steps, something about that bone did not look right. I called Jack over. He's quite compliant with me. I reached into his mouth and pulled out the slimy bone.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It wasn't a bone at all!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhavWPAwd720S4GlGoeUJXmdZYxtVhEibqnIvG6EFhIdBzQcG0wia_RlF_Mo9K0s91ndA7BUfH2XHe5myOFnnO5WtbgdWWDahbmXNBsjCX7g0vB73WRMHK1Oezbd7p8fUjBpwJKNwzX1Y9t9vX35G3tqgegnxp_dfJS73TYo7PUqMwIx3jT0lJHtQ1uUl2E/s4000/Jimmy%20Neutron%2003-12-24%20Carl%20Wheezer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhavWPAwd720S4GlGoeUJXmdZYxtVhEibqnIvG6EFhIdBzQcG0wia_RlF_Mo9K0s91ndA7BUfH2XHe5myOFnnO5WtbgdWWDahbmXNBsjCX7g0vB73WRMHK1Oezbd7p8fUjBpwJKNwzX1Y9t9vX35G3tqgegnxp_dfJS73TYo7PUqMwIx3jT0lJHtQ1uUl2E/w480-h640/Jimmy%20Neutron%2003-12-24%20Carl%20Wheezer.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">It was Carl Wheezer, friend of Jimmy Neutron! I didn't know that at first. I just knew that he didn't belong in Jack's mouth. No dog of mine is going to choke to death on Carl Wheezer. I took him inside, washed him off in the sink, dried him, and posed him on top of the paper towel rack. Then I sent a picture to The Pony, who had just gotten home from his dog bite.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Who is this? He looks familiar. At first I thought it was Rugrat Chuckie, but his hair is different."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"That's Carl. Carl Wheezer. He was on Jimmy Neutron. Genius would know. He loved that show."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I sent Genius the picture on Wednesday. <i>"Caught Jack chewing on Carl Wheezer yesterday."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"LOL. What a random find."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Yes. It was. No idea where Jack found Carl. We never had any of those figures here.</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-48317828158674490732024-03-13T08:00:00.010-05:002024-03-13T08:00:00.242-05:00Farmer H Gets His Nose Out Of Joint At The Devil's Playground<div style="text-align: left;">AND, Mrs. HM got her ears out of joint at the Hillbilly Mansion! You know Farmer H cannot tell a story. He leaves out important details, thinking you can read his mind. When you question the narrative, you are told that you DON'T KNOW NOTHIN'! And that you CAN'T REMEMBER ANYTHING! Even though a captive audience at Madison Square Garden would unanimously concur that the narrative was full of holes and misdirection.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I will try to spare you the inconsistencies, and report the facts as I gleaned them from my interrogation. I feel like I aged six months, and 25% of my lovely lady-mullet grayed with commiseration. You're welcome.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Farmer H recently bought a trailer from former Back Creek Neighbors Bev and Nick. It's a nice trailer. I passed Farmer H on the way home with it. Nicer than our current trailer, which we had to buy to replace the one wrecked by a certain relative who won't be named. It's a long trailer, suitable for hauling a car or tractor. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... Farmer H paid for that trailer himself. Then promptly broke it on the first day of use. He said something about the hitch section of it was broken. It came loose from SilverRedO! But at least not on a highway where somebody could have been hurt.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... Farmer H took that trailer over to The Pony's house. Poor Pony! And went to the Devil's Playground to buy a grinder to work on the problem area. But the grinders were LOCKED UP! I don't know what the deal is with that. The grinder Farmer H needed cost $22. Not like it's a high-dollar item that people are shoplifting on the regular.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... Farmer H asked a clerk at the automotive service desk (in the back, near the grinder case) for help. She could not get the key to work in the lock. She said she'd get somebody to help Farmer H. He waited for 20 minutes, but nobody came. So he started back to the service desk. On his way, he saw that clerk with a customer in the gun section. She saw Farmer H, and immediately started over to the service desk. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Farmer H said nobody had come to help him. The Clerk said that the other gal didn't know how to work the lock, either. But Farmer H saw her in the automotive section, and asked her to help him. She was a redhead, who said that she was HELPING A CUSTOMER. Farmer H said, <b>"I'm a customer, too, and I've been waiting 20 minutes after being told I would get help."</b> The Redhead did not have a comment for that, other than repeating that she was HELPING A CUSTOMER. The Clerk said she was going to get a manager.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Farmer H went back to the grinder case, and in about 10 minutes a manager showed up. He, too, had trouble with the key, but got the case unlocked so that Farmer H could get his grinder.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"Your redheaded gal over in automotive is [a rumpushole]," </b>said Farmer H. The manager had no comment. No question, no apology. Farmer H said the two gals, as well as the manager, were about the same age as The Pony.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Well. That explains it. They don't care about helping anybody! They don't think they should have to do anything to earn their pay."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">You'd think at least the manager could have PRETENDED that he was sorry for Farmer H's 30-minute wait, and said he was sorry for Farmer H's trouble. The rumpushole declaration did not help...</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-83586613283203063392024-03-12T08:00:00.002-05:002024-03-12T08:00:00.349-05:00This Is Kind Of Creepy And UnnaturalRemember when Farmer H was getting boxes of FREE food from Ponytail Steve? Boxes that his wife was handing out in another county, to anyone who wanted them, but always had a surplus? So Ponytail Steve asked the guys at the old flea market, and brought the food to them so it wouldn't go to waste.<div><br /></div><div>Anyhoo... that had to be at least two years ago. Maybe three! A few weeks ago, I was trying to make room on the top shelf of FRIG II, and found some cheese. Cheese from Ponytail Steve!!!</div><div><br /></div><div>I remembered that it was a long time since we got food from Ponytail Steve. I looked for an expiration date, but couldn't fine one. That doesn't mean the cheese is not expired!!!</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksN4tH_v9l3Oft1YoZMM4h3vgfTO841CK6nTFoD8YTE0H7ggg8x8JsatYdAyZf6imWDVG0M_gZlhtFj8hHOUpaqQZnEVpR4fkV4MVv0XPY83JTcK8o-3dQPgL2259PUmDUU3vDbe2Bk-XO0yNGUfnlOeyBTGY9KwKB_LdduSPcHqX_iDtNZDJoh-PRPU8/s4000/old%20cheese%2003-11-24%20from%20Ponytail%20Steve.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksN4tH_v9l3Oft1YoZMM4h3vgfTO841CK6nTFoD8YTE0H7ggg8x8JsatYdAyZf6imWDVG0M_gZlhtFj8hHOUpaqQZnEVpR4fkV4MVv0XPY83JTcK8o-3dQPgL2259PUmDUU3vDbe2Bk-XO0yNGUfnlOeyBTGY9KwKB_LdduSPcHqX_iDtNZDJoh-PRPU8/w640-h480/old%20cheese%2003-11-24%20from%20Ponytail%20Steve.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Sweet Gummi Mary! That is not natural! Cheese should not last that long! I realize that it's not "real" cheese, but a processed cheese. Still. When normal cheese is sometimes moldy before the BEST BY date, I don't trust three-year-old processed cheese. I tossed it in the trash.