Mrs. HM Gets Spooked

October is barely upon us, and Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is already jumpy. It's not the paranormal that scares her these days. It's the real-life ghouls who set her nerves on edge.

I cruised down Mailbox Hill Monday afternoon, and came upon a White RaperVan at the entrance to our gravel road.

The Pony is the one to thank for that term. He's always referred to white vans that way. I think it was an inside joke amongst his classmates. At first I didn't get my hackles up. Our down-the-hill neighbor drives a white van for his job, which is servicing heating and cooling units for a restaurant chain, if Farmer H is to be believed.

I parked T-Hoe on the edge of the blacktop county road, and walked over to EmBee for our mail. During that task, I started thinking. Why would our neighbor be parked down at the end of the gravel road? He doesn't have kids to pick up when the school bus arrives. And that would be 2-3 hours later in the afternoon. This is not on his work route. He'd just go on up the road and home. It didn't look like the person in the White RavperVan was him. This driver had a thinner (and younger-looking arm). That's all I could see. One arm.

This time, I took a picture. For later reference. Or perhaps evidence! In front of that White RaperVan is a little red car. It might look a bit like Neighbor Tommy's car, but this is a smaller model. It is parked there every day. A fifteen-year-old kid drives it down there to wait for the bus, and drives it back home after school.

Anyhoo...as I turned in and drove past the White RaperVan, it looked like a guy behind the driver's seat, with a phone to his ear. That's funny. Peculiar, not ha-ha. I have no bars down here. I can barely get radio reception. So it seems odd that a person would choose this place to talk on a cell phone.

I went up the road, in the manner of a person who actually lives out here. You know. Not speeding, but not creeping along like a sightseer.

THAT WHITE RAPERVAN PULLED OUT TO FOLLOW ME!

Uh huh. After sitting there for who knows how long, that driver had a sudden need to drive along behind me. At a pretty good clip, too. He was gaining on me. Not that I was trying to outrun him. There's a just-right speed on this gravel, where you don't slide around, and don't hit the potholes too hard. I was at that speed. White RaperVan was exceeding it.

Heh, heh! I hope that dude was hungry, because I fed him enough dust to make a competitive eater throw in the towel. Yes, a huge cloud of dust rose up, making a wall that my rearview vision could not penetrate! I no longer saw White RaperVan. I guess he backed off.

When I turned up the hill to pass by my heating/cooling neighbor's homestead, that White RaperVan kept going on up the other hill, past HOS's house, on the road that comes out on another blacktop county road after two miles.

Here's the creepy part. When I loaded these pictures, and zoomed in to see if there might be a business logo on the side of the White RaperVan...I noticed something odd about the back bumper.

It looks like a cascade of blood might have seeped out!

Probably just my overactive Halloween imagination kicking in.

Sometimes, You Gotta Let Your Arm Get Twisted

I've been on a losing streak lately with my scratchers. Unless you count those three $100 winners I had a month ago. Of course I don't count them! They were JUST three tickets. I've had a bunch of losers since then.

On Friday, I thought my luck was turning around. I was shocked to have three winners. One of them for $50, one for $40, and one for $15. I figured it was either a fluke, or I was headed for a winning streak. That's usually how it goes.

Saturday, when I cashed in my winners at The Gas Station Chicken Store, my mashed-potato buddy was working the resister. I heard a man in front of me asking for certain tickets, and the Asian Guy Clerk said, "No. No. Uh uh. Nope." That's because he was out of the $2 tickets that guy wanted. So he bought other ones. I didn't see which kind.

AGC cashed my tickets, and I told him I wanted to spend $15, and take the rest back in cash. I took a $10 ticket, and pointed to a $5 ticket. "No." I chose another. "No. You have to take the VOICE, or the crossword." He said it so forcefully. Like I couldn't just decide to take the $5 back.

"Oh, okay. I'll take The Voice. I don't really like it. I've only won once on it, and that was ten dollars. It's too hard to scratch. But if you're going to twist my arm, I'll take it."

I guess it's a good thing for me that AGC was so persuasive. I uncovered the little microphone symbol, which is an automatic winner, on the first number. I was excited. Then I got it on the second number, and was whooping, all alone in my lair, because I knew I'd won at least $10. You can imagine how exciting it was to find winners under EVERY NUMBER. For a total of $100.

We'll see how long my lucky streak can last.

Mrs. HM, The Hot-Blooded Killer

There's been a bit of chill in the air this week. Temps down into the 50s overnight. Not inside the Mansion, of course. We don't have the heat on, but I wake up to 70 degrees. Down in my dark basement lair, though, I feel the chill. I'm sure it's no more than a couple degrees off the usual temperature. I just notice the coolness more because I look up the temperature on the local newspaper's website.

