I'm Not Saying He's Turning Into One, But Evidence Is Not On His Side

Could Farmer H be slowing getting in touch with his feminine side?

You know how...um...pardon me for being indelicate again...so unladylike of me...but... well...remember that time Farmer H had a hemorrhoid? He still has it. In fact, just like his doctor nurse practitioner told him, it resolved itself on its own. Kind of. I don't think it's actually resolved yet. Anyhoo...after a week or so of hearing him moan and groan and limp and sit gingerly upon his rumpus, you recall, Farmer H summoned me to the shower one evening to "take a look at it." Which I declined.

Have you ever seen the movie Carrie? From the Stephen King book? The original Carrie, with Sissy Spacek and Piper Laurie? Do you remember how it starts? With that locker room scene, all foggy and these-days-inappropriate, with Carrie herself in the shower, discovering her menses? I swear, that is what this reminded me of! Farmer H thought he was bleeding to death! From a hemorrhoid!

Sweet Gummi Mary! This is why men don't have babies. They truly are the weaker sex. They can't handle a little blood loss. Farmer H put a towel on the cushion of his La-Z-Boy. He strapped up with stick-on feminine hygiene products that he rummaged around under the bathroom sink for. Not that I need them anymore, of course. Good thing for him I was prepared for those little surprises that sometimes happen, or he'd have been plugging up with something more invasive.

Anyhoo...Farmer H continued to complain that he was bleeding to death. He didn't go anywhere without his "diaper" as he called it, and he spread a towel down on the mattress at bedtime. I reminded him that he takes a daily aspirin, and that makes the blood clot slower. Also, every time he said he was going in the bathroom to "try to poop," I had to remind him that he should probably drink more fluids and eat more fiber, because sitting there on the toilet trying to make the magic happen was not helping his hemorrhoid heal.

I think maybe things in the rumpus department are on the mend, because I don't hear daily anymore about how Farmer H is bleeding to death. He doesn't curtail his activities, and the towel has been washed and folded and he doesn't haul it around like Linus's blanket. He spends all day getting stuff set out in his storage container store. So I don't think I'll need to order a tombstone any time soon.

Farmer H mentioned that he needs something to keep his money in at the flea market. He has to get small bills for change, and he doesn't need his wallet to explode like George Costanza's when he put that tear-off strip for free guitar lessons in there. I looked for a money bag at The Devil's Playground the last two trips. Apparently, The Devil doesn't want us to accumulate money. There was nary a one in either of the two stores.

Wednesday, I found Farmer H the next best thing to a money bag. It's a makeup bag! I resisted the urge to get the pink-and-silver glitzy one. I brought him basic black. You can still tell that it's a makeup bag, not a money bag. But it'll get the job done.

I don't know if I should tell Farmer H about the pink-and-silver bag. He might've preferred it.

Sweets For The Sweet

Remember the issues I've had with my new favorite treat, Gourmet Lollipops? How I bought a bag of 7, only to find out that 3 of them were Watermelon? Then I bought another bag, which had a lollipop masquerading as Cotton Candy, but was a MYSTERY. I still don't know what flavor that one was, but I ate every crumb, and licked my lips like a cat after a bowl of milk.

You know I can't quit them, right? And I ashamedly have not asserted myself with a letter to the Gourmet Lollipop people about not including the GOOD flavors in those multi-packs. Or ever 7 different flavors. So I'm pretty much in the same boat, still. Rowing upstream without a paddle, or even a crew of Vikings, in my search for delicious Gourmet Lollipops.

Last week, at The Devil's Playground over in Bill-Paying Town (I haven't seen the bags at the local Devil's Playground), there was only ONE bag left. I peeped through the little window on the front of the bag, and was disappointed to see 3 Watermelon, 2 Wild Cherry, and 2 Blue Raspberry. None of which I am crazy about. There's a reason that bag was the only one left on the shelf.

Wednesday, I accidentally found some Gourmet Lollipops while standing in line at the local Devil's Playground! You can bet I picked the very best sucker fruit off that wooden tree holder. Here's my harvest:

I hit the almost-jackpot! I got 2 Cotton Candy (that's all they had), 2 Banana Split, 1 Strawberry Banana, and 1 Bubble Gum. They were 50 cents apiece. I'd have taken 7, but I only saw 6 that I liked. Or thought I'd like. You'll notice that there is not a Watermelon in the bunch! I don't remember the price on the bag of 7, but this assortment might have even been more of a bargain. So far, I've had a Banana Split and a Strawberry Banana. They were delectable.

I'm hoping I can find that checkout line again, and that the wooden tree holder is bearing new fruit.

Paint My Palette Pink And Purple And Blue And Gray

I have been delayed tonight because my internet was flooded. There was a downpour that seemed to take forever to pass over the Mansion. I had a feeling something was on the horizon.