</div><div><br /></div><div>The chemicals in it might have made me glow in the dark!</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-86154689777360081492024-03-11T08:00:00.001-05:002024-03-11T08:00:00.140-05:00Farmer H Couldn't Buy A Clue, Even If Mrs. HM Financed It<div style="text-align: left;">Perhaps you've heard that Farmer H has a talent for arriving home right after Mrs. HM has carried in the groceries and put them away. Last week, I carried in 10 bags. Some were not light. Like the 9 bananas, and the carton of chicken broth, and the sour cream, biscuits, cream of chicken soup, and canned mushrooms. I left some of the heavier items in T-Hoe's rear. Things that didn't need refrigeration. Like canned white meat chicken, and pasta sauce.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... all week, I've been bringing in two bags of such non-immediate groceries as I return home. There are still some left. Some items in a box, from the last time I went in Save A Lot a couple weeks ago. Like salsa, and pickles.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sunday evening, Farmer H realized he was drinking his last Diet Mountain Dew with supper. There are four 6-packs of it in T-Hoe's rear. Farmer H declared that he would go out and get it after supper. He did. Brought in two 6-packs. NOTHING ELSE!!!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"I thought you might bring in some of the groceries I've been carrying in two bags at a time. The 10 bags the other day almost killed me."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"Huh. You should have said something."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"A normal person would have noticed groceries that should be brought in. It's not like they're going to be stored in T-Hoe for eternity."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"Well, if I'd brought them in, you'd complain about having to put them away."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Because you don't know how??? I would leave them until a convenient time to put away, later in the evening. It's not like I'd jump up and do it immediately."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"Huh. I can go back out right now and get them!"</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Never mind. You can do it tomorrow. It's just that you see them in the back of the car, and don't even consider how they're going to get in the house. And you only bring in two 6-packs of soda for yourself."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sweet Gummi Mary! Where does Farmer H think his food comes from? He would starve if I depended on him to carry in the groceries.</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-7072868181463933082024-03-10T08:00:00.004-05:002024-03-10T08:00:00.135-05:00Mystery Solved, Mrs. HM Refuses To Take The Fall<div style="text-align: left;"><i>FOUND IT! My missing Blogger-eaten post! It was over on my not-so-secret blog! Sorry if you read both, and have already seen it. People who don't know about this blog are probably thinking their gal Val had a stroke, and was typing gibberish.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>It's possible I could have typed both posts on that account. But I've not made such a mistake in all these 15 years or more that I've had two blogs. So who shall we point the finger at? A seasoned veteran of double-blogging, or BLOGGER, who has supposedly instituted a new sign-in screen? Perhaps it got its wires crossed in a momentary glitch. Both my blogs DO have the same recovery email. Though they have different sign-ins and passwords. Maybe that jumping cursor issue also affected my sign-in.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Anyhoo... with only one day of ado, here's what I meant to post on Saturday.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">_____________________________________________________________________</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>Friday morning, I made sauce for the pasta I planned to cook that evening. You know I don't like spaghetti. Too messy. Too hard to eat. So I had some shells that I find acceptable. I always cook the whole package, and then we have leftovers.</div><div><br /></div><div>The problem with pasta leftovers is that they soak up the sauce. In the past, I've had little jars of pizza sauce in the pantry, that I can add to the leftovers. I got them at Save A Lot, and haven't been there in a while. I picked up some Ragu sauce at 10Box in a plastic jar. I figured that instead of using my usual canned pasta sauce, and needing more for leftovers, I'd get this jar. Since it has a screw top, I would have some left to add later.</div><div><br /></div><div>Well. I'm re-thinking that decision. The Ragu said it was old-style, with meat flavoring. I poured it into a saucepan while I was browning the hamburger. As usual, I added some minced garlic, ground black pepper, a large can of mushrooms (per Farmer H's tastes), and a little bit of margarine. Upon an initial taste, that sauce was WAY TOO SWEET! Dang it! I fiddled and faddled, trying to make it more like my old sauce. I added some powdered parmesan from a shaker. Spooned in some of the hamburger grease. Added more ground black pepper. By the time I added the cooked hamburger, it was acceptable.</div><div><br /></div><div>Farmer H didn't know the difference. He said it was good!</div><div><br /></div><div>When I warm up the leftovers, I'm not sure what it will take to make the addition of some sauce taste like the original. I'm guessing ground black pepper and more powdered parmesan will do the trick. Perhaps some garlic powder and garlic salt if that doesn't work. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm going back to my canned sauce, and getting some pizza sauce to have on hand.</div></div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-11499324291472004542024-03-09T08:00:00.001-06:002024-03-09T14:22:40.974-06:00The Blogger Ate My Homework<div style="text-align: left;">Huh. I'm sure I had a post ready to come out at 8:00 a.m. on Saturday. You know Mrs. HM. You can practically set your clock by her. Or at least your calendar. Unless there's a power outage, I put out my drivel on a daily basis. I KNOW I had something not-very-important to say yesterday, and set it to publish before signing out.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The only explanation that comes to mind is my glitchy NEW POST program. It has a terrible habit of updating for me mid-sentence, and erasing complete sentences. Or leaving them, but jumping the cursor to a random paragraph middle. Sometimes a section turns blue, and the next keystroke erases it. At least I've learned to go up to the "undo" arrow, and get it back, as long as I catch it before typing away too much.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This happens on both my blogs. Sometimes when I'm answering comments, too, and there's no "undo" arrow for that. So if I'm longwinded, I will COPY a section before continuing. Just in case.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... I have no idea what was in that post. It must be lolling around in limbo, or up in the CLOUD, sipping a fruity drink and snickering with The Universe.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Setting this one to go back to 8:00 a.m. on Saturday, just for recordkeeping purposes. Talk to you tomorrow. I HOPE!