Don't you hate it when you're eating a two-day-old leftover grilled bratwurst that your husband told you would be the plain one, not the BBQ flavored ones from Save A Lot, as long as you took the longest ones, and you cut it, after a struggle, because it's kind of charred, and repels your knife because it's stuffed in there tighter than sausage in a casing (oh, wait), and then you bite into it and not only is it NOT the plain one, but there's something hard in there, like a piece of bone or maybe a toenail, or part of a cloven hoof?
Yeah. Don't you hate it when that happens?
Wednesday, August 3, 2016
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
Rumble Averted By Fowl Mouths
This morning (and by that I mean around 11:00) The Pony and I were moving BBQ leftovers from the BARn FRIG to the Mansion FRIG II after feeding the solar car team last night. Okay, The Pony was moving most of the leftovers. I just went in the BARn and repackaged them and told him where to put them and helped him figure out how T-Hoe's fold-down seat worked. Heaven help us if that boy is steered into a mechanical engineering field.
As The Pony carried stuff into the Mansion's front door, while Jack laid on his back and watched, I sat in T-Hoe in the front yard. That's what's great about the country. It's one great big driveway. While whiling away fives of minutes, I remembered that I needed to find out about my 2nd pair of glasses. I was headed out to the bank, which is pretty close to the eye doc. I consulted my estranged BFF Google for the office phone number. Which was really kind of hard, looking up a number to find out about my new glasses when I wasn't wearing any glasses.
"Hello? This is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. I was there on July 12th, for an exam, and I ordered two pairs of glasses. I paid for everything that day. You said they would be here in two weeks. It's been THREE weeks, and I still don't have my second pair of glasses."
"Oh, my. Let me look. Hm...I don't see them. Uh. Let me look in my other magic file. I'm going to put you on hold for a minute, okay?"
BOOM! I was on hold before I could agree or disagree. But I didn't make a stink, because my farmyard animals were doing that for me. I could hardly hear her because of the roosters crowing. It doesn't help that we have about a dozen or more. And that they don't seem to understand the concept of SUNRISE. Also, those dang guineas were cackling, and there's nothing quite as annoying as a cackling guinea unless it's a screaming peacock. Which thank-Farmer H we don't have, but we used to live up the block from a backyard full at my $17,000 house.
This putting-on-hold with the music is when they lay the phone down, turn to their co-workers, make that spiral crazy sign by their ear, and badmouth me until they can come back on the line and be civil, after first covering their butt with a tall tale of how my glasses slipped down in between the file cabinet and the counter, or how Mr. Magoo picked them up by mistake and wore them home, and just now brought them back, because he's a really slow driver, that Mr. Magoo.
"Ma'am? I found them. They were right on top!"
Sure they were. What kind of fool did she take me for? If they were in the office, somewhere right on top, somebody would have called to wake me at the crack of 9:00 a.m. like they did with my first pair of glasses, and The Pony's two pairs of glasses. I suspect they'd been sitting there since the day I picked up that first pair, and the girl didn't look thoroughly enough when I told her there should be two.
"That's good. I'm coming out that way. I'll stop by and pick them up."
Seriously. Should a woman have to track down her own glasses? Remember the days when the customer was always right? Or at least the days when the customer was provided the service for which she prepaid, in a timely manner?
Handbaskets, people. Get your handbaskets in order. Get them ON order! From my proposed handbasket factory!
As The Pony carried stuff into the Mansion's front door, while Jack laid on his back and watched, I sat in T-Hoe in the front yard. That's what's great about the country. It's one great big driveway. While whiling away fives of minutes, I remembered that I needed to find out about my 2nd pair of glasses. I was headed out to the bank, which is pretty close to the eye doc. I consulted my estranged BFF Google for the office phone number. Which was really kind of hard, looking up a number to find out about my new glasses when I wasn't wearing any glasses.
"Hello? This is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. I was there on July 12th, for an exam, and I ordered two pairs of glasses. I paid for everything that day. You said they would be here in two weeks. It's been THREE weeks, and I still don't have my second pair of glasses."