I went out to walk, and saw that the sun was just ready to dip below the horizon, so dashed back inside to grab my phone. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not dash at a high rate of speed. Plus, I had to maneuver myself across uneven gravel, into the unevener front yard full of mole tunnels, while sidestepping frolicking dogs...so the sun kind of got away from me.

Anyhoo...you can see that a storm was moving in. As I sat on the front porch pew while the dogs enjoyed their stale bread drenched with bacon drippings, old frozen pepperoni slices removed from around cheese sticks about 6 months ago, and expired potato chips...I saw lightning and heard thunder. Juno isn't one to tolerate a storm. She ate her snack and waited for a pat, then gave a loud burp and skittered away to her house on the back porch to ride out the storm

As I was getting supper ready, I stepped out back to toss some onion skins off the porch, and heard the sound of sprinkles in the trees. I didn't feel anything, even though I was out from under the porch overhang. I came back in and heard the deluge pelting the porch and roof. I guess I was just in time, getting back inside after hearing the rain on its way across the woods.

I didn't mind my internet outage too much this time. I busied myself writing the boys' weekly letter. Good think I had my other blog already done, or I'd really be burning the midnight oil right now at 10:48 p.m.

I'll Be Looking Out For Bunnies On Easter

Yesterday was Halloween, you know. But I bet you don't know what I saw on the way home. Or maybe you do. Maybe some of you are freaky psychics who should get their own show on TLC.

I was driving along the wide street of stately homes over by the lake. Past the nursing home that Farmer H said I should go into (if I ever have knee surgery, he tried to clarify while backtracking at a record pace), the nursing home that used to be a hospital, the hospital where I was born. Of course this street of stately homes looked quite festive, with most people decorating their yards and porches for Halloween.

A lot of people take their kids there trick-or-treating. Maybe because of the yard decorations. Maybe because they think the people are rich and hand out good candy. I can vouch that this is not a correct assumption. The candy is the same you get on any street. Nothing special. I know, because we used to drive the boys to trick-or-treat on that street.

Now don't get me wrong. I didn't take them there seeking gourmet sweets in mass quantities. I took there there because we live out of town, and being driven to Grandma's house and Aunt Sis's house and the daycare lady's house isn't all that Halloween is cracked up to be. This street is by the library, and nice and wide so we could park and walk up, and then back down the other side.

Anyhoo...there I was, tooling along in T-Hoe, looking at porch ghouls, talking to Farmer H on the cell phone, when a BLACK CAT RAN OUT IN FRONT OF ME!

What are the odds, really, of that happening on Halloween?

I gasped, and told Farmer H what was going on, and that cat looked at T-Hoe's grill, turned around, and scampered back onto the sidewalk. Oh...I slowed down, too. Let the record show that! So I don't know if I'm going to have bad luck or not, since the black cat did not completely cross my path.

Perhaps my bad luck with a couple of crazier-than-normal weirdos at Casey's was a case of the cart being put before the horse. Maybe Even Steven switched things up, and gave me the bad luck before the cat.

Truth. Stranger (though sometimes less interesting) than fiction.

Just When He Was Almost Off The Hook

Oh, dear! I was going to let Farmer H off the hook today (temporarily, of course) and skewer Copper the neighbor dog instead. But no. Farmer H had to go and call me. Call me with his tighty-whities all in a wad over information he got from his old employer.

Sweet Gummi Mary! He's got to let that crap go!

Here's the deal. Farmer H got a text from Dude X. I'll use that instead of his name. Farmer H was all in a tizzy, talking about how Dude was forwarding me an email he got at work, addressed to Farmer H's name, from a major bank (with which we have our ONE credit card), talking about a payment to a man we never heard of. Not a company. A man. First and last name. And an amount of over $3000.

First of all, that sounded mighty suspicious to me. Because we have not sent a payment to anyone in that amount. In fact, our credit card bill this month was under ten dollars. So I told Farmer H it was probably just 5PAM, and nothing to worry about. Yet he went on, still in his tizzy, those tighty-whities creeping up behind, that I needed to check that email, and check our account.

Of course I didn't get the forwarded email. Farmer H was getting angrier by the minute that I wasn't all in a tizzy myself. First of all, because I said I didn't even know who he was talking about. I don't remember Dude X's name. He's the guy who replaced Farmer H. But I don't recall hearing his name more than once or twice. So once I figured out who he was, I said I'd look at the email. IF I ever got it. I had to switch my accounts, since I was trying to put out a timely blog post on my other blog.

Farmer H said he'd call Dude back and have him resend, since I asked if I was supposed to sit here in my dark basement lair looking at the screen waiting for the email to come in. In the meantime, I found the forwarded email in my 5PAM folder, with the message that it had been sent there because it contained content that's typically used in 5PAM messages. DUH!