</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-9585160605144562592024-03-08T08:00:00.005-06:002024-03-08T08:00:00.255-06:00The Storm That Didn't Arrive<div style="text-align: left;">Poor Pony. He was in a funk on Thursday morning. Rain was forecast for 7 hours, starting around 10:00 a.m. That makes mail delivery difficult, you know. Getting soaked, squishy shoes, wet mail, slippery steps. The Pony said his rain jackets were in his work vehicle. And that taking extra socks wouldn't matter, since they would be soaked within minutes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I felt bad for The Pony. But reminded him that it's only 8 hours. Hopefully. Since if other workers don't show up, The Pony could be told to help with other routes when finished.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">However... after a 15-minute deluge at 11:15, the rain dissipated. Even The Pony said, <b>"The rain is being inconsistent and not even a third as bad as was forecast. This makes me nervous it'll hit all at once. Just waiting for me to take off my rain helmet!"</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Heh, heh. The Universe is a cheeky prankster!"</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A little later, The Pony reported, <b>"Took off my hat at 12:36. At 12:39 it started sprinkling again."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... The Pony said he had only about half the usual packages, and might finish the day 20 minutes ahead of schedule. <b>"Just going slow and careful, because I don't want to be given any extra to do tonight in the rain when I'm done."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Good idea. Work smarter, not harder."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I had also suggested that at least rain might mean that loose dogs would not be out roaming. The Pony had a chuckle at that assumption. <b>"They're still out there. Just wet."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... I didn't hear when The Pony clocked out. But the rest of the day was not rainy. Just a couple sprinkles when I was in town, getting T-Hoe's weekly gas.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Another storm avoided.</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-53032285722857190952024-03-07T08:00:00.001-06:002024-03-07T08:00:00.245-06:00The Usually Unflappable Farmer H Was Flailing Like A Car Wash Inflatable Tube Man<div style="text-align: left;">Nothing much shakes up Farmer H. Other than bossing people around and flipping out if he doesn't get his way, he's a fairly steady guy. Good in a crisis. Calming during a catastrophe.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Tuesday afternoon, Farmer H called me. Get that? CALLED me. Rather than sending a text.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"I just got an email thanking me for my payment! I didn't make any payments! It has an invoice I can click on, but I ain't openin' nothin'. It's from some guy I never heard of. I didn't make any payments. I hope nobody is using my name and getting our money!"</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Don't open anything. Don't worry about it. I've gotten a couple of those a while back. They had a company name instead of a guy's name. It's a scam wanting you to click on something, trying to get more information from you."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"Well. Somebody could have made a payment with our money..."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Not like this. None of our stuff is under your email. So how would you get a notice? If they used our credit card, we would have gotten a security call. Like when you used it once up by work, when I was using it at the Devil's Playground. The other payment thingy the credit card is linked to sends me an email every time a payment is made. I didn't get one. I'll check our bank transactions to be sure, because it's time to do that anyway. Don't worry about it."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"Yeah. I guess you're right. None of that stuff comes to my email."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">There. I talked Farmer H off the ledge.</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-8030846202363976612024-03-06T08:00:00.003-06:002024-03-06T08:00:00.136-06:00The Universe Is Laughing<div style="text-align: left;">Monday evening, I was happily scratching, listening to music on Spotify, when the music stopped. It was the end of a song, but it didn't go on to the next one. My Spotify is sometimes glitchy, even though I pay the premium price monthly. Probably due to my slow internet, or my old HIPPIE. Usually, a refresh of the page will fix such a problem. Not this time.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My next tactic was a shut-down and a turn-on. That's faster than a restart. I don't know why. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Still no success. I tried a couple other websites. NO INTERNET!!! What in the NOT-HEAVEN? The weather was a bit cloudy, but the TV was still working. They both run off DISH satellites. I considered waiting 15 minutes or so, to see if it was just a weather thing. Deep in my bones, I knew it was not. I could wait, be inconvenienced, and then bitter when it still didn't work. Or I could face the music and DESCEND THE 13 RAIL-LESS basement steps to unplug and replug the router and the DISH connection.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Farmer H was conveniently (for him) away at an auction. Otherwise, he would have done this task for me. I swear, every time the internet has gone down since we replaced the router, Farmer H has been gone to an auction! It's like The Universe bides its time, waiting until just such an evening. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I went to the basement. Halfway down, I realized that I had left my phone on the kitchen table. That's not good. One of our landline phones down there, next to my recliner, does not work. The other is in my office. If I fell, I doubt I could drag myself to the office, and find something to grab onto to reach that phone. Oh, well. I was not going back up to get my cell. The descent continued.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I unplugged the router egg-looking thingy. Then went into Farmer H's workshop to unplug the main power to the DISH receiver. No clock in there, so I counted out loud to one-thousand-sixty. Plugged in the two cords again (because I didn't know which one was for sure to the internet DISH). Then went back to the router egg, and re-plugged it. Up those 13 rail-less stairs. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">SUCCESS! </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My right knee is a bit angry today. But I fixed the problem. Farmer H said he would have done it for me if he was here. So there's that...</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-15127502339235481162024-03-05T08:00:00.001-06:002024-03-05T08:00:00.137-06:00Their Reputation Precedes Them<div style="text-align: left;">I went in the Sis-Town Country Mart on Monday. I was planning to look for some fried chicken in their deli. Just before leaving home, I realized that I was OUT OF MAYONNAISE! That never happens. I always have a reserve jar waiting. But not this time. So that was added to my "list" along with soda on sale for Farmer H, and some slaw to go with the chicken.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Good thing we aren't out of bananas yet. The selection there was HORRIBLE! Only a few bunches of mottled dark small bananas, looking like they'd had quite a rough voyage to get here. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">An older woman was wheeling her cart around the pre-packaged bakery goods. I'm pretty sure this store has a bakery along with their deli. But I doubt they made these cakes. The kind on a black plastic base, with a clear dome covering.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... Older Woman picked up several. Then asked the girl working in the deli area,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"Are these cakes fresh?"</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Yes, Ma'am?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"I wanted to know if these cakes are fresh."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"The date should be on the tag on each one."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"Oh. I see. Yes. I'll be able to eat this one before it goes bad."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Heh, heh! AS IF! That's not a problem we have around the Mansion. A cake will never go bad. Besides, it's not like one day they're fine to eat, and at midnight they turn deadly. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Still, I understand. Country Mart is notorious for selling out-dated goods. I don't blame Older Woman. I prefer not to spend my money on their overpriced items when they are not even in their prime. I made sure to check the date on my mayonnaise. JULY, 2024.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Can you believe that jar of mayonnaise was $5.98??? That's outrageous! That's why my previous three or four jars had been off the bargain bin at 10Box. Marked down to $2.50. Of course, it WAS expired...</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-71371873317888739752024-03-04T08:00:00.002-06:002024-03-04T08:00:00.139-06:00Help Is In The Mind Of The Helper<div style="text-align: left;">Farmer H is the proverbial monkey wrench. A walking, talking monkey wrench who unintentionally (I hope) sabotages any project or plan I have in the works. Like Saturday evening...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Farmer H had sent me a text that he would be staying at his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2) until 4:30. That's the time he usually get home, or perhaps a bit earlier. I responded at 4:00 that I was just leaving for town. It usually takes me about an hour, when I go in the store for a few items.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I was back home at 5:00. Hoping that Farmer H would be there. It's about a 30-minute drive from the SUS2 over in Bill-Paying Town to the Mansion. Nope. No SilverRedO under the carport. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I carried in the bags after giving my fleabags a good petting. I put away my items. Still no Farmer H. I bagged up the trash that was overflowing. Put in a new trash bag. But I didn't tie the drawstrings of the old one in a knot. I had more stuff to put in it. Once out of the trash can, there was room left inside.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The trash doesn't get picked up until Tuesday. When we get a full trash bag, Farmer H takes it up to the dumpster at the end of the driveway as he leaves in the mornings. He just tosses the bag onto the hood of SilverRedO, then gets out and puts it in the dumpster.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo...I tried to call Farmer H at 5:15, to see if he had left yet. His phone was dead. Meaning that my call did not go through. It just seemed like it was calling. But there was no ringing sound, and no voice mail to leave a message. That happens when Farmer H is inside his SUS2. He doesn't get good reception. Sometimes a text will go through. So I sent him a text. After 5 minutes, he replied that he was almost home, and just getting the mail. So I knew that I could start his supper of chicken tacos.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I carried the full trash bag around to the kitchen table area, where it's handy for Farmer H to pick up on his way out in the morning. I had an empty box from my Shasta Diet Cola on the kitchen counter by the sink. I planned to put in the end of the lettuce I was chopping, and the skin and ends of the onion I would also be chopping. That would save me walking out to toss it off the porch. It would be sealed up in the trash bag in the dumpster, not stinking up the Mansion.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Farmer H came in, and I complimented (heh, heh) him on his uncanny ability to arrive right after I had carried in and put away the groceries, and bagged up the trash. I asked if he wanted a whiskey and Shasta, or if he was just having Diet Mountain Dew with his meal. He said he'd take a whiskey and Shasta. I reminded him that there were still three 6-packs of his Diet Mountain Dew in T-Hoe's rear.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"Oh. I'll go out and bring in two."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I have no idea why he wouldn't bring in all three! He has carried in more that three 6-packs before. But I don't question Farmer H's ways. There's no rhyme nor reason to his logic.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When I sliced off the ends of the onion and put them into the Shasta box, I noticed that the TRASH BAG WAS GONE FROM THE KITCHEN TABLE AREA!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Hey! Where's the trash bag? I wasn't done with it!"</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"Oh. I took it out when I went back to get my soda. It's on the truck."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sweet Gummi Mary! Of all the times to vary from routine, and take the trash bag out at NIGHT instead of in the morning! Not only was Farmer H not helpful. He was UNhelpful.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Well. You never do that. And I have this soda box full of lettuce and onion parts that were supposed to go in that trash bag. So you'll have to take out this box in the morning, and put it in the trash bag."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm assuming he did. The soda box was gone. Surely he didn't put it anywhere else.</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-51931960920009035282024-03-03T08:00:00.001-06:002024-03-03T08:00:00.130-06:00I've Always Maintained That Something Fishy Is Going On Here<div style="text-align: left;">Friday, I planned to get scratchers at the Liquor Store. I go to the Gas Station Chicken Store every day, but also to another place, because I don't like buying multiple tickets off the same roll. Gotta have my crosswords. And now the new Frogger ticket that is fun to play.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... when I got to the stoplight, I saw that the parking lot of the Liquor Store was full! All six spaces down in front, all seven spaces along the building, and the drive-thru line was out the entrance! I know it was a Friday. And a first-of-the-month Friday, too. So old folks and people drawing government benefits had just gotten their "payday." But still... that's a LOT of people to be buying alcohol and cigarettes and vapes at 2:45 on a Friday afternoon.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I've always suspected that something else is going on in that Liquor Store. Not sure what. Poker or illegal gambling in a back room? Many times I've been there with many cars in the parking lot, but no customers inside! Where could they be? This is not a place for commuter parking. People are usually in and out within five minutes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I think their sign may say that they do payday loans. Would that cause a bunch of people to be there on the first of the month? Maybe paying back money? Surely that would be something private, to take place out of the store aisles. I don't think that could explain the drive-thru traffic, though. Perhaps those people saw all the cars parked, and didn't want to go inside, lest there be a long line to stand in.