I really need to start breaking ground on my proposed handbasket factory. The unmistakable signs of the fast-approaching final descent of society become more evident every day.
On the way to work, we pass a drive-thru liquor store. Oh, it has a front door and a parking lot, of course. But who wants to get out and parade past the lines of prying eyes at the stoplight to carry one's liquor out of a package store, when the same task can be accomplished more secretively by pulling up to a sliding window on the side of the building? Sure, people can still see your car. But they can't be sure who's inside.
When we sit waiting in the Dairy Queen line, I tell The Pony to watch that window and see what the people are getting. Mind you, I do not begrudge an adult his alcoholic beverage. It all started that time earlier in the summer, when BOTH of my preferred 44 oz. Diet Coke convenience stores had broken soda fountains. Oh, the HORROR! I was all nervousy about what to do, how to get my fix, who to chose as my backup backup supplier. Luckily, there's a Casey's General Store on the same thoroughfare. But my first thought was that drive-thru liquor store. I was sure I'd seen people walking behind their establishment carrying cups with lids and straws. And not the kind of cups from my two convenience stores.
The Pony is not a good snooper. Mystery Inc. will not be issuing him a membership card. No "Pony: PI" series in his future. He always loses interest while I'm paying for his hot dog or chicken basket. I've never seen the window clerk hand out a 20-pack of Bud. Nor anything else. Perhaps it's just the hard-core alkies grabbing a quick bottle to fend off the DTs. It's deadly business, you know, to stop drinking cold turkey. Alcohol is one of the few substances that can cause death during withdrawal. I know that because I am a certified health teacher. And because our guest speaker from a treatment center pointed it out as well. But all that knowledge does not help me when it comes to sniffing out a soda fountain. Last week, The Pony thought he saw a cup being handed out the window, "Not like yours, Mom, but more like a Dairy Queen cup. Cardboard, not foam." So if the Casey's goes down, and that one other green-roofed convenience store by the old bowling alley blows a carbonation canister, I will have a fifth choice.
There's nothing that stinks of apocalypse there. But this did. Two cars were lined up at the liquor store drive-thru window on Friday morning at 6:53. That's A.M., people! Before work. Sweet Gummi Mary! What kind of package liquor store is open at that time of morning? Let those folks get their stuff at a gas station convenience store like normal people.
Handbaskets. Custom made. Coming soon.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Friday, August 30, 2013
Sometimes Two Cars Can Share The Same Road
Do you hear that music? That wacky instrumental that begins one of those crime scene SUV shows. That song everybody calls Teenage Wasteland? "Who?" you ask? Yes. The Who. Baba O'Riley. That song.
I am playing it right now. Not instrumentally, of course. I may have my own garage band, but I'm not that good. I'm playing it on my computer, on the #1 son's Zune account thingy that he charges me half for each payment period, so I'm gonna use it, by cracky! That haunting riff was playing in my mind this evening on the way home.
I had some business to attend to. The Pony was planning to spend the night at his grandma's house. I picked her up at the park so she could ride along. Then I dropped them both off and proceeded to one of my three financial institutions to complete my trifecta. As I turned right out of that parking lot, using the proper signal, of course, an older model Jeep Cherokee started to pull onto the same lane from street-side parking. He saw me and turned his wheel back. Then pulled out behind me. I bore him no ill will. He was looking at the road proper, not expecting me to come out of that lot a mere twenty feet behind him.
That JC turned right when I did, down past my mom's church, then left to wind past the old mineral museum that's now a funeral home, past the glass factory, over some railroad tracks, down to the four-way stop with the sometimes-open sno-cone shack, to the next four-way stop by the old 7-11, past the tool factory, around the curve where Farmer H's old friend broke his leg by shearing off a telephone pole, left by my mom's bank that shorted her ten dollars this summer, up the winding road past the shooting range, over some more tracks, past the ranch of Farmer H's buddy who we told I was a game warden's daughter when he shot a deer before sunrise on opening day, past the lake, down the street with the tree at a 45-degree angle that I know is going to clobber me, past the five-way stop by the library, past the dead-mouse-smelling post office.
I was starting to smell a rat. How odd that such a stranger would take my very detailed route. Did the JC guy think, perhaps, that I had money on me from that financial institution? Long holiday weekend money? Was he going to ram me, dismember me, rob me? I needed a plan, and I needed it now. I figured that if JC turned right past the funeral home, followed me past the mushroom factory, and turned onto the gas station chicken lot with me...I would keep driving right around back, and go to my second choice store for my 44 oz. Diet Coke. And if JC caught onto my shenanigans, I would keep driving around that lot, and go straight across to the police station. Heh, heh. THEN we'd see who was following who.
