A Special Treat

Sometimes the dogs get a special treat for their evening snack. They don't know how lucky they are that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom doesn't scarf it down before it hits their used paper plates!

Yes, I have a weakness. No. The cocoa bean is not my dark master. Sure, I like chocolate. I'm not some kind of freak! But BOSCO would not be my ATM code. I'm not one to swoon over sweet treats. Cakes and pies don't tempt me. Sure, I like Key Lime Pie Twizzlers. And PEEPS. But they're not an obsession. The PEEPS, maybe. But I'm not like a drooling Homer Simpson, giving the babysitter a ride home after taking Marge to the candy expo, and seeing that gummi bear stuck to the babysitter's butt as she gets out of the car, and leering, "Sweet can--" and getting framed for being a perv. That's not me.

I prefer the savory treats. Even if they're not marketed as official treats.

A couple weeks ago, I made spaghetti for Farmer H's supper. He likes the sauce with hamburger and mushrooms. Save A Lot has the best hamburger. None of that water-injected meat from The Devil's Playground! Even my mom used to comment on how good my chili and soup and spaghetti sauce was. I'm pretty sure it's due to the hamburger.

As the hamburger cooks, there's a problem with the grease. You don't want it popping. If I try to pour it off, I make a mess. So I take the oldest bread in the cabinet, and tear slices in half, and lay it along the edge of the cooking hamburger. Soaks that grease right up! Depending on how much bread is available, I either scoop it out and add another slice, or turn it over for maximum soakage. I set these slice-halves aside to give the dogs once they cool.

The problem is...once the hamburger has been cooked and added to the sauce, I set the skillet off the burner, and use a last slice of bread to wipe around and get the last of the grease. I'm pretty busy at this juncture. Popping garlic bread into the oven, or stirring the sauce, or adding noodles to the boiling water. Which means that last piece of bread often gets all toasty from being left laying in the pan.

Do you have any idea how tasty that bread is with a little salt sprinkled on top?

Yes. Sometimes, I eat the dogs' grease bread! Is that a crime? I think NOT! It's crispy and salty and fatty and delicious. Ambrosia.

Let the record show that I did NOT help myself to dog bread during spaghetti making. The willpower was strong in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! I went out the front door with 8 slices of bread. That's 16 half-slices! No salt, either. No hypertension for my fur babies. Each dog had 8, because Copper is not THAT entitled. He got plain bread.

Puppy Jack and Sweet, Sweet Juno reaped the benefits of Mrs. HM's wise choices.
This time...

The Hard, Hard Life Of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom

You may think that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has it made. That she whiles away her retired days on the couch, eating bonbons, watching reruns of That 70s Show all day, waiting for her Sweet Baboo to get home and fan her with yucca fronds, and feed her grapes. Only one of those activities is correct. Life is hard for retired Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

Last week, for instance...

It was evening. Farmer H had forsaken me for the auction. I was just settling down in my dark basement lair with my second wave of 44 oz Diet Coke. In the evening, I add bottled Diet Coke, and ice. This ice comes from FRIG II, is collected in a Styrofoam bowl for transport, and is added a cube at a time to my magical elixer, so as not to cause undue foaming.

CUBE DOWN!

One of the ice cubes slipped out of my hand, bounced off my lap, hit the tiled floor, and skittered to the back corner under my countertop v-shaped work surface. Back by the electrical outlet, near the nest of 10-15 wires that power New Delly's electronic accoutrements. Let the record show that when The Pony was still stabled here, this would not have been a problem. The Pony would trot in when called, and crawl under the countertop desk and nab this frozen escapee. Alas. The Pony is 9 hours away in Norman, Oklahoma. I was on my own.

No way was I getting down on hands and knees. The knees can't take it. Unlike my former classroom, by dark basement lair does not harbor a hidden meter stick on the top ridge of the whiteboard. I don't have a grabber thingy like the #1 Son had in a Halloween spaceman costume one year. And my vintage red plastic MSTA ruler that says, "Missouri Schools Measure Up" was not long enough.

I extended my left foot in its red Croc. Reached out. Pulled back. Nabbed the cube! I reverse-skated it back towards me. Success! But not. That cube came so far, then stopped. I tried again. What the Not-Heaven! I ducked my head under the desk to evaluate the problem. Huh. That cube was catching on a tiny wire. Like the size of a mouse cord. Play along. I'm sure most of you technology mavens have cordless mice. OR USE A FREAKIN' LAPTOP without a mouse. But Mrs. HM lives in the dark lair ages.