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Whatever is going on, I wanted no part of that crazy traffic. I went to Casey's instead. And won NOTHING there. My original instinct is usually the best for my lottery luck. I hope somebody enjoyed a big winner that was meant for me!</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-38733078518713627472024-03-02T08:00:00.006-06:002024-03-02T08:00:00.247-06:00Not Exactly Cookbook Material<div style="text-align: left;">The Pony is looking for a brick or piece of a concrete block or a big rock to put in his new trash can. Something heavy, without taking up a lot of space. Until then, that precious trash can will not be left at the curb on windy days. Like this past Tuesday, when The Pony carried out the trash bags in it, left them curbside, then brought the precious trash can back INSIDE the house. Not on the front porch or the back porch.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The Pony has been feeding himself more, now that the long December days of overtime are over. Back then he relied heavily on having food delivered, because he was so tired upon getting home after working late.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Here's another version of a hamburger he made the other day:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_gKC-6_SDriUNAt02KBE2bDan7JcbtzoxvqpDhUigR-yE_rZrWoeZSEUyv3akRjOguVobVyxW6O9evj5IpUhM9XvY7VfRhNGWChRD-0bUnUjupE0uGdTT1uGCVTSK8z1WMtfQcyOPIA1RXLc5Ve6NeiBOud7uZlGBkXLsmVjX_Atcsn3Dq2Q9WEp_K22u/s2310/pony%20egg%20burger%2002-26-24.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1701" data-original-width="2310" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_gKC-6_SDriUNAt02KBE2bDan7JcbtzoxvqpDhUigR-yE_rZrWoeZSEUyv3akRjOguVobVyxW6O9evj5IpUhM9XvY7VfRhNGWChRD-0bUnUjupE0uGdTT1uGCVTSK8z1WMtfQcyOPIA1RXLc5Ve6NeiBOud7uZlGBkXLsmVjX_Atcsn3Dq2Q9WEp_K22u/w640-h472/pony%20egg%20burger%2002-26-24.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Said he was too tired to cut up the onion correctly, but that the egg on top was a delicious addition. Oh, and the lettuce was used up on the previous burgers.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A couple days later, the menus was corn dogs and fries:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHCWN6gft4DrCdEHBPZn0AOAGXejtXuXx_cdg2vDN128ukunzGUBQ9sIH_N9Bd5P-nwfbVpHCmUA7u_swECXd64WfLhx6CqqHC__-hn0I5ISkdh91gQicRhss__piwJc9j47XYha83-dRzu7tdtLtAcvbIkFPl511Iia09WX06YadUiHBDtjlD_oGlOe6B/s2560/pony%20corn%20dogs%2002-27-24.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHCWN6gft4DrCdEHBPZn0AOAGXejtXuXx_cdg2vDN128ukunzGUBQ9sIH_N9Bd5P-nwfbVpHCmUA7u_swECXd64WfLhx6CqqHC__-hn0I5ISkdh91gQicRhss__piwJc9j47XYha83-dRzu7tdtLtAcvbIkFPl511Iia09WX06YadUiHBDtjlD_oGlOe6B/w640-h480/pony%20corn%20dogs%2002-27-24.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The Pony said he wished for another corn dog, but didn't want to spend the time or energy to put another one in the oven.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Not all meals can be gourmet adventures. </div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-60006266231622423992024-03-01T08:00:00.008-06:002024-03-01T08:00:00.143-06:00SOMEBODY Needs A Visit From The Count<div style="text-align: left;">Can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street, and locate The Count? We are in desperate need of his services. Surely it wouldn't cost much to get him here. I assume he could turn into a bat and fly.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Wednesday was chugging along like a normal day. Farmer H went off to do whatever he does at 6:00 a.m. Around 10:00, I spent some time at the kitchen table on HIPPIE. While there, I saw my little Jack on the back porch. He's usually not there. He was traipsing along, sticking his head through the porch rail, looking out into the back woods, and then into the fake fish pond. The weather had turned chilly overnight. I thought he might be back there to soak up some morning sun.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Around 3:00, I was ready to leave for town. I opened the kitchen door to toss my banana peel off the back porch. That is usually a signal for Scarlett and Jack to come running around in anticipation of their "leaving" treat, a 1/4 slice of bread each. But this day, Scarlett did not appear. I proceeded to the side porch with an eager Jack. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Okay. I've got your treat. Where's Scarlett? She better come around, or you'll get HER treat, too!"</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Jack wriggled agreeably as I tossed him his bread, and side-stepped down the stairs to the sidewalk.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Well. I don't see Scarlett. So here, more for you!"</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">That's when I heard a scratching at the garage door. Maybe a slight whimper.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"OH NO! Did Dad shut Scarlett in the garage again???"</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Jack is not a snitch. He busied himself eating Scarlett's treat. I opened the people door to the garage, and Scarlett ran out! Dang Farmer H! How hard is it to notice if a hyper Australian Shepherd is still in the garage when he closes the door?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Poor Scarlett missed her treat. But at least she was free. I gave her a quick pat and an apology, then went on about my business. Scarlett had been trapped in the garage since 6:00 a.m. when Farmer H left the Mansion after setting out their food. Nine hours is along time for a dog to be trapped in a garage. Poor Scarlett couldn't hold her morning pee. She had relieved herself in the front corner of the garage. Unfortunately, that large puddle had run down alongside T-Hoe! Right where I walk before climbing in.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I did not blame poor Scarlett. At least dog pee does not smell as foul as cat pee! I called Farmer H once I got T-Hoe down the driveway.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"You closed your dog in the garage again! How can you not notice?"</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"I could have sworn she was on the porch when I left."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"No. She was in the garage. It was in the 20s last night. So she had to lay on that cold concrete floor for 9 HOURS!"</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"At least she was out of the wind."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"But she didn't have the warm sunlight to lay in! AND she couldn't hold her pee that long, and I had to walk through it to get in my car."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"Huh. I'm on my way home right now."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Indeed. I passed Farmer H on the county blacktop road. When I got back, I saw his solution to the pee. He had swept leaves and dirt onto that stream. So instead of just stepping in a shallow stream of dog pee, I had to avoid tripping on uneven dirt and slippery leaves. I'm pretty sure Farmer H is trying to kill me. This time with dog pee!