Sigh. JC's route diverged from mine at the dead-mouse-smelling post office.
Sometimes, I have kind of an active imagination.
I am playing it right now. Not instrumentally, of course. I may have my own garage band, but I'm not that good. I'm playing it on my computer, on the #1 son's Zune account thingy that he charges me half for each payment period, so I'm gonna use it, by cracky! That haunting riff was playing in my mind this evening on the way home.
I had some business to attend to. The Pony was planning to spend the night at his grandma's house. I picked her up at the park so she could ride along. Then I dropped them both off and proceeded to one of my three financial institutions to complete my trifecta. As I turned right out of that parking lot, using the proper signal, of course, an older model Jeep Cherokee started to pull onto the same lane from street-side parking. He saw me and turned his wheel back. Then pulled out behind me. I bore him no ill will. He was looking at the road proper, not expecting me to come out of that lot a mere twenty feet behind him.
That JC turned right when I did, down past my mom's church, then left to wind past the old mineral museum that's now a funeral home, past the glass factory, over some railroad tracks, down to the four-way stop with the sometimes-open sno-cone shack, to the next four-way stop by the old 7-11, past the tool factory, around the curve where Farmer H's old friend broke his leg by shearing off a telephone pole, left by my mom's bank that shorted her ten dollars this summer, up the winding road past the shooting range, over some more tracks, past the ranch of Farmer H's buddy who we told I was a game warden's daughter when he shot a deer before sunrise on opening day, past the lake, down the street with the tree at a 45-degree angle that I know is going to clobber me, past the five-way stop by the library, past the dead-mouse-smelling post office.
I was starting to smell a rat. How odd that such a stranger would take my very detailed route. Did the JC guy think, perhaps, that I had money on me from that financial institution? Long holiday weekend money? Was he going to ram me, dismember me, rob me? I needed a plan, and I needed it now. I figured that if JC turned right past the funeral home, followed me past the mushroom factory, and turned onto the gas station chicken lot with me...I would keep driving right around back, and go to my second choice store for my 44 oz. Diet Coke. And if JC caught onto my shenanigans, I would keep driving around that lot, and go straight across to the police station. Heh, heh. THEN we'd see who was following who.
Sigh. JC's route diverged from mine at the dead-mouse-smelling post office.
Sometimes, I have kind of an active imagination.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
We'll Look Back Fondly In The Middle Of February
It's not the heat, it's the hotness!
Thank the Gummi Mary, our power has stayed on during this last hurrah heatwave. It seems like only last year we had temperatures in the hundreds, and the Mansion was without power twice, for days at a time. Oh. It was only last year.
Our blacktop county road, now a major detour, is not faring well. It's like the elderly or toddler of thoroughfares. The extreme temperatures are taking a toll on that route. Just up the hill from our mailbox row, a blowout has occurred. It looks like a heavy truck had to hug the non-existent shoulder, and collapsed a crater of blacktop. It's a regular black hole. Chunks of asphalt line the edges like a mosaic. I pity the speed-demon fool who rushes in where I fear to tread T-Hoe's tires. Somebody's gonna flip.
The chickens just might be laying hard-boiled eggs.
Today during parking lot duty a car would not start. Of course it wouldn't. So several guys got together and rounded up some jumper cables and played Larry the Bewildered Cable Guy for fifteen minutes. I was a captive audience. I was almost a comatose audience. I had to go back to the building and stand in the recessed door alcove. It was about ten degrees cooler in the shade. After trying every possible permutation of cable color and battery post known to male adolescents, those fellas got that late-model jalopy a-rumblin'. I was free to seek intravenous fluids and a cooling blanket.
It's hotter 'n forty hecks out there.
Thank the Gummi Mary, our power has stayed on during this last hurrah heatwave. It seems like only last year we had temperatures in the hundreds, and the Mansion was without power twice, for days at a time. Oh. It was only last year.