It wasn't a mouse cord, of course. That wouldn't be under my desk. A cord for the extra speakers #1 had souped-up New Delly with, perhaps? Anyhoo...after five attempts, it was clear that I wasn't going to win the Battle of Ice Wire '17. Short of unplugging whatever wire that was from the back of New Delly, and dropping it down to set one end free, I did not see a solution. I kept trying, though. But that darn cube would be flung back at a certain point, as if it were launched from a slingshot.

Wait! I got it! With a herky-jerky Croc motion, I jumped it over the tiny wire. Almost home! Dragging, sliding, come to H. Mom! DANG IT! It hit the edge of the clear chair mat thingy! I persevered, though. After another half-dozen tries, I had it up on the mat, ready for pickup.

It was the BEST kind of ice cube, too! Not a hollow shell. A solid, heavy specimen. The kind that melts slowly. It didn't look like an ice cube, though. It looked like a chicken breast sprinkled with lemon pepper. How as THAT possible? I don't sprinkle lemon pepper under my desk! Oh. It was wayward scratch-off sprinklings. And dirt. I hope that's all. I'm not much for sweeping under my desk in the dark basement lair.

Now what was I going to do with it? To carry it to the sink of the NASCAR bathroom would mean that the sullied cube had to be in contact with my skin for longer than I deemed doable. AHA! I could put it in the 20 oz plastic bottle from the Diet Coke! Of course it was just a little too girthy to drop right in. So I had to force it. Success! Even though a pile of scrapings was left along the spout. I capped that cube tomb and figuratively patted myself on the back. I couldn't do the literal back-pat. I had a residue of lemon pepper on my hand.

Nobody told me retirement would be like this.

Sour Charity

Yesterday, as I walked across the stripey crosswalk in front of The Devil's Playground, I was wary of the two thirty-something guys standing under a white tent top. You know the kind. Just the top, on four legs, like old men in overalls sit under to sell tomatoes and watermelons along the road.

I'm used to folks begging out front of The Devil's Playground. Usually, it's a Little League team raising money to go to a tournament. Or Girl Scouts' moms hawking cookies. Or a Li'l Cheerleader bake sale. These two guys had a single long table, set up perpendicular to the sidewalk, with only a few items in the middle. It looked like maybe some keychains, or stress balls, and some flat things that might have been bumper stickers or pamphlets. I didn't look, because I wasn't interested. There were maybe 10-15 items total on that white plastic table.

As I crossed the stripey crosswalk, the Hispanic guy closest to me said something in Spanish. I don't think it was directed to me. I don't speak Spanish. But the red-headed guy closest to the store surely did. Because they both chuckled. Then Red said, "Hello, Ma'am."

I nodded. Didn't even look their direction. Because of course they were making fun of me. Right? I didn't see anything funnier than me in the area. It was right when I walked by. So I'm sure they were making fun of me. Just like the gals at the nail salon making fun of Frank Costanza's feet.

It's not like nobody ever made fun of me before. I'm a 28-year career TEACHER, by cracky! So it's not like I got my feelings hurt. I don't even know what they said! I just didn't want them to think they were getting one over on me.

When I came out, another lady exited behind me.

The Hispanic dude said, "Ladies, would you like to contribute to our drug prevention program?"

Well! NOW you need money, and there's a witness, and you're going to ask ME, the one you made fun of so many short minutes before, for a contribution? Aw, NOT-HEAVEN no!

"No thanks." I kept walking. The lady behind me started giving a lengthy explanation about not having any cash, only plastic. Normally, that would have been me. But I had three twenties in my shirt pocket, because I got cash back. I'd rather give that whole sixty bucks to a begging alcoholic asking for change in a convenience store at 11:00 a.m. than give it to these guys.

I don't know if these dues would like me telling them that. But if I had a red-headed friend walking along with me, we'd chuckle about it.

Yeah. I don't know what the guy said as I went in. For all I know, he said his balls were itchy. And I can't be blamed for THAT. But whatever it was, their demeanor made my teacher senses tingle. I may not speak Spanish, but I can read people.

The Devil Is Playing Tricks On Mrs. HM

You know how much I love to shop at The Devil's Playground? Now it's even MORE pleasurable! Yeah. That's what you call SARCASM. I may not know my irony, but I've had sarcasm down pat since my first word, I think.