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Once in the Mansion, I asked Farmer H...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"How hard is it to count to TWO??? We have two dogs! Make sure they are both on the porch before you leave!"</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"Scarlett was on the porch! I guess she went back in the garage when I put the lid back on the dog food bucket."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Yeah. When I get home and put groceries on the chair on the side porch, and go back to get my purse and water bottle out of T-Hoe, she runs back in. I know that. She is not invisible! Who doesn't know when their dog follows them into a garage? Especially a dog who ADORES you, and follows you wherever you go!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I don't think Farmer H even apologized to Scarlett. I guess he didn't see the need. She loves him SO MUCH! She probably holds ME responsible!</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-24041807651020641262024-02-29T08:00:00.004-06:002024-02-29T08:00:00.271-06:00The Label Is In The Mind Of The Beholder<div style="text-align: left;">Last week, Farmer H <a href="https://unbaggingthecats.blogspot.com/2024/02/prices-flow-freely-at-senior-bingo.html" target="_blank">won some treats</a> at Senior Center bingo. He shared some of it with me, taking out granola bars, a tin of cookies, and a marshmallow Santa. I gave the box of Fruity Pebbles cereal, and the Hot Cocoa Ball, to The Pony, but kept the two boxes of Thin Mints.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I had merely glanced into the bag. I set out the Thin Mints on the counter. Anybody around here knows that Thin Mints are a delicious Girl Scout Cookie, a dark wafer covered with mint-flavored chocolate. Mmm! Save A Lot has a generic version that is also just as tasty. I have not had any for over a year. They're just not on my radar when I go shopping.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... I was waiting until just the right time to crack open one of those boxes and enjoy a Thin Mint or two. That time came on Monday evening, when I was preparing to watch the premiere of <b>Deal or No Deal Island</b>. I opened the tubish box and slid out the tray. Took three cookies with me to the short couch, and sat down to munch.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">WAIT A MINUTE!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Those were NOT cookies!!! They were MINTS! Can you believe it? MINTS, in a box marked THIN MINTS! Sweet Gummi Mary! How dare that company mislead me into thinking there were COOKIES inside that box!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXlXwCVvdf_gCm82B65NqH7-V8NDipeHttCHNNyjhyphenhyphenJOIvO6V_JcOi21PmeQqrWTD8WM7lh7Xr000ZfPdM9x8ZXUjzAKlfaXOYpiulaO-zaMkshbCfZc7l_Ts9nQoBeRidncJwVYLbOEhI1VTA1AbgLr3Vqznense8qTHIrH8rJA0beHXSkP7jRRiDXLUK/s4000/thin%20mint%2002-28-24%20box.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1576" data-original-width="4000" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXlXwCVvdf_gCm82B65NqH7-V8NDipeHttCHNNyjhyphenhyphenJOIvO6V_JcOi21PmeQqrWTD8WM7lh7Xr000ZfPdM9x8ZXUjzAKlfaXOYpiulaO-zaMkshbCfZc7l_Ts9nQoBeRidncJwVYLbOEhI1VTA1AbgLr3Vqznense8qTHIrH8rJA0beHXSkP7jRRiDXLUK/w640-h252/thin%20mint%2002-28-24%20box.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I guess maybe the Girl Scouts should rethink their branding and call their product Thin Mint Cookies. Though when you buy Girl Scout Cookies, you do kind of assume they will be cookies.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I can't believe I was bamboozled into thinking I had two delicious boxes of cookies. Wishful thinking, I suppose.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYWAdtf9AtXjTdO3hatQE0D4ggsCNosjGzgDZjEjBbvmduqA96m8xQVOX9TeGa0r-oG_q0ckFq0i9ABw9W8fEhuaqIJtOeLPJissKWVihOfqblMelgc3RYlIyMLYEbjqm8sq-ZCcb2w6G2zilkChUumeDmgH2nqyU8O6vr5BRjOioy8pYfSThEOeFIceU_/s2805/thin%20mint%2002-28-24%20quarter%20size.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1413" data-original-width="2805" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYWAdtf9AtXjTdO3hatQE0D4ggsCNosjGzgDZjEjBbvmduqA96m8xQVOX9TeGa0r-oG_q0ckFq0i9ABw9W8fEhuaqIJtOeLPJissKWVihOfqblMelgc3RYlIyMLYEbjqm8sq-ZCcb2w6G2zilkChUumeDmgH2nqyU8O6vr5BRjOioy8pYfSThEOeFIceU_/w640-h322/thin%20mint%2002-28-24%20quarter%20size.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I guess my first clue before biting in should have been that this produce was more thick than thin. And was tiny, barely bigger than a quarter. They're not bad, for being just a mint. Kind of like an oversized Junior Mint, with a not-as-shiny, more melty chocolate coating.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I will still consume them. Probably even offer some to Farmer H...</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-6681312499576702022024-02-28T08:00:00.004-06:002024-02-28T08:00:00.268-06:00Farmer H, The Contortionist<div style="text-align: left;">Oh, the lengths Farmer H will go to in order to declare the opposite of any opinion I might have! He plays a mental game of Twister. His mind goes through a more strenuous workout than a Chinese acrobat. His brain walks a line finer than a canyon-spanning tightrope of a Flying Wallenda.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A couple evenings ago, Farmer H was home at 4:00. I was headed to the master bathroom to change out of my town clothes. He barged past me into the bedroom to put the flip house keys on the dresser, then went into the bathroom.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Oh. I guess I'll just wait here behind the couch until you're done."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Back came Farmer H. <b>"I'm done now."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Are you going back in the bedroom?"</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"No. I'm going down to the basement."</b> He kept walking, past me, to the steps.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"I just asked, because you left the light on in there."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"I left it on for you."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"I don't need a light. It's still daylight. Even if it was night, I can take one step into the bedroom and find the bathroom light as I go in."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"Huh."</b> Farmer H huffed, and started back from the top of the basement steps.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"I'll turn it off when I go in there. My point is that as you came out, leaving that light on, I asked right then if you were going back. So you could turn it off then."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"I left it on for you."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Nobody needs a light in the daytime! Just admit that you forgot to turn off the light!"</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"But I didn't. I turned it on for you."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I don't believe that for one minute. It's a fight to get Farmer H to turn on the living room light in the dead of night at 8:00 p.m., even though all he has to do is reach his hand up from where he sits in the recliner. It's an opposite thing. And an oppositional thing. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Let the record show that he didn't leave the BATHROOM light on for me!