"Oh, my. Let me look. Hm...I don't see them. Uh. Let me look in my other magic file. I'm going to put you on hold for a minute, okay?"
BOOM! I was on hold before I could agree or disagree. But I didn't make a stink, because my farmyard animals were doing that for me. I could hardly hear her because of the roosters crowing. It doesn't help that we have about a dozen or more. And that they don't seem to understand the concept of SUNRISE. Also, those dang guineas were cackling, and there's nothing quite as annoying as a cackling guinea unless it's a screaming peacock. Which thank-Farmer H we don't have, but we used to live up the block from a backyard full at my $17,000 house.
This putting-on-hold with the music is when they lay the phone down, turn to their co-workers, make that spiral crazy sign by their ear, and badmouth me until they can come back on the line and be civil, after first covering their butt with a tall tale of how my glasses slipped down in between the file cabinet and the counter, or how Mr. Magoo picked them up by mistake and wore them home, and just now brought them back, because he's a really slow driver, that Mr. Magoo.
"Ma'am? I found them. They were right on top!"
Sure they were. What kind of fool did she take me for? If they were in the office, somewhere right on top, somebody would have called to wake me at the crack of 9:00 a.m. like they did with my first pair of glasses, and The Pony's two pairs of glasses. I suspect they'd been sitting there since the day I picked up that first pair, and the girl didn't look thoroughly enough when I told her there should be two.
"That's good. I'm coming out that way. I'll stop by and pick them up."
Seriously. Should a woman have to track down her own glasses? Remember the days when the customer was always right? Or at least the days when the customer was provided the service for which she prepaid, in a timely manner?
Handbaskets, people. Get your handbaskets in order. Get them ON order! From my proposed handbasket factory!
Monday, August 1, 2016
There Might Be A Rumble
Tomorrow, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is waging war on reading the riot act to calling to huffily accuse malpractice by making a polite telephone inquiry to her optometrist's office.
The glasses I ordered three weeks ago are nowhere to be found. They said it would take two weeks. Huh. It used to take one week, but ever since I got the worst pair of glasses ever ground to imperfection in the history of moderately-aged women wearing glasses...I have not been one to rush the craftsmen. I believe I went back more than 10 times with those spectacles, not caring if I made a spectacle of myself. THEY SUCKED! The glasses. AND the optometrist's office.
My best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel told me not to trust any doctor there except one. But I got a NEW doctor. One who was tops in his glasses class, and who was also in the military, and has been published in medical journals. AND The Pony had his brother, who has the same credentials. Anyhoo...I liked him. I really liked him.
When I went to pick out glasses, I saw the ones I wanted right away. AND a second pair. Since I didn't get any last year, I treated myself to two. Maybe.
The Pony had his appointment the day after mine. He picked out two pair of glasses. He's blind without them. He needs a spare when he's all the way in Oklahoma. Because without them, he can't see to look up an optometrist! The Pony's glasses came in one week later. In fact, it was only five days.
The next week, near the end, which made it two weeks, I got a call that my glasses were in. So I went. Tried them on. I can see great! Except I only saw one pair of glasses.
"I ordered two pair. Paid for both of them the day I had my appointment."
"Oh. Let me check. No. Not here. It's not unusual for glasses to come in on different days."
So now three weeks have passed. And I have paid for two pair of glasses. And received one pair.
Nobody can do a job right anymore, can they?
The glasses I ordered three weeks ago are nowhere to be found. They said it would take two weeks. Huh. It used to take one week, but ever since I got the worst pair of glasses ever ground to imperfection in the history of moderately-aged women wearing glasses...I have not been one to rush the craftsmen. I believe I went back more than 10 times with those spectacles, not caring if I made a spectacle of myself. THEY SUCKED! The glasses. AND the optometrist's office.
My best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel told me not to trust any doctor there except one. But I got a NEW doctor. One who was tops in his glasses class, and who was also in the military, and has been published in medical journals. AND The Pony had his brother, who has the same credentials. Anyhoo...I liked him. I really liked him.