Our blacktop county road, now a major detour, is not faring well. It's like the elderly or toddler of thoroughfares. The extreme temperatures are taking a toll on that route. Just up the hill from our mailbox row, a blowout has occurred. It looks like a heavy truck had to hug the non-existent shoulder, and collapsed a crater of blacktop. It's a regular black hole. Chunks of asphalt line the edges like a mosaic. I pity the speed-demon fool who rushes in where I fear to tread T-Hoe's tires. Somebody's gonna flip.
The chickens just might be laying hard-boiled eggs.
Today during parking lot duty a car would not start. Of course it wouldn't. So several guys got together and rounded up some jumper cables and played Larry the Bewildered Cable Guy for fifteen minutes. I was a captive audience. I was almost a comatose audience. I had to go back to the building and stand in the recessed door alcove. It was about ten degrees cooler in the shade. After trying every possible permutation of cable color and battery post known to male adolescents, those fellas got that late-model jalopy a-rumblin'. I was free to seek intravenous fluids and a cooling blanket.
It's hotter 'n forty hecks out there.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Scandal Avoided
I was stealing time before school yesterday, making use of my new early-arrival plan to pen some thoughts. At 7:45, I heard my classroom door open. It was The Pony. We get to school by 7:20 now. It works out great, avoiding school buses on the way. The Pony trots off to the gym to do his homework. I put the finishing touches on my lesson, or catch up on paperwork. I don't see him again until 3:00. Yet here he was. The Pony.
"Aww...did you come to see Mommy?" He was not amused. Something was amiss. The Pony pranced skittishly around the perimeter of my classroom. I could have sworn he'd gotten into some locoweed. He blinked. He swallowed. He crossed his arms and dug at the flesh of a forearm. He couldn't quite put his words together. I listened. I watched. And it became clearly evident...
The Pony had come to school without his pants!
No, it was not a case of indecent exposure. The Pony's haunches were not on display for all to see. He had a Chemistry lab before lunch, a lab in which no exposed legs were allowed.
"I forgot my pants! I need them for Chemistry. We're having a lab today."
"It's okay. What's the worst that could happen? You can wear an apron. Some guys used to wear shorts on purpose to wear the apron."
"Aprons aren't allowed anymore. I need pants, or I can't go in the lab."
"So you'll have to make it up after school one day. She stays after. And we're here all the time." This did not calm The Pony. "I can't go home now. I don't want Grandma driving on our detour road. We've kept her off of it for six weeks. Only two more to go."
The Pony was making noises in his throat not normal for a pony. I picked up the phone and called my mom. She lives for these rescues. She always stays by her phone, on call, until the time school starts.
"I'll go right out there!"
"You'll have to go in through the laundry room, since we didn't give you a key when we changed the locks."
"Okay. I'll have the pants there as soon as I can."
It's a 30-minute drive for mom to get to our house. The Pony went to class. His pants arrived 90 minutes later. He was practically rearing with joy when I called him out of class. After school, I asked if he was really as upset as he looked.
"It's not like the world was ending. You could have made up that lab one day after school."
"But I'd have to write a ten-page report for not having pants!"
Apparently, The Pony is not as fond of writing as he claims.
"Aww...did you come to see Mommy?" He was not amused. Something was amiss. The Pony pranced skittishly around the perimeter of my classroom. I could have sworn he'd gotten into some locoweed. He blinked. He swallowed. He crossed his arms and dug at the flesh of a forearm. He couldn't quite put his words together. I listened. I watched. And it became clearly evident...
The Pony had come to school without his pants!
No, it was not a case of indecent exposure. The Pony's haunches were not on display for all to see. He had a Chemistry lab before lunch, a lab in which no exposed legs were allowed.
"I forgot my pants! I need them for Chemistry. We're having a lab today."
"It's okay. What's the worst that could happen? You can wear an apron. Some guys used to wear shorts on purpose to wear the apron."
"Aprons aren't allowed anymore. I need pants, or I can't go in the lab."
"So you'll have to make it up after school one day. She stays after. And we're here all the time." This did not calm The Pony. "I can't go home now. I don't want Grandma driving on our detour road. We've kept her off of it for six weeks. Only two more to go."
The Pony was making noises in his throat not normal for a pony. I picked up the phone and called my mom. She lives for these rescues. She always stays by her phone, on call, until the time school starts.
"I'll go right out there!"
"You'll have to go in through the laundry room, since we didn't give you a key when we changed the locks."
"Okay. I'll have the pants there as soon as I can."
It's a 30-minute drive for mom to get to our house. The Pony went to class. His pants arrived 90 minutes later. He was practically rearing with joy when I called him out of class. After school, I asked if he was really as upset as he looked.
