Gimme A Break. And I DON'T Mean That Nell Carter TV Show, Or A Piece Of A Kit Kat Bar

I call shenanigans on The Devil!

Yesterday I bought a pack of fried chicken from the deli. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not live by gas station chicken alone, you know! In fact, The Devil's Playground has their 8-piece deli chicken for a dollar LESS than the gas station chicken store. Farmer H prefers The Devil's chicken, while I like the gas station variety. Birds of a feather, I guess. Which infers that Farmer H is a devil, and I am full of hot air.

I fiddled around that hot case for nigh on five minutes. Were the packages in the front OLDER than the ones in the back? Probably. I had to look at both. I couldn't see the time written on them without my glasses. My cheeks were ruddy from the heat by the time I made my selection. I didn't want pieces that the crispy had fallen off of, you know. The pack that appealed to me most did not have one of those wrap-around labels that sticks to the plastic bag. I have learned my lesson about entering the checkout line without a label. So I took my second choice.

Well! Once home, picking out pieces to put on a non-stick-foil-lined pan to warm them, I discovered that I had bought a MUTANT chicken! Oh, it had triple-D breastesses all right. But my chicken had THREE LEGS! I don't like the legs. I prefer thighs. And I saw nary a one! There was a strange appendage that looked like a leg with a backbone attached. Since it seemed like dark meat, I put it next to my breast. Upon eating, I still could not declare with certainty which part of a chicken that was. Farmer H was unconcerned, as he had three legs and a breast. Not exactly every man's dream, as voiced by the clientele of the gas station chicken store a while back when I ordered two breasts and two thighs.

Today I decided I wanted more chicken. I was cheated, you know. So I headed back to make a deal with The Devil. Again I perused the hot case. A woman waiting on her deli order actually stepped aside. "Oh, am I in your way?" There is no truth to those thought bubbles over your head declaring that I must have grunted and elbowed her in the hip.

Sometimes, the Universe smites you royally for your folly. How dare I think that I deserved chicken two days in a row! After being so good with the Christmas dinner goodies and leftovers! Nope. No reward for Mrs. HM. There were TWO checkout lanes open. This is a Devil's SUPERPLAYGROUND, my friends. Two is not enough. I was SEVENTH in line!!!

I picked that one because there was not the man on a beeper cart pulling his grocery cart. And because the Devil's Handmaiden is one I've had on numerous occasions, who acts gruff but is really nice and efficient and a logical bagger. Even though the old lady ahead of me was holding a pen. The thought crossed my mind that she might write a check, but then I looked in her cart and saw various baking supplies and metal loaf pans, and figured it was only to scratch items off her shopping list.

So there I was, with my cart holding an eight-piece chicken from the deli, and a pint of slaw. That's it. Don't point out that The Devil has self-checkout lanes for people like me! NO HE DOESN'T! Sure, I passed no fewer than FOUR open self-checkouts on my way to that line. FOUR open self-checkouts with FOUR attendants standing by. They were all empty. Ain't nobody wanna scan their own purchases at a superplayground! So let's just stop paying these attendants to twiddle their thumbs, and put them on a regular checkout so the customer is not always SEVENTH IN LINE.

While waiting my turn, TWO separate customers, first a man, then a woman, RAMMED MY CART with theirs. Seriously, people. I was sideways to allow room. You only had to pass between me and a rack of women's shirts. And you want me to believe that I was the softer choice to run into?

The people at the register were having Old Home Week with the Devil's Handmaiden. Asking her all kinds of stuff about working for The Devil. Why this, and why that. They should wake up and realize that there IS NO EXPLANATION for The Devil. The Handmaiden was polite, and answered them, though she didn't crack a smile. She never smiles. The next customer had a problem with her card. The chip. It's the bane of my existence. The cards never work there. Don't even get me started on the people in front of me a couple weeks ago. I may launch into THAT tirade at a later date. Anyhoo, this gal had to figure out another way to pay. Several cards later, she moved on.

Luckily the next three cartloads processed uneventfully. By now I had a line of people behind me. Who WOULDN'T choose me? I only had two items in my cart! The Devil's personal assistant called ONE EMPLOYEE up front to check. I couldn't even see where. There are a lot of checkouts at The Devil's Playground, you know. Just not OPEN ones.

