Intruding On The Porkfest

This morning, Farmer H crept out of bed, showered, and tip-toed from the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him. I should have known that he was not doing it to be sweet to me. To let me sleep in. To allow the workhorse of the family a few extra minutes of unbridled snoozing. I heard him feed the dogs on the back porch. It was almost as if he hand-placed each crunchy nugget of Ol' Roy in the three metal pans. "One for you...one for you...one for you, " until each fleabag had his allotment. I did not hear him come back in.

Usually, Farmer H tromps in and out of the laundry room, which abuts the headboard wall of our bedroom, and flings the dry dogfood into the dishes like a world-champion jai alai player. Then he microwaves a sausage/egg/cheese biscuit, grabs a banana, and exits the Mansion through the kitchen door, which has its own distinctive slam.

I did not hear anything for so long that I thought he must have gone on to his goats and chickens from the dogfood area. It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Farmer H to tromp. I could not go back to sleep. The mystery consumed me.

I caught Farmer H in the kitchen, makin' bacon.

No! Not like THAT! He was frying bacon in my Christmas-new nonstick red-bottomed skillet. A half-pound of bacon, to be exact. He looked startled when I came in. Like when Jerry pretended to smother George with a pillow when he went to the hospital for a presumed heart attack, and Elaine walked in, and Jerry said, "Elaine. What are YOU doing here?"

It's not like bacon isn't allowed in the Mansion. I normally use it when cooking green beans. We're not big breakfast people, except on Christmas morning. I don't know why Farmer H was being so secretive. Unless he wanted a half-pound of bacon all to himself. I saw that he had set out a double-yolk egg and a banty egg. Let the record show that at no time did Farmer H offer me any of his cooking. Or his warming up of food on the stove, as he would call it if I was the person engaging in such behavior.

I turned on my bare heel and proceeded to the shower. Farmer H was gone when I came out. The #1 son was scurrying about, gathering items he needed for a hike after church. He paraded through the living room several times, munching bacon.

"Don't worry. I didn't want any of that for my breakfast."

"Oh. Did you? Because if you did, you should have told me before I just ate the last piece."

"Never mind. I don't think it was intended for me, anyway."

"Whatever."

He's a scintillating conversationalist in the morning, that one. Now I need to procure more bacon. At least it wasn't like the time Farmer H captured two pot-bellied pigs while I was in town, with the plan to butcher one and fatten the other for future consumption.

Men and their bacon. Go together like horse and carriage.

Tire 46, Looks 35

Farmer H took T-Hoe to get an oil change this morning. That little dashboard reminder that he had 27% oil life remaining was making me concerned for his health. Can't have my T-Hoe croaking on the way to work. He was in need of a transfusion, by cracky!

Along with his body fluid rejuvenation, T-Hoe received the once-over from the automobile podiatrist. As you may recall, Farmer H allegedly took T-Hoe to The Devil's Playground of Misfit Tires over a month ago. He reported that he paid five dollars for a new valve stem. Yet he never asked for reimbursement. And when informed that the tire was still losing air like a disgruntled freshman sighing in disgust, Farmer H argued that he had that problem fixed, to the tune of eight dollars. And still did not request reimbursement. So I deduced that the whole scenario was a Farmer's fairy tale.

Farmer H left the Mansion at 7:00 this morning. I suspect he was feeding at the tavern breakfast buffet trough, since I know of no oil-and-tire shops open that early. His other mission was to obtain a haircut. He called at 9:30 to report that the oil and tire issues were solved, and that he was headed to the barber. Heh, heh. I crack myself up. Headed to the barber. Snort.

He returned to the Mansion at 11:30. Believe you me, Farmer H does not have two hours worth of hair. Anyhoo...I wasted no time in reuniting with my precious T-Hoe for a trip to obtain a 44 oz. Diet Coke. You know. Because Farmer H would never think to call and ask if he could pick one up for me.

As I backed out of the garage, it felt like T-Hoe put a foot wrong. Or like I ran over an errant cat. Subsequent inspection revealed no dents in the garage door frame, nor any furry feline pancakes. I consulted my dashboard informant. The bad-tire-gone-good was bloated with 46 pounds of air pressure. The recommended inflation is 35. A quick call to Farmer H, on his way to the bowling alley with The Pony, resulted in a call-screening shut-out. The Pony, my living, breathing informant, answered his own phone. He interrogated Farmer H. Should I let some air out? Negative. Go ahead and drive it to town. Farmer H would take care of it when he got home.

Which is how we got into this mess to begin with.