THE DEVIL HAS REARRANGED HIS PLAYGROUND!!!

So...where I once could make up my list in order, with a mental picture of The Devil's Playground aisles...now, I cannot. It's even worse than the Devil's Playground over in Bill-Paying Town. At least I was learning that there's no rhyme nor reason to their shelving. And I could remember which four aisles had bottled water. Now I don't know where anything is in my home-town Playground!

There was a young man (or woman, it was hard to tell) standing in the middle of the new main aisle, asking if we needed help finding anything. Not-Heaven YES! I needed help finding EVERYTHING. But short of handing "Pat" my list, I did not have high hopes for finding it all.

Now the aisles are narrower, too. They seem darker. It's like shopping in some third-world country, except there's a roof, and there are no flies swarming on exposed meat. This is devolution, my friends. The Devil's Playground is moving in the wrong direction. And now Mom and Pop are out of business, and we are STUCK on the wrong-way merry-go-round of The Devil's Playground.

I, myself, am not good with change.
But I'm pretty sure my neighbor Tommy's head might explode.

The Farmer And The Side-Neighbor

"The time has come," The Farmer said, "to speak to Nabe Next Door.
Of how his dog has a feather tooth, and now I'm chicken-poor.
And how we can resolve this mess, and harmony restore."

Yeah. Play along with me. I know Farmer H doesn't speak in rhymes, or use words like resolve and harmony.  But he's had enough of Copper eating his chickens. Got another one Tuesday night. Allegedly!

Let the record show that I caught Copper black-mouthed a week or so ago, when Farmer H was gone to Kansas. Saw him running across the front yard with a black chicken in his mouth, headed for his own yard. And when I hollered, "HEY! What's that in your mouth?" (because I expected an answer, of course, knowing that Copper speaks the Hillmomba English), Copper turned and looked at me, and I saw it even better. Plus, Farmer H found some black feathers in the yard, and our black hen was missing.

Wednesday evening, while floating just below the surface of Poolio on a raft not quite rated for his weight, Farmer H said, "I guess I'm going to have to go talk to Nabe. That dog got another chicken last night. One of the little white ones. There are feathers all over. But not a body."

"Well, you can't blame the dog. He wasn't raised with the chickens like ours. He doesn't think of them as part of his pack. They're just little animals to chase and eat for him. We need to use a shock collar on him. But I don't think the one we got for Jack is big enough. And Nabe may not want us to put a shock collar on his dog. We can't even CATCH HIM, anyway."

"Yeah. We have to do something."

"I don't want him to chain up Copper. A dog shouldn't live like that. He should get to roam, living out here in the country. He doesn't need to be in a pen. What kind of life is that?"

"Well, the chickens don't need to be killed, either."

"Copper just needs to be trained to leave them alone. But at this rate, we're not going to have any chickens left to train him with."

"I can always get more chickens. And we have the guinea and the turkey."

"That's not the same as a chicken."

"I don't want Copper chained up either."

"Just when I was almost starting to like him. Giving him a piece of bread every night when the dogs get their snack. And him coming up to sniff my hand when I walk. And he stopped barking at me in my own driveway!"

"Yeah, and I want him here because he chases off that crazy dog across the road. Gets real aggressive with it."

"I know. The one that had Juno down in the yard, biting her. That Rottweiler."

"Yeah. I don't want it to start coming back."

"Well, make sure Nabe knows we like his dog, and don't mind it living here. We just want to train it, if he can catch it."

I have no idea how this conversation is going to go over with Nabe. Farmer H went to school with him. We used to socialize with them before we moved out here and were both busy raising our families. Nabe had another dog several years ago, a Husky, that somebody shot and laid at the end of his driveway. He knows that wasn't us. His dog before that was a yellow lab named Penny, who came over and took Farmer H's yard ornaments every day. When they got a decent collection, Nabe's wife would bring them back and line them up along the porch. Farmer H didn't mind. He put them back in his rock garden for Penny to take again.

Can't we all just get along, and have chickens roaming the yard laying fresh eggs?

The Wheeler-Dealer

Farmer H has been known to mess up a good thing. I'm pretty sure he's done it again. That's what happens when he doesn't consult the current ruler of Hillmomba before making decisions.

This afternoon I was chatting with him on the phone. That's because he can't wait until he gets to the Mansion to chat. He missed me SO MUCH during the day that he starts calling the minute he walks out to his car. I know that, because the greeting I got when I picked up the phone was:

"You've been on the phone! I've been trying to call you since I started home!"