When I went to pick out glasses, I saw the ones I wanted right away. AND a second pair. Since I didn't get any last year, I treated myself to two. Maybe.
The Pony had his appointment the day after mine. He picked out two pair of glasses. He's blind without them. He needs a spare when he's all the way in Oklahoma. Because without them, he can't see to look up an optometrist! The Pony's glasses came in one week later. In fact, it was only five days.
The next week, near the end, which made it two weeks, I got a call that my glasses were in. So I went. Tried them on. I can see great! Except I only saw one pair of glasses.
"I ordered two pair. Paid for both of them the day I had my appointment."
"Oh. Let me check. No. Not here. It's not unusual for glasses to come in on different days."
So now three weeks have passed. And I have paid for two pair of glasses. And received one pair.
Nobody can do a job right anymore, can they?
Sunday, July 31, 2016
Mrs. HM Is Mad As A Hater (No, I Really DIDN'T Mean Hatter)
I must be brief this evening. I spent all day and half the night with water to my knees. WAIT A MINUTE! No I didn't! That was the Ozark Mountain Daredevils, singing "Ooh, Boys (It's Hot)."
No. It wasn't all that hot today, but it has been. And today, I spent six hours preparing foodstuffs for 24 traveling sun-vehicle personnel, who will be dropping by to feed and snooze in the Mansion's field Monday night.
Anyhoo, I am tired. I started at 8:30 boiling up the taters for the potato salad, and had the veggies and fruit prepped, and stuff moved to the BARn original FRIG by 3:00. Then it was off to town for my precious 44 oz Diet Coke. Let's not even talk about lunch, because I had none. Unless you count those 4 tastes of potato salad, and a couple of grapes that fell off the vine. You will be proud that Mrs. HM did NOT succumb to taste the cauliflower and broccoli. Tomorrow, I'll get to the baked beans.
So...The Pony was a major helper (as long as I don't refer to his duties as HELPING), what with bringing me items to save me a few steps. We loaded the results in T-Hoe, and I drove him to the BARn to unload them as I left on my way to town.
Let the record show that Farmer H was not very helpful throughout this ordeal, choosing instead to disappear, then show up at lunch time (for HIM) so I could make him something to eat. Then he disappeared a bit longer. Then he came in the Mansion to say he was leaving for a while. I knew he was going to Goodwill, even though he didn't reveal his destination. And he was JUST THERE last night!
Anyhoo...I told Farmer H, "I probably won't be cooking supper. I have to run to The Devil's Playground for some hamburger, then to Save A Lot for the bratwursts and giant hot dogs. I have been in this kitchen all day. You might want to pick up Casey's pizza for supper." And do you know what Farmer H said?
"I'll find something."
Meaning that he was NOT going to pick up Casey's pizza, which he does at the drop of a hat. Which left The Pony to eat six inches of his yesterday's Subway roast beef, and me to have a four-day-old boneless skinless chicken breast with some salsa and chips.
Okay, so as I started back from town, I tried to call, and then to text, Farmer H about unloading that meat into FRIG in the BARn. And to see if I should pick up some food. He had said he would be over there. But no answer! So I called The Pony, who said, "He's in the pool." So I arranged for The Pony to meet me on the porch, and I drove him to the BARn to unload my meat.
Let the record show that Farmer H was standing at the side of Poolio with his chin on his hands, staring at us as we drove back through the yard! AND when I walked across the back porch to the kitchen door, I saw that Farmer H had changed positions, and was on THAT side of Poolio, staring at me again. He was worse than that internet cat that creeps up when you're not looking.
"Why are you staring all the time? You watched us, but you didn't help like you said!"
"I waited. But then you didn't come back."
"I SAID I wouldn't even be back until at least 5:00. It's 5:20, and we've unloaded the meat already."
"Well, I had to sweep the dog poop off the porch..." (The Pony snorted at that, because HE swept the dog poop off the porch).