When you drive one car exclusively for four years, you know when something is off. T-Hoe listed like a drunken sailor trying to stagger across the Tacoma Narrows Bridge on November 7, 1940. I was sweaving worse than Farmer H on his most atrocious sweaving day. I felt like a toddler wearing one of his mother's high heels. Add to that the fear of imminent explosion. The driver of a nitroglycerin truck in the movie Wages of Fear could not have been more wary than I.

Note To Self: If you want something done right...don't ask Farmer H.

An Insider Tip For The Teachers Among Us

I fear that there is a conspiracy afoot at the hands of The People Who Make Dry Erase Marker Whiteboard Cleaner.

The People Who Make Dry Erase Marker Whiteboard Cleaner are taking us for a ride. Driving us down a narrow bumpy winding road, no more than a pig trail, really, at slapdash speed, errant sapling limbs whacking the elbows we have poked out open windows in an effort to appear nonchalant. Like we don't really know what TPWMDEMWC are doing to us. Which rhymes with mewing.

TPWMDEMWC are selling a product that does not clean the whiteboard. A product that does not even leave the whiteboard in a neutral state. A product that makes the whiteboard dirtier! There! I said it! We all know it's a racket. But each time we purchase their product, we hold out a little glimmer of hope. A wishful think that this time will be different. That the spray inside that plastic bottle will leave the whiteboard as slick and smooth and shiny as the day it was hung. And we are sorely disappointed.

Don't fear, my fellow whiteboardians! Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has the solution. Stop throwing your good money down the rathole owned and operated as a not-very-amusing park by TPWMDEMWC. We're not gonna take it anymore. Not even those of you who are fortunate enough to waste your school district's money instead of your own. Allow me to quote a menacing dark avian with a penchant for rapping on chamber doors: NEVERMORE!

Use window cleaner. 

Yes. The blue stuff. Generic, even. Window cleaner will do you right. I used to swear by Save A Lot baby wipes. But window cleaner is even better. I learned that when I finally erased my whiteboard last week and left it bare overnight. My custodian, Cus, whipped that whiteboard into shiny shipshape. When I inquired as to the method of those mad cleaning skillz, Cus revealed the secret that has eluded us for so long. Window cleaner. And being a giving sort, Cus hooked me up with my very own spray bottle full, and a giant roll of white paper towels.

I am now the Queen of Cleanness, as well as the Queen of Meanness. And still the Emperor of Hillmomba.

A Case Of Mistaken Identification

We had a discussion at the teacher lunch table today, about a kid who is (allegedly) absent a lot from one class. I don't have that kid this year. I have his brother. And they look just alike. I relayed this information to Arch Nemesis. She was in the midst of declaring that even though she sees this kid in the hall throughout the day, he is absent by the time her class period rolls around.

My fellow faculty agreed. Those boys look alike. Almost identical, except for the two-year age difference. The light bulb went on over Archie's head. Not an actual light bulb. That would take a written work order, an online work order, and approximately 90 days. Archie suddenly got it. That the kid she had been seeing in the hall was the brother, not the actual kid.

At that moment, he walked by. I pointed him out, in his red shirt and close-cropped hair. "See? There he goes now. I have him in my class every morning. That must be who you're seeing in the hall."

Archie gasped. Had I been seated next to her, she would have grabbed my arm for emphasis. As it was, I think the gal between us got the arm-squeezing. "That is incredible! They look exactly alike!"

Yeah. That's what we'd been trying to tell her. After lunch, I stood in the doorway of my classroom. Students strolled past on their way to other classes. There went Brother. I snickered to myself. Wait a minute! Brother was wearing a BLUE shirt! A few minutes later, Kid walked down the hall on his way to Archie's class. Still in the red shirt we'd spied him in at lunch. Sweet Gummi Mary! I had to remedy my false identification faux pas.

I saw Archie come out of the teacher workroom. "Hey! C'mere! That really WAS Kid in the lunch room! I just saw Brother go by wearing a BLUE shirt! They look so much alike that I thought Kid was his own brother!"

Archie got a giggle fit. She chuckled her way down the hall, no doubt to laugh in Kid's face when she signed his absentee slip. I'm glad I had the chance to tip her off.

So she didn't tell Kid that she knew he was really Brother, and trying to trick her.

The Opportunist

Tonight is Survivor night. So I have to get my chores done early in order to blog and then watch my show. Last night, for example, I threw in a load of laundry, washed a sinkful of dishes, then whipped up a meal so that I would be freer with my time tonight.

I saved some chili for Farmer H to have chili dogs tonight. He professes that he LOVES chili dogs. Even hot dogs. And all that time I thought he was just lazy because that's all he ate when I was away or unable to warm something for him in the oven or microwave.