"Yes."

"Well."

"Oh. So I guess I'm not allowed to talk to my boyfriend, even though you go see your girlfriend every Saturday while telling me you're going to the plant to get some junk?"

"Who were you talking to?"

"Give it a rest! Just The Pony. About your trip next week."

"Oh. I'll be there in a minute. I'm up by HOS's house. I'm going to ask his daughter to feed the animals while I'm gone. Just a minute--"

"WAIT! What? We always have HOS do it when we're gone. And I could do it myself now."

Of course I could hear Farmer H mumbling out his window to the upcoming high school freshman. When he got home, and was floating just below the surface of Poolio on the raft that is not quite rated for his weight, I went out and leaned on the back porch rail to get the facts.

"I figure HOS doesn't like to do it. And she never has money. So we can just pay her to do it, instead of HOS."

"But you told me I didn't have to pay HOS anymore, now that he lives up the road. And I've been giving him lottery tickets. I'm pretty sure he likes getting lottery tickets."

"Oh. Well. She can do it."

"Then I won't know if she really did it. I'll have to walk over and check to see if they have water. It's HOT. I can't worry that they don't have water. I KNOW that HOS is dependable."

"It'll be fine. I'll have HOS check and make sure she does it."

"How will he know, unless he comes down here? And if he does that, he might as well be getting paid in lottery tickets."

"He can ask her if she did it. Then let me know."

"How much are you paying her?"

"I don't know. I didn't tell her the amount yet. Forty dollars?"

"FORTY DOLLARS? I give HOS twenty-five dollars in lottery tickets! That's almost double. For someone who might not be dependable!"

"Oh. I thought you gave HOS a hundred dollars."

"That was when we were gone for four days, and he fed the dogs and cats, too. And he was living over in Bill-Paying Town, and had to drive out here, so it cost him gas in his truck. And NOW he's going to find out that you're giving his daughter forty dollars, and all he got was twenty-five dollars worth of lottery tickets! I'm not giving a kid lottery tickets."

"Well, I didn't tell her the amount yet. We can give her twenty. That's five dollars a day instead of ten."

"I doubt she'll want to do it for that."

"She'll do it."

"I guess you'll give her the money when you get back?"

"I guess. Before I leave. Or when I get back."

Farmer H has never been much of a businessman. If he'd only talked it over with me, we could have ironed out the wrinkles in his plan. And settled on the price. And he could have given her the specifics and the payment and included way that I would know when she was done. For example, maybe she would do it in the afternoon, before she got in Poolio for a swim. Or send a text.

Let the record show that when we owned rental property, Farmer H rented a duplex to a man with a wife, three kids under school age, and no job. Rather than the college girl who looked at it with her parents.

Let the record further show that we no longer own rental property.

Do You Know The Wiener Man?

We all have our weaknesses. The things that aren't good for us, that we crave and cannot resist. You might think that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's weaknesses include 44 oz Diet Coke, scratch-off tickets, gas station chicken, and slot machines. You'd be right.

Farmer H has a weakness. I'm pretty sure you have heard about it before. Farmer H's weakness is HOT DOGS! I suppose, as weaknesses go, it could be worse. It's not like he's going to mortgage the Mansion to cover the money he spends on hot dogs. He's not cheating on me with hot dogs. Nobody's going to break his kneecaps because he didn't repay their hot dogs. The police won't lock him up if they find hot dogs in the car when they stop him for a routine traffic violation (or roust him at the park where he's sleeping off his lunch of...wait a minute...we might be getting into dangerous territory).

Last week, I asked Farmer H what he wanted for supper this week. It's enough strain on me cooking for him and washing up his dishes for one meal a day, without THINKING for him, too. Farmer H said he'd like some hot dogs wrapped in biscuits. Some people might call it a pig-in-a-blanket, but we just call it a hot dog in a biscuit. I used to make them for the boys when they were little. That has to be before the #1 Son entered 3rd Grade, because his teacher that year told the students what hot dogs are made of, and then he wouldn't eat them, and almost made The Pony forsake them as well. Almost. The Pony continued to partake until HE had that same teacher for 3rd Grade.