Anyhoo...a couple evenings ago, I had my under-desk heater cranked up, basking in the warmth like my tuxedo cat Stockings sprawled out in the sun on the back porch deck. My mellow innernetting was rudely interrupted by an intruder. No. It was not Farmer H.

The interloper was airborne, buzzing lazily around my head, swooping right into my face, yet stopping short of actually landing on me. Sometimes, Drosophila melanogaster pays me a visit. That's not a foreign dignitary, taking time out of ruling his country to drop in on Mrs. HM and pay his respects. No. Not at all. It's the genus and species name for FRUIT FLIES. I studied them in college, you know. For genetics. Tracking their eye color. Not as romantic as it sounds.

Anyhoo...this unwelcome guest was NOT a fruit fly. It was a common house fly. I'm too lazy to look up its genus and species. That's not on the tip of my tongue like the fruit fly. Buzzy had to land and sit still for me to identify him, though. Once that happened, I flew into a murderous rage! And by murderous rage, I mean that I slothfully cast my eyes around my lair, seeking a weapon, rather than stand up and walk out to my OPC (Old People Chair), where a flyswatter resides on the lamp table.

Yes, Buzzy landed on my empty paper plate. On a box of envelopes that I use for sending letters to Genius and The Pony. On my winning scratch-off tickets. On my note cards. On a stack of papers on New Delly's computer tower, relating to my poop test bill (quite appropriate).

While Buzzy was showing off, I had picked up my weapon of 2nd choice.

I actually took a newer picture of this old ruler, but this one is better. I've had it since before the boys were born. The ruler, not the picture. Maybe since my first year of teaching. So it's in its late 20s, at least.

I took some swipes at Buzzy each time he landed, marveling at my lightning-quick reflexes. I came close twice. Once he lit on the poop test papers, I laid the smack down on him, and knocked him right off that computer tower! I hadn't thought I connected, yet there was Buzzy, doing a parabolic arc into the air, and down behind New Delly's monitor.

Of course I didn't go looking for him. It's not like I'm performing surgery at my desk, and need sterile conditions. I was just happy that Buzzy had quit buzzing my head, and went on innernetting.

Five minutes later, I noticed Buzzy dragging himself to the forefront. Onto the rectangular metal base that supports New Delly's monitor. For a moment I marveled at his death throes. Then I finished him off with half a Bounty Select-A-Size paper towel.

I still consider my exalted ruler to be the actual murder weapon.

Just Puddling Along

A few days ago, I noticed some ominous seepage as I walked past the kitchen table. I remembered that Farmer H had bought his own Diet Mountain Dew, when he found it on sale for $2.50 a six-pack, of extra-big bottles at Country Mart. But he'd put them on the floor, under the table. I had set his four-packs of Strawberry Water on top of the table. And now, something near them was leaking.

It sure didn't look like the water bottles! I had bad feeling about this. Had Farmer H bought something at the auction, and set it on the kitchen table overnight, before moving his treasure trove to the BARn or his Freight Container Garage the next morning? What in the Not-Heaven did he buy? A case of antique oil? I was not looking forward to finding out. Nor looking forward to cleaning it up before it dribbled off the table. That Farmer H! He's never around when work needs to be done!

I set my purse back on the kitchen counter, and moved past the Strawberry Water to see if I could find any clues about this puddle. Maybe I needed a hazmat suit before proceeding...

Or not.

Further investigation revealed the mess formerly known as "puddle" to be not liquid at all, but the DISPOSABLE SUNGLASSES provided to Farmer H by his ophthalmologist the previous afternoon. He'd had an appointment, and had his eyes dilated.

Never mind. It was STILL Farmer H's "mess."

Catastrophe at Negative Nine Feet

Oops! Might as well call me a Y2K version of Brittany Spears! Because I did it again. Saturday night, I toppled my double-cupped 44 oz Diet Coke on the desk in my dark basement lair. You know I add powdered sugar-free cherry limeade to my magical elixir, right? So anything that spills out is cola-red in color.

I almost caught it in time. I'd just added some extra ice cubes from my bubba cup. Hit my over-half-full beverage with the back of my wrist. I snatched it up, but not before about 1/4 of the contents had splashed out onto my countertop and keyboard. That's right,

KEYBOARD!!!

Let the record show that Genius built my New Delly for me. The only thing Dell about it is, I think, the monitor. The tower has stickers for Cooler Master and intel inside CORE i3. The keyboard itself says Rosewill. Poor keyboard. I was afraid it might as well have written its will, and I'd be laying roses on it, bemoaning its passing. But that keyboard is surprisingly DietCokeProof.