"So...I need to make myself some lupper? You're not getting a pizza?"
"Make yourself lupper."
I swear, I was certain that Farmer H was just being passive-aggressive again, and fully believed he would wait until I had my plate prepared, then drive off to town to get pizza, and bring it back and tell The Pony to tell me it was here. He's done that more than once.
Let me tell YOU, I was NOT going to have any of that passive-aggressive pizza! I don't care if it hopped out of the box, off the counter, slithered across the carpet and down the stairs, and jumped into my mouth and slid down my esophagus into my belly. I WOULD TAKE THE BIG BUTCHER KNIFE (made by Farmer H's employer) and carve that pizza out of my intestines so as to make it clear to Farmer H that I am tired of his shenanigans!
It kind of took the starch out of my sail when Farmer H did not go to town for pizza.
No. It wasn't all that hot today, but it has been. And today, I spent six hours preparing foodstuffs for 24 traveling sun-vehicle personnel, who will be dropping by to feed and snooze in the Mansion's field Monday night.
Anyhoo, I am tired. I started at 8:30 boiling up the taters for the potato salad, and had the veggies and fruit prepped, and stuff moved to the BARn original FRIG by 3:00. Then it was off to town for my precious 44 oz Diet Coke. Let's not even talk about lunch, because I had none. Unless you count those 4 tastes of potato salad, and a couple of grapes that fell off the vine. You will be proud that Mrs. HM did NOT succumb to taste the cauliflower and broccoli. Tomorrow, I'll get to the baked beans.
So...The Pony was a major helper (as long as I don't refer to his duties as HELPING), what with bringing me items to save me a few steps. We loaded the results in T-Hoe, and I drove him to the BARn to unload them as I left on my way to town.
Let the record show that Farmer H was not very helpful throughout this ordeal, choosing instead to disappear, then show up at lunch time (for HIM) so I could make him something to eat. Then he disappeared a bit longer. Then he came in the Mansion to say he was leaving for a while. I knew he was going to Goodwill, even though he didn't reveal his destination. And he was JUST THERE last night!
Anyhoo...I told Farmer H, "I probably won't be cooking supper. I have to run to The Devil's Playground for some hamburger, then to Save A Lot for the bratwursts and giant hot dogs. I have been in this kitchen all day. You might want to pick up Casey's pizza for supper." And do you know what Farmer H said?
"I'll find something."
Meaning that he was NOT going to pick up Casey's pizza, which he does at the drop of a hat. Which left The Pony to eat six inches of his yesterday's Subway roast beef, and me to have a four-day-old boneless skinless chicken breast with some salsa and chips.
Okay, so as I started back from town, I tried to call, and then to text, Farmer H about unloading that meat into FRIG in the BARn. And to see if I should pick up some food. He had said he would be over there. But no answer! So I called The Pony, who said, "He's in the pool." So I arranged for The Pony to meet me on the porch, and I drove him to the BARn to unload my meat.
Let the record show that Farmer H was standing at the side of Poolio with his chin on his hands, staring at us as we drove back through the yard! AND when I walked across the back porch to the kitchen door, I saw that Farmer H had changed positions, and was on THAT side of Poolio, staring at me again. He was worse than that internet cat that creeps up when you're not looking.
"Why are you staring all the time? You watched us, but you didn't help like you said!"
"I waited. But then you didn't come back."
"I SAID I wouldn't even be back until at least 5:00. It's 5:20, and we've unloaded the meat already."
"Well, I had to sweep the dog poop off the porch..." (The Pony snorted at that, because HE swept the dog poop off the porch).
"So...I need to make myself some lupper? You're not getting a pizza?"
"Make yourself lupper."
I swear, I was certain that Farmer H was just being passive-aggressive again, and fully believed he would wait until I had my plate prepared, then drive off to town to get pizza, and bring it back and tell The Pony to tell me it was here. He's done that more than once.