"It's not like the world was ending. You could have made up that lab one day after school."
"But I'd have to write a ten-page report for not having pants!"
Apparently, The Pony is not as fond of writing as he claims.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
You Read It Here First
Excuse me while I breathe on my all-natural, medium-length fingernails, polish them on my shirt front, and hold them out to admire. I called it. Yes. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is on the case. Looks like Ceilingreds has its sweet receipt caught in the wringer. Uh huh. CeilingReds is being sued by the Missouri Attorney General for deceptive pricing practices.
Think about it. If they will overcharge people in a scam that is easily detectible by the customer at the counter, or when viewing the receipt, imagine what they're doing with your insurance company and your prescriptions!
Don't talk to me about that "accident" and "honest mistake" crap. Funny how there's never an accident or honest mistake that charges customers too little 20% of the time, now is there? I doubt that happens even 1% of the time. Or in an isolated incident. Or ever. CeilingReds is probably listed in the Guinness Book of World Records for never having ever undercharged a customer.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, your new investigative reporter. With less facial hair than Geraldo. And proud to say she has never stepped foot into Al Capone's vault.
Think about it. If they will overcharge people in a scam that is easily detectible by the customer at the counter, or when viewing the receipt, imagine what they're doing with your insurance company and your prescriptions!
Don't talk to me about that "accident" and "honest mistake" crap. Funny how there's never an accident or honest mistake that charges customers too little 20% of the time, now is there? I doubt that happens even 1% of the time. Or in an isolated incident. Or ever. CeilingReds is probably listed in the Guinness Book of World Records for never having ever undercharged a customer.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, your new investigative reporter. With less facial hair than Geraldo. And proud to say she has never stepped foot into Al Capone's vault.
Monday, August 26, 2013
For The Love Of All That Is Junk Food, Make It Stop!
Huh. Just yesterday, I made the point that Farmer H has no sense of personal boundaries when it comes to food earmarked for another. The boys have known for years that their Easter baskets are not safe, and their Christmas stockings will be pilfered. Even with the advent of Farmer H's sugar-free candy requirements, the odd fun-size confection disappears.
I thought Farmer H had been duly chastised over the purloined pulled pork. Never have I seen such a criminal fly into a rage at being rightly accused, and NOT LEARN HIS LESSON!
Friday night we had Chinese take-out. It included Crab Rangoon, for those of you who swing that way. Of course the best part is the mushy crabby center. But that crusty part is good, too. I saved those crispy corners. Sealed them up tight in a ziplock bag for later savorin'. Not so Farmer H. He set his crispy corners aside in a bowl like discarded bones from chicken wings. Let them sit on the stove all night. Absorbing humidity, dust particles, airborne bacteria, and probably serving as a dance floor for a two-stepping poop-crawler that evaded my flyswatter. You know Farmer H. I meant to tell The Pony to throw those rejects out to the animals.
I would have to tell The Pony, because Farmer H doesn't know what's going on. That's his standard excuse when he violates my Mansion rules. Even though I have always put the old bread on the counter for him to take to the chickens, he suddenly stopped tossing them a crumb. Then he went to eat a slice of bread, and exclaimed in shock, "That bread was MOLDY!" Farmer H has a thing about moldy bread. He hates it as much as hairless pink baby mice in the pocket of his coveralls.
This evening I went looking for my Friday night Crab Rangoon crispy corners. They were gone. I looked all over the counter beside the toaster, very close to the week-old bread stash, under the net bag of on-the-vine baby tomatoes. No corners.
When Farmer H came in from tending his animals that were no doubt sniffing him longingly for a hint of stale bread, I asked if he had seen my Crab Rangoon corners.
"Oh. I gave them to the chickens the other day."
This calls for hardcore tactics. I'm going to start wrapping my goodies in foil and stashing them in the deep recesses of Frig.
I thought Farmer H had been duly chastised over the purloined pulled pork. Never have I seen such a criminal fly into a rage at being rightly accused, and NOT LEARN HIS LESSON!
Friday night we had Chinese take-out. It included Crab Rangoon, for those of you who swing that way. Of course the best part is the mushy crabby center. But that crusty part is good, too. I saved those crispy corners. Sealed them up tight in a ziplock bag for later savorin'. Not so Farmer H. He set his crispy corners aside in a bowl like discarded bones from chicken wings. Let them sit on the stove all night. Absorbing humidity, dust particles, airborne bacteria, and probably serving as a dance floor for a two-stepping poop-crawler that evaded my flyswatter. You know Farmer H. I meant to tell The Pony to throw those rejects out to the animals.