This Handmaiden always puts the black rubber bar thing on the conveyor so you can have your things ready. And the old lady in front of me did. I passed the time looking at impulse purchases. I'd already read about how Angelina Jolie has an eating disorder and is near death. And how that Blake Shelton guy is having a baby. And the sad last days of Barbara Walters and some dude I can't remember. So I grabbed an Aloha Coconut Chapstick. Because my lips were dry, and yesterday I bought the Key Lime Pie version. And the Pumpkin Pie and Sugar Cookie didn't tempt me as much. I also threw in a bag of Lifesavers Wint O Green mints. I'm sure people behind me were heavily sighing. I had just doubled my items!

THEN it happened. As my chicken and slaw and mints and Chapstick chugged along to the scanner, the old lady in front of me finished putting her bags in her cart and OPENED UP HER CHECKBOOK.

SWEET GUMMI MARY! She'd had five customers worth of time to have everything filled out except the amount. But no. She started with the date. You know the machine will fill out the whole check for you, right? I'm sure this old lady knew it, too. But she was not going to be rushed.

As if that wasn't enough, A NEW HANDMAIDEN SHOWED UP! To take the place of the efficient one, who was going on break.

Speaking of breaks...I just can't catch one in The Devil's Playground.

Just Another Block In The Jenga

The guys who frequent the Mansion (and by that I mean Farmer H, The Pony, and Genius...it's not like I'm running an Old West bordello here) are not the only ones who are practicing to be Jenga champions. While they concentrate on the wastebasket, I am more comfortable in my own domain: the kitchen sink.

Don't go thinking I let that many dishes pile up. Oh, I have before, but not this time. They're just bulky. Underneath are the big square glass bowl I used for my 7 Layer Salad, and some Hillbilly Tupperware that were once Chinese takeout containers. I'm all about re-purposing, you know. Like, for instance, those green containers that my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel used for gifting me some delicious homemade chocolate covered cherries. I see no need to throw them away just because they're marketed as "disposable."

My counter and table are usually more cluttered, but I haven't had a lot of time to junk them up since the holiday. On the table is a plate of evening snack for Puppy Jack. Oh, don't worry about Sweet, Sweet Juno. Her plate is obscured by the Sink Jenga. In fact, SHE has TWO slices of Domino's cheese pizza from last Thursday. And the bigger half of the cake slice that I divided before washing the plate.

So sad, removing The Pony's treats from my kitchen. So final. Such a reminder that he's gone for another 6 months.

How Many Pandemic Peppers Did Farmer H Fondle?

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, Farmer H, and The Pony ate New Year's Eve dinner at Pizza Hut in Norman, Oklahoma. You don't need to know why. You DO need to know about Farmer H's shenanigans.

We made a quick run to the casino, taking The Pony along for slots. IT'S LEGAL in Oklahoma. We stayed about two hours, just long enough to lose $60 and infuse ourselves with cigarette smoke. On our way to supper, I held out some Germ-X for The Pony to wash his hands, and then I washed mine. Okay...the Truth in Blogging Law says that I must inform you that it was not actually Germ-X, which had run out, but Purell, Refreshing Aloe. I did not offer any of this disinfectant to Farmer H, because he was driving at the time.

Imagine my shock, as we were sitting in Pizza Hut feasting, to see Farmer H picking green peppers off his Supreme slices, and patting them onto other pieces after he'd picked off the pepperoni.

"HEY! Do you think I want your fingers all over my pizza? You didn't even wash your hands after touching slot machines for two hours!"

"How do YOU know?"

"You walked by and said you were going to play around the corner, then pull the car up front for us."

"You don't know that I didn't wash my hands."

"Did you?"

"Yes."

"WHEN?"

"I went to the bathroom before I left."

"That doesn't mean you washed your hands!"

"HM. I washed my hands."

"With soap and WATER?"

"Yes. What do you THINK I used...uh..."

EXACTLY.

Notes From There, While Here

Greetings from Oklahoma.

I'd tell you about our trip, but it hasn't happened yet, because I'm getting this ready the night before, since I have to get up at 5:00 a.m. to drive partway with The Pony. We are staying overnight, perhaps gambling a bit, but not on New Year's Eve! What do you think, I'm crazy?

The #1 son came home Friday afternoon to hitch a ride to the airport at 4:00 a.m. with Farmer H, who then joined us along the route.

Such a busy time of year. #1 caught me in the act of putting away an entire batch of Chex Mix when he got home. "Who's THIS for?" Funny he should ask, since I made it just for the Hillbilly family's own personal consumption. He has not showed an interest in it at all, other than acting like I twisted his arm to get him to take back a small tub of it for his housemates after Thanksgiving.

"It's for us. You can have some if you want. But you never do."