Soo...looking at it, I saw that it was FROM this financial institution with the email of [firstname@ashoecompanyusa.com]. Now why would some guy from a shoe company be sending email from a financial institution? Don't they have dedicated email for that kind of business? You know. To look professional and all.

Of course there was a link that said View your detailed information here. No. I don't think so. I'm not clicking on a link within a questionable email from a shoe company guy representing a financial institution. I DID, however, hover over it and check the web address. Funny how my detailed information could be found at a cake company in the UK! Funnier how nothing I could click on in that email could lead me to the financial institution's website!

Nope. Not even stressing. And especially not clicking!

Hey! How did Farmer H's replacement open up an email addressed to Farmer H, anyway? I thought there were passwords for that kind of thing! And that once you left the company, they disabled your email, so you couldn't do sketchy things like you still work for them. I know mine was disabled toot-sweet! Or maybe I'm a shadier character than Farmer H...

Anyhoo...I am now going to take this printout up to Farmer H, who has arrived back at the Mansion (YIPPEE! Pardon me while I step away from New Delly to perform a few cartwheels!) after his daily trip to Lowe's, and is likely in need of some help unwadding his tighty-whities.

Neighbor dog Copper Jack doesn't know how lucky he is to have Farmer H.

Mrs. HM Lets The Cat Out Of The Bag Prematurely

You'll never guess who I ran into at The Devil's Playground today!

Are you done guessing? If not, I can wait a few more minutes...Jeopardy music is playing...get to guessin' while the guessin's good! Okay...doot, de-doot-doot, doot...doot...doot. End of Jeopardy music. Here comes the answer...

It was my sister the ex-mayor's wife's husband's brother-in-law! Uh huh. The dude married to the ex-mayor's sister. I've known him for a while, through educational circles. See him here and there, now and then. He caught me hangin' out by the banana bin. We chit-chatted for a few minutes. Then the subject of Farmer H's retirement came up.

GUILTY! I admit it! I confess! Shame on me! Lock me up and throw away the key! Off with my head! I revealed top secret information that Farmer H specifically forbade me to release at this juncture.

He'll have to get over it.

I let it slip that Farmer H has rented his own storage shed at the flea market, and opened for business on Saturday.

Let the record show that there is really no reason for Farmer H to be secretive about this. The only person he didn't want to know yet was Sis. Fat chance of that. I can't put the genie back in the bottle. If BroLaw knows, Sis is gonna get wind of it.

Farmer H's reasoning is that he's selling stuff from Mom's house, and dividing the money between me and Sis, and he's not paying out until the end of the month. Since he just started October 28, he's waiting until the end of November to distribute the first allotment of the proceeds. It's all above-board. He's keeping a separate ledger for our stuff. But (probably rightly so) he thinks Sis will be asking about it every week.

So...having already sunk that ship with my loose lips, when I got a text from Sis 30 minutes later, as if she's some kind of freaky psychic...I called her. I spilled my guts, plus fat and bone and muscle and sinew and a good bit of connective tissue. Told her the whole deal. I heard a little change in her voice, right before the brief silence, when I mentioned being paid at the end of each month.

Sis said that the ex-mayor will be glad to help Farmer H.

Pretty sure there's going to be Not-Heaven to pay over this one. From both sides.

The Evidence Speaks For Itself

Yes, this evidence not only speaks for itself, it practically screams to be heard. It's not bashful. This evidence has great self-confidence. It can command an audience. Especially an audience of one. One Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, in the venue of her own Mansion kitchen. This evidence could practically write its own book, "How to Alienate Kin and Influence No One."

Allow me to introduce you to The Evidence. Good thing I did not turn on the microphone built into my Nexus 7, or you would be getting an earful from The Evidence. I have a feeling The Evidence would sound like that annoying stain in the Tide Pen commercial.

The Evidence was just released from seclusion Saturday morning. Pure as the driven snow. And by Saturday evening, The Evidence had been sullied. Marked. Disfigured. Only one selectly sized sheet had been ripped from The Evidence, and that by myself upon removing my hands from a sink full of dishwater, just prior to transporting The Evidence from the bottom of the package stored in Genius's bedroom to the kitchen cutting block.

The prime suspect, one Farmer H, of Outer Hillmomba, claimed ignorance.

"I didn't leave that mark! I haven't even touched it. I never used a paper towel. I haven't even been anywhere I could get dirty today!"

Said the man who spent five hours at a flea market, three hours stacking firewood and cleaning off metal hot dog roasting sticks and carrying hay bales and hooking up a trailer to his tractor and lighting a fire. Then 2.5 hours roasting hot dogs and marshmallows, driving a 45-minute hayride, taking leftover supplies to the Mansion kitchen and placing them (with no witnesses) on the very cutting block where The Evidence was located.

Yes. I'm pretty sure The Evidence speaks for itself.