I would have to tell The Pony, because Farmer H doesn't know what's going on. That's his standard excuse when he violates my Mansion rules. Even though I have always put the old bread on the counter for him to take to the chickens, he suddenly stopped tossing them a crumb. Then he went to eat a slice of bread, and exclaimed in shock, "That bread was MOLDY!" Farmer H has a thing about moldy bread. He hates it as much as hairless pink baby mice in the pocket of his coveralls.
This evening I went looking for my Friday night Crab Rangoon crispy corners. They were gone. I looked all over the counter beside the toaster, very close to the week-old bread stash, under the net bag of on-the-vine baby tomatoes. No corners.
When Farmer H came in from tending his animals that were no doubt sniffing him longingly for a hint of stale bread, I asked if he had seen my Crab Rangoon corners.
"Oh. I gave them to the chickens the other day."
This calls for hardcore tactics. I'm going to start wrapping my goodies in foil and stashing them in the deep recesses of Frig.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Yet Another Transgression
Farmer H might as well build himself a big fancy structure to rival the BARn, suitable for overnights, all comfy and stocked with his favorite furniture, entertainment, and snacks. It should be in the shape of a doghouse.
No matter what kindness I show that man, he STILL manages to raise my ire. I swear, I could remove a thorn from his bloody paw, and he would show his thanks by making me his main course.
Saturday, I was headed to town to pick up a few Save A Lot items. Namely, fresh hamburger for a cookout to please the #1 son. Farmer H was on his riding lawnmower, going away from me, down the side of the garage, across the open area where the across-the-road neighbor's escaped horses had galloped before trampling our garden, along the old barbed-wire fence separating us from the next-door-neighbor whose daughter set the woods on fire burning trash (nearly incinerating the Mansion because they had not purchased a rural fire tag and did not want us calling the fire department who would bill them firefighting costs...to the extent of dragging out the garden hose to spray the back of our Mansion in between digging a fire break), along the back fence where we throw rotten potatoes from the back deck, and back to Poolio, where he turned and saw me gesticulating wildly for his attention. I was almost as exhausted as I am from writing that last sentence.
I asked Farmer H if he wanted anything from town. "I don't know. Like what?"
"Anything from Save A Lot. Or I could pick up something for lunch."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. What do you want? You what's there. Gas station chicken. Dairy Queen. Hardees."
"Just bring me something."
So demanding, that Farmer H. I did my shopping. Met my mom to give her last week's tabloids and receive some old newspaper clippings she found in her safe, from when I was a coach, and a 44 oz. Diet Coke cup. Poor dear. Like I don't have a collection of them to rival her cake plates. I decided to drive through Hardees and pick up some pulled pork sandwiches. They're two-for-$3.00, you know. Can't beat that with a stick.
Upon arriving home, the sickly Pony carried in my purchases. Farmer H was mowing the front acreage while his goats cropped superfluously. We put away the groceries. I set my pulled pork on a tray that I always use when I take my meal to my dark basement lair. Of course I had compared the porks. I like mine flat. That means the pulled pork is distributed evenly on the bun. Sometimes, they put a wad on one side, and it's all humped up, and you get plain bun before you get to the pork. Farmer H doesn't care if his food is uniform. So, there was my pulled pork on the tray on the stove, and Farmer H's in the Hardee's bag on the cutting block. I even folded down the paper sack, to keep it fairly warm. Off I went to the bedroom to change into my around-the-Mansion clothes.
Of course Farmer H chose that minute to enter through the front door. He has a nose for food. He's like a cat that comes running at the sound of the can-opener. Or a hound bounding up and down as if on springs, eager to get his rations. As I returned to the kitchen, I saw Farmer H standing by my food-staging counter. Near the wooden holder of paper plates, engraved with "Everyday China." I thought, perhaps, he was tossing down some receipts. He does that after a week or so, enabling me to discover where our money has been trickling through the debit card.
"What are you doing?"
"Just getting some lunch."
"You didn't get mine, did you?"
"What do you mean, "yours?"
"From the tray. Mine is on my tray."
"Well...then I guess I got yours. I don't know what you're doing."