"Well! I would like some of it when I get back from California! To take back to my house." (He's kind of like my Sweet, Sweet Juno. He doesn't really want something unless he thinks everybody else is getting it and he's not.)

"There's plenty. If it stays here, your dad will just pick out the parts he likes and leave the rest."

"Yeah. I want some."

"I'll save it. You can also have the rest of that vegetable beef soup I put in the freezer."

Let the record show that #1 and a roommate did eat the other half of that soup, with a little hot sauce and sour cream added, and proclaimed it delicious. Better than having it with some fava beans and a nice chianti, I suppose.

Anyhoo...we were all scrambling Friday to get packed and have our chores done (oh, who am I kidding, I'm the only one with chores around here, and they mostly go undone) before hitting the sack early for our pre-dawn departure. Farmer H and #1 had to take his car a couple of miles down the road to leave it with a body man to fix the damaged fenders from his encounter with that semi on I-44. It's one of our Christmas presents to him. Even though we've planned to do it all along, but he couldn't spare the car. A cash thing, not on the insurance.

Oh, and he thought he was extra lucky and extra-gifted, because just Friday night he discovered an extra $430 in his checking account. AHEM. That was his tuition money for Spring semester. I had withdrawn it from his credit union account to cover the eCheck I used to pay the university. But I mistakenly sent in the deposit slip from HIS account instead of mine. He actually took the news pretty well.

Wouldn't you, if you were getting a trip to California and two new fenders on your car?

Old Like Me

There's not much to say tonight. Nothing much is going on here at the Mansion, and I'd rather be playing my new computer game that The Pony got me for Christmas. Oh, not that it's a NEW game. It's new to me. Yet so old that it comes on a CD-ROM.

Hang on a minute. This obsession all started a couple weeks ago, when I got mad at my hometown Hillmomba Journal for always locking up and cheating me on the crossword puzzle and the jigsaw puzzle, and washed my hands of it, and went to USA Today. I always played their crossword, but I tried a new game. EGGZ Classic. I'm pretty sure it's for the elderly. I even told The Pony, "Even though I know you'll say it's just one step above PONG, I like it! My best score is 57,000-something!" [Let the record show that my CURRENT best score is 78,450. I wrote it down!]


The Pony pooh-poohed my new love. He cocked one eyebrow, like he and I both have the ability to do, and said, "Are you SURE it's a step ABOVE PONG?" Then he proceeded to show me how it's done, and only scored 36,000-something. Anyhoo...he saw my new obsession, and picked out this new game for me at The Devil's Playground for my Christmas gift.

It's called "Treasures of Lost Worlds," and it's one of those games where various colored objects fall and you have to match up sets of three to get rid of them. The one I'm playing right now is called Around the World in 80 Days. I am currently entering India. I had a mishap last night, on Day 17 in France, because I didn't have a clue what I was doing.

"Pony! I was up until 3:30 this morning playing that darn game. And THEN I didn't know what to do, and lost my last life, and lost EVERYTHING I EARNED IN FRANCE! It took me back to Day 9. The day I ENTERED France!"

"You must not have read the tips."

"You told me NOT TO READ THE TEXT! When you first put me on it! You stood right there at my shoulder and told me, 'Nah. You don't need to read that. Just hit PLAY.'"

"Well, I thought you'd read SOME of it! Like the clues! I meant you didn't have to read the dialogue and the story. But sometimes it gives you a hint what you'll need."

"Thanks for telling me that NOW! I've been trying to get back there to show you. But I'm only on Day 14 so far."

"Here. I'll get you back to Day 17."

So he did, and discovered I was really on Day 18 when I died, and that there WERE NO INSTRUCTIONS for how to play that level. We got through it, though. And like I said, I'm just now entering India, and I need to get back there.

It's not like I'll have unlimited time to play for the rest of my life, you know.

Give Him An Inch, He Takes The Fifth

On Monday, the #1 Son drove me to the casino. We had been planning this outing for the week between Christmas and New Years, because he is flying out New Year's Eve morning for a west coast trip with some college housemates. Farmer H declined the offer, preferring instead to do some wiring work on the trailer HOS (His Oldest Son) put on our upper land. No skin off Mrs. HM's nose! More money for the rest of us. So it was me, #1, and another of his college house buddies who is not going on that upcoming trip.

We had a wonderful (and partially profitable) time, and left around 3:00. On the way home, #1 stopped to put gas in A-Cad (he refuses to drive T-Hoe) on my dime. He proposed a slight detour before returning to the Mansion, in order to run in The Devil's Playground for some alcohol. Let the record show that he IS 22 years old, still on his college liver, and though a teetotaler, Mrs. HM is no Carrie Nation. I agreed, so long as he also picked up some paper towels and an 8-pack of squatty plastic bottles of Diet Coke.