Anyhoo...I asked Farmer H if he wanted the big fat hot dogs that I get at Save A Lot, or the regular hot dogs. He said regular, since they were going in biscuits, though he prefers the big fat ones for grilling. So I bought a package of hot dogs. There are eight in a pack, you know. And for good measure, I bought a package of Little Smokies, which I thought he might want to try in biscuits as well. Kind of like we might be having a non-alcoholic cocktail party with diet sodas and this fancy hors d'oeuvre, but without a butler and a silver serving tray and a toothpick with fancy colored cellophane on the end. I also got three cans of biscuits. Not the jumbo peel-apart kind that Farmer H prefers, or the jumbo butter-flavored kind that The Pony likes. Just a plain buttermilk biscuit, ten to a can.

I asked Farmer H what night he wanted his hot dogs in biscuits. He said Sunday night would be fine. I asked if he wanted me to make four, so he could eat two and have two the next night, and he said, "Yeah." That's a quote, people! I said I could warm the leftover two in the oven for him, and get the crisp outer crunch on the biscuit again. Farmer H said, "Or I might just microwave them. We'll see." Again, that's a quote!

I made the hot dogs in biscuits. They turned out really well. Not that it's rocket science or anything. But I remembered to put the seam side down, so they didn't open up like a clam shell during baking. I set the pan on the stove, and told Farmer H they were ready. I went out to feed the dogs their evening snack. When I came back, Farmer H was just leaving the kitchen, headed for his La-Z-Boy, plate in hand.

THE HOT DOG PAN WAS EMPTY!

I swiveled my neck like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. Farmer H had ALL FOUR hot dogs, in their respective pairs of biscuits, on his paper plate! Along with the curly fries that he'd also requested. Don't get me wrong. I didn't want any of them. I don't begrudge Farmer H the food on his plate. He can eat what he wants. I don't criticize. Well. Except for those Casey's donuts that he's not supposed to have. Anyhoo...my point is that WE ALREADY DISCUSSED THE LEFTOVERS. Uh huh. Meaning that there would be LEFTOVERS!

Also, when Farmer H asks for some dish, and I prepare it, and then he leaves a bunch of it in the pan, and I ask what was wrong with it, he says, "HM, I don't eat as much as you think I eat." Well. He'd certainly proved his point. I never thought he would eat four hot dogs and eight biscuits in one sitting.

I followed Farmer H into the living room and said, "So...I guess I don't need to set out a container for the other two."

"No. I'm eating them."

Then Farmer H must have had a flash of conscience. Or an overdose of nitrates and nitrites. Because I'm sure he doesn't remember the Veal Prince Orloff incident with Lou Grant and Mary Richards's dinner party, when Lou Grant, under duress, put back half of the Veal Prince Orloff he had taken off the platter. Farmer H said, "Well, I guess you can put up two of them for tomorrow."

I did. And when I went to look for them the next night, they were GONE! Because Farmer H had microwaved them for his LUNCH, defeating the purpose of me making the two extra, and in dire need of an idea of what to feed Farmer H for the supper that was going to be warmed-up hot dogs in biscuits.

Farmer H said not to worry. "I'll find something. There's that Chinese chicken in there." That he had asked for from Walmart.

"Yes. And the ham I baked so you could have sandwiches."

"Yeah. I'll find something."

Today I was rooting around on the second shelf of FRIG II, putting away a few groceries, and I saw that the package with the four remaining hot dogs that I'd put in a baggie looked all twisted. Not like I put it in there. I moved it over, and noticed that instead of FOUR hot dogs inside, there were only two. When I was making Farmer H 's supper tonight, I asked what happened to the two hot dogs.

"I eat 'em!"

"Well, I noticed that the Chinese chicken was still there. I figured you had ham."

"No. I had the hot dogs. I was gonna have 'em on buns, but the buns didn't smell right."

"I guess not. Because I didn't BUY buns, because I bought three cans of biscuits, because I thought you'd have them again another night."

"Well, I WANTED 'em. You can still cook the other two another night."

"Yes. Two hot dogs and ten biscuits. That'll be good."

"Oh. I didn't think about the biscuits."

Not that it matters. It's not like Farmer H used caviar to bait a hook to catch some cannibal fish. It's just that he's so totally unpredictable, never going by what he tells me.

Except when he's TOTALLY predictable. Like when I opened the cabinet, and just as I expected, found the buns he wouldn't eat because they didn't smell right. That's what YOU'D do, isn't it? If something didn't smell right, and you didn't want to eat it, you'd put it back where you got it. Right?