Then I saw it. MY pulled pork on a paper plate in front of Farmer H, naked, (the sandwich, not the Farmer), exposed to the air-conditioned atmosphere. "Where is my wrapper? I always leave it wrapped up! It's getting cold!" I dug the wrapper out of the wastebasket. It's okay. It was on top. An eclair with one bite out of it would have been safe there.
Farmer H got all mouthy. Can you imagine that? HE was in the wrong. Not me. I was reclaiming my pork. HE was the sneak thief. His food was in plain sight. I had even kept it warm, not aired it out like yesterday's wash.
I cannot imagine what our life will be like after The Pony heads off to college, and we are both retired. If a $1.50 pulled-pork sandwich sets me off now...Sweet Gummi Mary help Farmer H.
No matter what kindness I show that man, he STILL manages to raise my ire. I swear, I could remove a thorn from his bloody paw, and he would show his thanks by making me his main course.
Saturday, I was headed to town to pick up a few Save A Lot items. Namely, fresh hamburger for a cookout to please the #1 son. Farmer H was on his riding lawnmower, going away from me, down the side of the garage, across the open area where the across-the-road neighbor's escaped horses had galloped before trampling our garden, along the old barbed-wire fence separating us from the next-door-neighbor whose daughter set the woods on fire burning trash (nearly incinerating the Mansion because they had not purchased a rural fire tag and did not want us calling the fire department who would bill them firefighting costs...to the extent of dragging out the garden hose to spray the back of our Mansion in between digging a fire break), along the back fence where we throw rotten potatoes from the back deck, and back to Poolio, where he turned and saw me gesticulating wildly for his attention. I was almost as exhausted as I am from writing that last sentence.
I asked Farmer H if he wanted anything from town. "I don't know. Like what?"
"Anything from Save A Lot. Or I could pick up something for lunch."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. What do you want? You what's there. Gas station chicken. Dairy Queen. Hardees."
"Just bring me something."
So demanding, that Farmer H. I did my shopping. Met my mom to give her last week's tabloids and receive some old newspaper clippings she found in her safe, from when I was a coach, and a 44 oz. Diet Coke cup. Poor dear. Like I don't have a collection of them to rival her cake plates. I decided to drive through Hardees and pick up some pulled pork sandwiches. They're two-for-$3.00, you know. Can't beat that with a stick.
Upon arriving home, the sickly Pony carried in my purchases. Farmer H was mowing the front acreage while his goats cropped superfluously. We put away the groceries. I set my pulled pork on a tray that I always use when I take my meal to my dark basement lair. Of course I had compared the porks. I like mine flat. That means the pulled pork is distributed evenly on the bun. Sometimes, they put a wad on one side, and it's all humped up, and you get plain bun before you get to the pork. Farmer H doesn't care if his food is uniform. So, there was my pulled pork on the tray on the stove, and Farmer H's in the Hardee's bag on the cutting block. I even folded down the paper sack, to keep it fairly warm. Off I went to the bedroom to change into my around-the-Mansion clothes.
Of course Farmer H chose that minute to enter through the front door. He has a nose for food. He's like a cat that comes running at the sound of the can-opener. Or a hound bounding up and down as if on springs, eager to get his rations. As I returned to the kitchen, I saw Farmer H standing by my food-staging counter. Near the wooden holder of paper plates, engraved with "Everyday China." I thought, perhaps, he was tossing down some receipts. He does that after a week or so, enabling me to discover where our money has been trickling through the debit card.
"What are you doing?"
"Just getting some lunch."
"You didn't get mine, did you?"
"What do you mean, "yours?"
"From the tray. Mine is on my tray."
"Well...then I guess I got yours. I don't know what you're doing."
Then I saw it. MY pulled pork on a paper plate in front of Farmer H, naked, (the sandwich, not the Farmer), exposed to the air-conditioned atmosphere. "Where is my wrapper? I always leave it wrapped up! It's getting cold!" I dug the wrapper out of the wastebasket. It's okay. It was on top. An eclair with one bite out of it would have been safe there.
Farmer H got all mouthy. Can you imagine that? HE was in the wrong. Not me. I was reclaiming my pork. HE was the sneak thief. His food was in plain sight. I had even kept it warm, not aired it out like yesterday's wash.
I cannot imagine what our life will be like after The Pony heads off to college, and we are both retired. If a $1.50 pulled-pork sandwich sets me off now...Sweet Gummi Mary help Farmer H.
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