Tonight I fed the boys popcorn shrimp and baked potatoes. Don't be askin' about the green leafy vegetables. That ain't happenin' with The Pony, and the #1 son was served up broccoli, lettuce, and mini carrots with the turkey sub in today's school lunch. It's feast or famine in that cafeteria. Farmer H came in as I was scrubbing the potatoes. Let the record show that he was asked about his dinner selection this morning, and heartily agreed to the chili dogs. I told Farmer H that I was getting ready to put his hot dogs in the oven with the shrimp. Hot dogs cooked that way come out like they've been roasted over a fire. I also told him that I would put the chili in a pan on the back burner.

Farmer H declared that he was going out in the rain with his goats and chickens, then to the BARn, and that he would get his own chili dogs later. I asked if he was sure. The oven was already on. No trouble, really. But he declined the offer to warm his food. He planned to microwave the hot dogs and the chili later in the evening.

I served the boys, then set a tray holding mini-tacos in the oven for myself. You can't beat a good mini-taco with Save A Lot mild salsa on the side. They were supposed to cook (I mean WARM) for six to seven minutes. I finally took time to change into my fetching gray-and-purple ripped sweatpants and non-matching blue-and-white pin-striped oxford shirt with black socks and red Crocs. When I came out of the bathroom, there was Farmer H, standing at the #1 son's bedroom door. You didn't think #1 would still be eating after six minutes, did you?

"So you don't want your taquitos, or whatever they are?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"In the oven. Those taquitos."

"I had shrimp."

"Oh. So they're not yours?"

"No."

I strolled up unnoticed. "What are you doing?"

"What! You scared me!"

"You're not eating my mini-tacos."

"I didn't touch your mini-tacos."

"Then how do you know that's what I'm having?"

"I looked in the oven."

"Why? You said you were going to the BARn, and that you would make your own supper later. I guess it's way easier to take whatever you find in the oven."

"I ain't takin' nothin'!"

"You sure were trying to work a deal for my mini-tacos. It's not like they are abandoned property, free for the taking. I was gone five minutes to change clothes, and you're already after my food."

"Forget it! Don't make me anything!"

Um. Did I offer to make him anything? I think not. That ship had already sailed, and he was leaning over the rail to wave and shout, "Bon voyage!"

The current status finds the mini-tacos comfortably digesting in my belly, and Farmer H gone back to town. I'm sure he is buying himself fast food, in an effort to foment dissension.  Won't work. I am sated and validated.

"

The Annual Meeting Of The Misunderstood Word Society

Here's a little true story I heard at school today.

Several teenage boy siblings were sitting around at home. One had an app for his phone that gave him random facts. "Hey! Did you know that more people are killed by donkeys annually than by airplanes?"

The youngest sib frowned. "Ooohhh! That would be bad!"

The mom overheard. "Annually means yearly. YEARLY!"

It's A People-Drive-Cars World Out There

The weekend has not been kind to the furry woodland creatures of Hillmomba. Nor to their scaly cousins.

Friday evening, The Pony and I saw a huge snake coiled on our blacktop road, just past our turnoff from the county road. You know. Where the stop sign is always shot full of holes, but is now missing. He looked like a black snake, but he was coiled flat, not like a cobra ready to strike. Like a pink cotton-candy-flavored all-day sucker on a big wooden stick that your daddy might buy you at a carnival. I swerved to avoid him, keeping one eye out for oncoming traffic. By Saturday morning, Snakey's carcass lay mangled on the other side of the road. Fie on the murderers! Karma will bite them in their butts one of these days. With venom!

Saturday afternoon brought the discovery of a deceased raccoon. My, he was a big 'un! Huge! Paul Bunyan could have made a cap from him. That Davy Crockett fellow would have been no match for Paul. Davy could have curled up in that cap like a field mouse in a teacup.

This morning the high bridge over the big river held the remains of what appeared to be a fox. He was pretty flat and torn up. But he definitely was no possum or armadillo. Or snake or raccoon. Or rabbit or squirrel.

Thank the Gummi Mary we still have species that don't play chicken with automobiles. Just this afternoon, we saw a dark. sparrow-looking bird, only bigger, with a white patch on its back. Like a tramp stamp. The size of a silver dollar. And the bird sitting next to Trampy on the fence wire took off and flashed us the YELLOW undersides of its wings. The rest of it was kind of a dark gray, only lighter than Trampy. I'm not a birder, so I don't know what they were. Not our everyday crows and pigeons and killdeer and red-winged blackbirds and hawks and hummingbirds, that's for sure.

The squirrels are still squirrelly enough to dodge tires.