As #1 and Friend got out of the car, I said that I would let him put his alcohol on my debit card. Just to be nice, you know. Since he was saving me a trip to the back wall of the Playground after herding me all over the casino without benefit of a front-door drop-off.

"Oh, then I'll get top-shelf whiskey!"

"No. You'll get mid-shelf. Preferably well-drink quality, but I'll spring for mid-shelf."

"So...$15 or so?"

"That's fine."

Once inside, he called me. "How about $35 Johnny Walker Black Label?"

"How about it? What are you getting, a GALLON?"

"No. It's a regular size bottle. But it's supposed to be really smooth. I would never spend that much of my own money on whiskey. But I'd like to try it."

"You're not going to try it on MY money, either!"

"How about if I split the difference with you?"

"I don't know what you mean about that. Wouldn't I be spending 3/4 of it? No."

"Okay. I'll pay $15 and you can pay $20."

"NO...I'LL pay $15 and YOU can pay $20!"

"Oh, all right."

Anyhoo...in a few moments I saw #1 walking out with a bottle of liquor in a bag, and Friend carrying a giant 6-pack of Bounty Select-A-Size on his shoulder, along with the squatty Diet Coke 8-pack by its plastic handle. Let the record show that I had asked for a single roll, or a double pack of paper towels, but the boys wanted me to get a bargain, because that's how they shop at their college house. I think I even heard mention of a 15-pound bag of shredded cheddar. Thank the Gummi Mary I did not ask them to pick up some cheese!

The sight of them carrying that stuff, only the liquor in a bag, and the thought of them at the checkout using my debit card, made me comment:

"I'll bet people in your line thought to themselves, 'There go two young boys with a drinking problem who really care about their weight...and are really, really sloppy.'"

Ain't Nobody's Business But The Mom

Yesterday the credit card bill came. You know Mrs. Hillbilly Mom...when she gets a bill, she pays it forthwith. So I told Farmer H yesterday that I would need the Christmas money from the safe. We have two safes, you know. One that Farmer H got at his old plant, and one that my dad had that we took from my mom's house last year. Big heavy things, that take more that one man to move them from truck to basement. I don't know which one Farmer H keeps the valuables in, and I don't know the combination to either. I suppose I should remedy that in the near future.

Of course Farmer H did not get out the lock-bag for me. I had to text him this morning that I was getting ready to go to the bank, and I still needed that money. Of course he didn't answer me for an hour, so I called him, and he answered, all out of breath. He said he was cutting wood, just what every 62-year-old man should be doing in cold weather, and seemed put-out that I dared call him away from that task. It's not like he wasn't told before that I wanted that money. AND he had been down to the basement three times last night.

Anyhoo...every week throughout the year, I set aside money for Christmas. We've had a Christmas club account in the past, two of them some years, and it gets to be a pain taking money by to deposit in it. So I just keep it for my own self, in envelopes marked CHRISTMAS, with a tally by the week, and put them in a lock-bag for safekeeping in the safe. Duh. Never mind that Farmer H has the combinations to the safe, and knows where I keep the key to the lock-bag. It serves its purpose of deterring him from borrowing money from that fund all willy-nilly.

I counted out the money and made up the deposit slip and headed to the bank. I was NOT going to shoot this fortune through the drive-thru tube. I would have been hard-pressed to cram it into the canister. My deposit was in twenties and hundreds. I had it grouped in specific amounts, in several envelopes. I asked the teller if she wanted it all, or in organized piles like I had it sorted. She said to put it all together, since she'd have to count it. Well. I KNEW THAT! I didn't know if they had a machine they set the bills in, or if they did it by hand.

Anyhoo...as she was counting it, thumbing through the stacks at a rapid-fire pace, she said, "Did you just sell a car?"

I was a bit taken aback. Since WHEN is it the business of the minimum wage bank teller HOW you acquired your fortune? This was totally unexpected, though I had prepared a retort in the event that I was told that my deposit would not be available for 10 business days. You never know with these people. Sometimes I think cash itself isn't good enough for this bank.

Anyhoo...I was so surprised that I answered her. "No. I put money away every week for Christmas, and now I'm going to pay the credit card bill."

I don't think she believed me.

Since when does Mrs. Hillbilly Mom care what a minimum wage bank teller thinks of her? Since she probably has a secret form to fill out to report me for money-laundering!