</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-73293701533994393442024-02-27T08:00:00.003-06:002024-02-27T08:00:00.148-06:00The Pony Should Not Be Held Captive<div style="text-align: left;">I feel bad for Farmer H meddling in The Pony's home life. On Saturday evening, I called Farmer H to see when he'd be home. I was holding off starting his supper. He said </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I'm on my way to Pony's house right now with a dresser."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">That's a whole other story, which might be told elsewhere eventually. Just know that it's a dresser The Pony had said he could use in his second bedroom, but that Farmer H was taking it there out of the blue.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I immediately called The Pony to warn him. Farmer H has a bad habit of barging in whenever it's convenient for him, to use The Pony's bathroom while he's at work, or to drop off something on the spur of the moment. The phone rang many times, then The Pony answered.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"You must be like Dad, able to see through the phone, and call at the worst time, heh, heh! Dad just got here and we were carrying in the dresser."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Okay. I was just warning you that he was coming."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"At least he called me this time. But yes, I do not like him coming unannounced. I want to at least make sure I have pants on. And he was here earlier this week, complaining about my boxes in the living room. AND he went in the kitchen, and he had no business there."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Let the record show that The Pony had a new laptop, and a desk chair delivered early in the week. So the boxes were still there. The trash pickup is Tuesday, but The Pony said the boxes would blow around even if he had trash pickup since then. So he was planning to burn the boxes in the back yard. (People do that around here.) And that Farmer H told him to do it THAT DAY after getting the dresser, but it was SO WINDY that even I had trouble standing when a gust hit me while walking into 10Box.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... The Pony got his boxes burned on Sunday afternoon. There's a flat spot up by the gravel alley behind his house that is away from homes and trees. He had a 2-liter bottle that once held soda, full of water, to put out any sparks that might have lit into the grass. It was all done by the time I stopped by (announced earlier that morning).</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... The Pony should not have to live life wondering when Farmer H might barge in and spout criticism over his housekeeping skills. The Pony has 20 months of payments into that house already. It no longer belongs to Farmer H!</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-91620784839751065172024-02-26T08:00:00.002-06:002024-02-26T08:00:00.144-06:00Ponyburgers<div style="text-align: left;">The Pony went to the store while taking some days off. So he's been cooking his own meals. He sent me pictures on the night I was having leftover roasted vegetables and frozen chicken.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"Mmmmm."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJlJtMdCbg71oAOfsmyttUu5-q9-aHoLjJ6JzJ3p1-n3XOzQ6AyFVXWIlX-Q4fT6ftpX17kJCxZPurwFsfuNMjTEVr7cl2VkH2cN5xCERxUjLJ2No7cPSLRDncSS4HAChzTX-0bJswb3lq4gRp6nKFM2HpU6gNgBhfROjGRtY5bCYQpZGb_2oQNqc_7baT/s2560/pony%20burger%2002-24-24%20buns.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1920" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJlJtMdCbg71oAOfsmyttUu5-q9-aHoLjJ6JzJ3p1-n3XOzQ6AyFVXWIlX-Q4fT6ftpX17kJCxZPurwFsfuNMjTEVr7cl2VkH2cN5xCERxUjLJ2No7cPSLRDncSS4HAChzTX-0bJswb3lq4gRp6nKFM2HpU6gNgBhfROjGRtY5bCYQpZGb_2oQNqc_7baT/w480-h640/pony%20burger%2002-24-24%20buns.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Had the buns ready and waiting. Nice and toasted.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ksUpRJQp-u8lT7kXW-CK8mq2K2gtmn-BGjJY65p0-6OzRfhFSc-9sO2_L55myl9la3cXnGeQB_HIYgvHUZ90DGAcGqYRSzan_OyLx3wFOqT7x21EnxGPHYOBsnzb9FB93pTAGgqSPo-hhkvvU0xsaYbzTlQsW-xub5RizD881uIv6h1zrGx5LE1f5gA6/s2560/pony%20burger%2002-24-24%20skillet.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ksUpRJQp-u8lT7kXW-CK8mq2K2gtmn-BGjJY65p0-6OzRfhFSc-9sO2_L55myl9la3cXnGeQB_HIYgvHUZ90DGAcGqYRSzan_OyLx3wFOqT7x21EnxGPHYOBsnzb9FB93pTAGgqSPo-hhkvvU0xsaYbzTlQsW-xub5RizD881uIv6h1zrGx5LE1f5gA6/w640-h480/pony%20burger%2002-24-24%20skillet.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Not sure why The Pony made them one at a time.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZL_Sb8oPLWUfxEz9ZjSKwxexmkhCP7boxnxnvso73j1VDTy9035uRUGeqMW7HbwN8gnrtYGXXLbi4I_X0z4kwEPz0iYa6erIH3tMtRcEuTbTNFF8mA22Q176zXBhU54flZBW-m6aTpBixksI8s3eQWXiUs31iUGP_u14SSCS9MqwjG00GhASHAqfmUhDw/s2560/pony%20burger%2002-24-24%20complete.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZL_Sb8oPLWUfxEz9ZjSKwxexmkhCP7boxnxnvso73j1VDTy9035uRUGeqMW7HbwN8gnrtYGXXLbi4I_X0z4kwEPz0iYa6erIH3tMtRcEuTbTNFF8mA22Q176zXBhU54flZBW-m6aTpBixksI8s3eQWXiUs31iUGP_u14SSCS9MqwjG00GhASHAqfmUhDw/w640-h480/pony%20burger%2002-24-24%20complete.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">That makes me want a burger! No lettuce for me, though. Pickles and onions would be fine. I could take or leave the cheese.</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-25358852421015611272024-02-25T08:00:00.002-06:002024-02-25T08:00:00.130-06:00Her ADORATION Knows No Bounds<div style="text-align: left;">I think <a href="https://mountainmamasview.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">blog buddy Kathy</a> might be right with her comment a few posts ago that Scarlett is like a woman who keeps going back to her abuser! Our adopted dog Scarlett ADORES Farmer H so much that she cannot quit him.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A few days ago, Farmer H arrived home as I was leaving for town. Let the record show that the dogs and I have our departure routine. We do not need the <strike>interference</strike> <i>help</i> from Farmer H. I toss my daily banana peel over the porch rail. The dogs hear the kitchen door open, and the plop of the peel. They rush to greet me. I have a small treat in hand for each of them. I toss it onto the side porch as I descend the steps.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Jack eats his treat while Scarlett is mouthing hers, trying to ascertain if it is, indeed, food. I'm pretty sure she was never given table scraps in her former life trapped inside a wire kennel 12 or more hours per day. Jack comes to the steps, and puts his digging paws on the hand rail. When I get to the bottom, I sweet-talk him and pet him for a few minutes. Scarlett keeps her distance. She knows that HER petting will be when I get back.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Farmer H had parked T-Hoe, and came to sit on the side porch. That made Scarlett hyper after her treat. She was wiggly and reaching a paw to me as I went down the steps. Of course Farmer H thought he was in control of The Universe, and scolded her. <b>"NO! Scarlett NO!"</b> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Scarlett sidled up against the object of her ADORATION while still reaching a paw towards me. Farmer H looped his right arm over her neck. Essentially trapping Scarlett in a headlock. She endured it. Her eyes did reflect her eventual confusion. "Daddy why you do this to me?" Such a lady. She did not snarl or claw. Only tried to back her way out of the clinch.