Let me tell YOU, I was NOT going to have any of that passive-aggressive pizza! I don't care if it hopped out of the box, off the counter, slithered across the carpet and down the stairs, and jumped into my mouth and slid down my esophagus into my belly. I WOULD TAKE THE BIG BUTCHER KNIFE (made by Farmer H's employer) and carve that pizza out of my intestines so as to make it clear to Farmer H that I am tired of his shenanigans!
It kind of took the starch out of my sail when Farmer H did not go to town for pizza.
Saturday, July 30, 2016
A Car, A Jar, And Going Too Far
Sometimes, The Pony has the eye of a photographer.
He took that as he parked his little car last Monday evening. What he was really trying to get a picture of was this fat rabbit:
But the timing and conditions led to the other shot. Here's the whole thing together:
Yes, The Pony has a photographer's eye. Although, as he would be sure to tell you...
"But not in a jar beside my bed!"
He took that as he parked his little car last Monday evening. What he was really trying to get a picture of was this fat rabbit:
But the timing and conditions led to the other shot. Here's the whole thing together:
Yes, The Pony has a photographer's eye. Although, as he would be sure to tell you...
"But not in a jar beside my bed!"
Friday, July 29, 2016
A Crushing Work Of Breathtaking Insolence
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is crushed. Crushed, I tell you, over the behavior of Farmer H these past two days. I know it comes as a complete shock that Farmer H could be so oblivious to Mrs. HM's feelings. Okay. Not so much oblivious to her feelings as lacking a modicum of common sense innate to 50.4% of the U.S. human population.
Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom stores her shredded lettuce for Super Nachos, her slaw mix for BBQ slaw, her broccoli slaw mix for crunching up her BBQ slaw, and the bag of romaine hearts for making salads...in the crisper of Frig II. You know what a crisper is, right? That little drawer compartment at the bottom of the refrigerator that is used to keep vegetables crisp. Am I right? Let me answer for you. YES. I am right.
Let the record further show that Farmer H has claimed the back right corner of that crisper to store one of his medications. One that he uses once a week. One that he refilled on Wednesday. Or rather made me drop off at his pharmacy so he could pick it up on the way home.
Let the engraved-in-stone record show that I despise his pharmacy, CeilingReds, because the workers always have a smirk when I go in there, like I am the butt of their joke, and that I in fact switched my own prescriptions out of another branch of CeilingReds where the workers were even polite. But I went out of my way Wednesday (by about 100 feet, as it is across the drainage ditch from the gas station chicken store) to drop off Farmer H's medicine box with the label stuck on it. And that I trudged through a downpour to the door, since I don't park in a handicap spot, and that the worker at the drop-off counter did indeed smirk at my drowned-rat-edness.
Imagine my consternation as I stood at the kitchen counter Wednesday evening, preparing Farmer H a delicious salad of romaine lettuce, shredded sharp cheddar, tomatoes, chopped egg, green onions, real bacon bits, and craisins...and heard a crunchy sound. I turned to see Farmer H bent over the crisper, rooting around, shoving that box of medicine over my bags of shredded lettuce, slaw mix, and broccoli slaw.
"Stop! What are you doing? You are smashing my lettuce! No wonder it turns brown before the Use By date!"
You know how fragile shredded lettuce is, right? It's as tender as a turn-of-the-century debutante. The least jostling will bruise it. Ruin it. And here was Farmer H, plowing through it like an Iditarod team through a fresh four feet of snow, in second place on the way to the finish line.
"It's fine. I'm putting away my medicine."
Because, you see, the thought of moving the lettuce, putting that box in the corner of the crisper, then replacing the lettuce...had not occurred to him.
Tonight I opened up the crisper for some shredded lettuce, and saw A 20 oz. BOTTLE OF DR. PEPPER laying across a bag of shredded lettuce! "No mas! No mas!" cried my Super Nachos.
Farmer H is either really, really dense...or really, really revenge-minded.
Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom stores her shredded lettuce for Super Nachos, her slaw mix for BBQ slaw, her broccoli slaw mix for crunching up her BBQ slaw, and the bag of romaine hearts for making salads...in the crisper of Frig II. You know what a crisper is, right? That little drawer compartment at the bottom of the refrigerator that is used to keep vegetables crisp. Am I right? Let me answer for you. YES. I am right.
Let the record further show that Farmer H has claimed the back right corner of that crisper to store one of his medications. One that he uses once a week. One that he refilled on Wednesday. Or rather made me drop off at his pharmacy so he could pick it up on the way home.
Let the engraved-in-stone record show that I despise his pharmacy, CeilingReds, because the workers always have a smirk when I go in there, like I am the butt of their joke, and that I in fact switched my own prescriptions out of another branch of CeilingReds where the workers were even polite. But I went out of my way Wednesday (by about 100 feet, as it is across the drainage ditch from the gas station chicken store) to drop off Farmer H's medicine box with the label stuck on it. And that I trudged through a downpour to the door, since I don't park in a handicap spot, and that the worker at the drop-off counter did indeed smirk at my drowned-rat-edness.
Imagine my consternation as I stood at the kitchen counter Wednesday evening, preparing Farmer H a delicious salad of romaine lettuce, shredded sharp cheddar, tomatoes, chopped egg, green onions, real bacon bits, and craisins...and heard a crunchy sound. I turned to see Farmer H bent over the crisper, rooting around, shoving that box of medicine over my bags of shredded lettuce, slaw mix, and broccoli slaw.
"Stop! What are you doing? You are smashing my lettuce! No wonder it turns brown before the Use By date!"
You know how fragile shredded lettuce is, right? It's as tender as a turn-of-the-century debutante. The least jostling will bruise it. Ruin it. And here was Farmer H, plowing through it like an Iditarod team through a fresh four feet of snow, in second place on the way to the finish line.
"It's fine. I'm putting away my medicine."
Because, you see, the thought of moving the lettuce, putting that box in the corner of the crisper, then replacing the lettuce...had not occurred to him.
Tonight I opened up the crisper for some shredded lettuce, and saw A 20 oz. BOTTLE OF DR. PEPPER laying across a bag of shredded lettuce! "No mas! No mas!" cried my Super Nachos.
Farmer H is either really, really dense...or really, really revenge-minded.
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Do You Think Farmer H Is Trying To Tell Me Something?
Here is a picture he sent me a couple days ago:
Let the record show that we do NOT have a cow.
What in not-heaven would possess Farmer H to buy a sign cautioning people about a cow? Why would he spend his ill-gotten auction/Goodwill/flea market allowance on such an item?
I can only surmise that Farmer H is thinking that MRS. HILLBILLY MOM is a COW!
When questioned about the purchase, and the self-sent email that told Mrs. HM of this new addition, Farmer H replied, "Well, they didn't have one for a goat." Indeed. A likely story. So he immediately thought, I'll get a cow warning instead. A goat is kind of like a cow. Yeah. Right. No siree, Bob! Just ask blog buddy Sioux. A goat is NOT like a cow! Their eyes are totally different.
I think Farmer H was trying to put something over on me. Like inferring that I am a cow, and that people must be warned about me!
One thing is for certain. After this little incident...I'm about to have a cow!
Let the record show that we do NOT have a cow.
What in not-heaven would possess Farmer H to buy a sign cautioning people about a cow? Why would he spend his ill-gotten auction/Goodwill/flea market allowance on such an item?
I can only surmise that Farmer H is thinking that MRS. HILLBILLY MOM is a COW!
When questioned about the purchase, and the self-sent email that told Mrs. HM of this new addition, Farmer H replied, "Well, they didn't have one for a goat." Indeed. A likely story. So he immediately thought, I'll get a cow warning instead. A goat is kind of like a cow. Yeah. Right. No siree, Bob! Just ask blog buddy Sioux. A goat is NOT like a cow! Their eyes are totally different.
I think Farmer H was trying to put something over on me. Like inferring that I am a cow, and that people must be warned about me!
One thing is for certain. After this little incident...I'm about to have a cow!
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