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Stop! Let her go! She's fine. I don't want you to give her an ear hematoma like poor Juno."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Farmer H was not the cause of Juno's ear hematoma. It was from shaking her head when the five Mailbox Row cats got ear mites, and shared them with Juno. But still, she had the fat ear, which eventually crinkled and was not the same.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Farmer H released Scarlett. She stood on the side porch, not longer pawing at me. But still shooting imaginary cartoon hearts from her eyes towards Farmer H.</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-34552396633547518132024-02-24T08:00:00.012-06:002024-02-24T08:00:00.128-06:00A Year Late And $25 Short<div style="text-align: left;">The Pony has taken a mini vacation during his birthday time. On Friday, he asked Farmer H if he wanted to go to lunch. As with all meals we share with The Pony, we pay. Farmer H had a $25 gift card for a local Mexican chain that he had gotten at the Senior Center when they gave out before-Christmas gifts. He and The Pony had tried it before, but the restaurant said it was for the location in School-Turn Town, and not the one they went to in Sis-Town.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... Farmer H and The Pony went lunch at the School-Turn location.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJEIZiD-H6Xp38MyftlACtgTfbhzoG250SECOwOa1_JpfmOoe8T9xg6Dx3VJAxw5QnBRczDqj_2hq5e0DW7Od6L77_xNQb1rvef6YJtOgLbuZ0Rjtdonak4dpBGk4EJyJqoEX0uoaZ1vepGsOhbPBPVjuabKyfaU6utvCLdwJkGjzWGJM7C2bxR9R0yZ7/s2560/Mexican%2002-23-24%20Hick%20fajitas%20lunch%20chicken%20shrimp.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJEIZiD-H6Xp38MyftlACtgTfbhzoG250SECOwOa1_JpfmOoe8T9xg6Dx3VJAxw5QnBRczDqj_2hq5e0DW7Od6L77_xNQb1rvef6YJtOgLbuZ0Rjtdonak4dpBGk4EJyJqoEX0uoaZ1vepGsOhbPBPVjuabKyfaU6utvCLdwJkGjzWGJM7C2bxR9R0yZ7/w640-h480/Mexican%2002-23-24%20Hick%20fajitas%20lunch%20chicken%20shrimp.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Farmer H had the Fajitas Lunch for $11.99. It came with the fajita in foil, and the guacamole, lettuce, salsa, cheese, and refried beans on one plate. Then the shrimp and chicken on another plate. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8KvvxMXrMmEM-36XyStv-Mq45WuNYngyMfpCQ9U1nW_9kcdm4SGvO9lGf2HUh-KqCESHFyyOmpi1y0L9EjOxK5AlIY8-2Jt7ji49TpVMx80LVdhQYCwfb7QmjmlZMBskkTJI3_TnIteBH-haAYLDrxj76dVVehfYuRoT3JKWRJTyY3JriArrKi67nlolg/s2560/Mexican%2002-23-24%20Pony%20lunch%20burrito%20azteca.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8KvvxMXrMmEM-36XyStv-Mq45WuNYngyMfpCQ9U1nW_9kcdm4SGvO9lGf2HUh-KqCESHFyyOmpi1y0L9EjOxK5AlIY8-2Jt7ji49TpVMx80LVdhQYCwfb7QmjmlZMBskkTJI3_TnIteBH-haAYLDrxj76dVVehfYuRoT3JKWRJTyY3JriArrKi67nlolg/w640-h480/Mexican%2002-23-24%20Pony%20lunch%20burrito%20azteca.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The Pony had the Burrito Azteca shown here, for $13.99. Not sure what that white sauce is. They shared the chips and salsa that came with their meals.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Their sodas cost $2.99 apiece! Like Farmer H pointed out, a whole meal at the Senior Center is only $4.00! Too bad he didn't take The Pony there!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When they finished, Farmer H used his gift card to pay. Except they told him it had ZERO DOLLARS on it! So he had to pay with our debit card. Farmer H is going to let them know about this at the Senior Center on Monday. Not sure if that gift card expired at the end of 2023, or if it wasn't loaded with money, or if the other location scammed him.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... Farmer H had the nerve to complain to me that The Pony always orders the most expensive item. Seriously? Look at the food Farmer H had, and the food The Pony had. I hardly think The Pony's motive was to scam Farmer H out of lunch money! I would have thought Farmer H's meal would be more expensive than The Pony's. It had SHRIMP! And more total food!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo... it's not like that meal came out of Farmer H's pocket. It was OUR debit card, by cracky!</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112514995333046518.post-33475496419085049322024-02-23T08:00:00.002-06:002024-02-23T08:00:00.138-06:00It's Deer:30 SomewhereSeveral evenings this week, deer have been lurking along the county blacktop road as I come home from town. They're on the stretch down by the low water bridge, near where I got behind the hay trailer with unsecured round bales. <div><br /></div><div>Sometimes they are crossing the road from the creek into the woods. Sometimes they are in a field, grazing. They are big healthy deer. We've had a mild winter. They are well-fed. I told Farmer H they were all does, but he said this time of year, the bucks have lost their antlers. I don't quite believe that. Otherwise, how do you get a big buck with 12-point antlers? Do they grow all at once like that? I don't know, and am not curious enough to look it up. It would be just like Farmer H to spout out something that he knows I am ignorant of, and claim it to be the truth!</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyhoo... these deer are a welcome sight, leaping and flipping the white fluffy underside of their tails. That act is called "flagging." I DO know that! I am glad they have avoided hitting me, and I them. I've had to stop several times to let them cross.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not so lucky was a critter The Pony spied on his way home from our casino trip last week. He wasn't even out of the driveway yet.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Dead? Raccoon?"</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJV99t7IIGHUoVXRSrT7uGqnJIR3lwErUmWXRcQnzZlZz-3Xew5VkvcU6of4FvuQyV6kM4pYl_lff3nq1eHlBrim-saZIJKdzIRZd7WTLdNTnNiXKy6MsTTgEhkHRgblv-3LuNfTt2hC6kG7nlmnqBFXegmQ19Rl2f8ZO9Rs1LExK_GXX5sHSQFPFfeIjp/s2560/raccoon%2002-22-24%20from%20Super%20Bowl%20Sunday.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJV99t7IIGHUoVXRSrT7uGqnJIR3lwErUmWXRcQnzZlZz-3Xew5VkvcU6of4FvuQyV6kM4pYl_lff3nq1eHlBrim-saZIJKdzIRZd7WTLdNTnNiXKy6MsTTgEhkHRgblv-3LuNfTt2hC6kG7nlmnqBFXegmQ19Rl2f8ZO9Rs1LExK_GXX5sHSQFPFfeIjp/w640-h480/raccoon%2002-22-24%20from%20Super%20Bowl%20Sunday.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>It didn't look like a raccoon to me. But definitely dead! Farmer H verified it as a raccoon. He got an up-close look at the tail. That's all I was asking about, whether it was a raccoon. But Farmer H blurted out:</div><div><br /></div><div><b>"It's gone now. I took care of it."</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Do I think Farmer H got a shovel and dug a hole and buried that dead raccoon? Not-Heaven NO! I'm 99.9 percent sure Farmer H grabbed it by the tail and tossed it into the sinkhole! He considered the sinkhole to be nature's wastebasket.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm guessing maybe that raccoon was guilty of coming up on the porch and eating out of the dogs' food dishes. He would be no match for three dogs. Especially my little Jack, the baby-mole killer. And Copper Jack. Scarlett... not so much except for the chasing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Scarlett barely knows how to eat a half-slice of bread spread with bacon grease! She picks it up, chews, spits it out, picks it up again, spits it out, licks it, then starts chewing. Just when I thought she was learning that she's a dog.</div>Hillbilly Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18067833789262242514noreply@blogger.com4