Uh huh. I blotted up as much elixir as I could, dabbing with paper towels and Puffs With Lotion. I flipped it over and slapped its back, like you do for a choking infant. Right, Genius? My little orange-slice-sucker at the hands of Grandma?

Anyhoo...I was really worried there for a minute. When I tried to type in Google at the top of my screen, I got 333333333333.

So I tried again. And got ho.w

The next attempt yielded ...................

Then hho.w

BUT THEN IT STARTED WORKING RIGHT!

Thank the Gummi Mary, my keyboard was not a lush! Barely even thirsty. I must have gotten most of the moisture out. Which was kind of hard to tell, seeing as how my Rosewill keyboard has a red base under the keys.

Please pardon all the dust and gunk stuck between the keys. I have been remiss in polishing my tools. When I worked at the unemployment office, I always took my keyboard apart for cleaning. Not on company time, of course. I stayed late waiting on Farmer H to finish his shift and pick me up, since we drove to the city together back then. I was off the clock, whiling away a half hour, hoping that strange man wasn't going from window to window and peeping in at me again.

Yes, I would pop all the keys off (one at a time, so I made sure they went back in the right place!) and polish them with a baby-wipe before replacing. And that was even (state) government property!

I really need to unhook Rosewill and give him a good scrub. I don't know much about electronics, but I'm pretty sure that once I get my music playing, unplugging the keyboard won't affect it...

Discomfort Food: Fried Chicken

Just like Will Rogers never met a man he didn't like...Mrs. HM never ate fried chicken she didn't like. Of course, some fried chicken is more likeable than others. The fried chicken Farmer H brought home from his class reunion does not fall in to my favorites category.

Oh, it was crispy enough. Even on Sunday evening, after cooling its legs in the bottom of FRIG II overnight. I put it in the oven at 400 for five minutes, and it crisped right up. I was anticipating a delectable repast of a thigh and a breast and some slaw. Nom-nom! Farmer H was out gallivanting around, having already eaten by the time I packed my provisions down to my dark basement lair.

I was so anticipating that first bite that I overlooked the puddle of grease on the pan I'd used to warm my chicken. Ah...the moment I'd been waiting for. A satisfying crunch. Tender. Huh. The flavor was not what I'd expected. It tasted like the batter was flour. Flour alone. No seasonings. Flour. Tasted like flour. Perhaps fried in vegetable oil.

Yes, the texture was the best thing about that chicken. I couldn't figure out the grease. You'd think it would have dripped out after sitting around 24 hours. Or that maybe the restaurant (a Mom & Pop place--more like a Gram and Gramps place) nearer the school than here, would have drained it before sending it off to the reunion.

Farmer H was the chicken picker. He was sent to pick up the order, which was supposed to be ready at 4:00. The lady told him it might be closer to 4:30, and he said, "Lady, the reunion starts at 5:00, and we've had this order in for weeks." While he was waiting, an old couple sitting at a table told Farmer H that they'd been waiting TWO HOURS for their meal. I guess the chicken-fryers didn't plan ahead. I told Farmer H that it almost seemed as if that chicken had been baked, and then fried. Due to the juices running out like that.

Anyhoo...you can bet that I ate every crumb of that fried chicken. Even though it wasn't very good.

Irregularities Are Allowed For Regulars

I really can't thank Farmer H enough for bringing me cake and fried chicken home from his class reunion. I'm getting at least four blog posts out of it!

You might recall that Farmer H and I decided to eat the fried chicken for our Sunday supper. Being a giver, a generous soul, always looking for ways to please my man (STOP THAT!)...I asked Farmer H if he would like me to bring him some mashed potatoes and gravy from the Gas Station Chicken Store when I picked up my 44 oz Diet Coke. He loves their mashed potatoes and gravy. I, myself, do not. I don't like the brown gravy. I've tried it without, but I'm not crazy about mashed potatoes.

Anyhoo...we decided that I'd get a large, which is about the size of a pint of ice cream, whereas the small is the size of a mini ice cream cup, the large's price being only about a dollar more for three times the potatoes.

It was going on 2:00 when I bellied up to the chicken counter to order my mashed potatoes. The little Asian Guy Clerk was doing chicken duty, and the Stern Old Lady was running the register. They see me in there every day. I know their actual names, but I won't blow their cover here.

While I was getting my magical elixir at the soda fountain, a lady customer asked Stern Old Lady for a roll of quarters.

"I don't have any."

I could tell by her voice that what she really meant was: "I have a roll of quarters, but I'm not giving them to you." I don't blame her. The Gas Station Chicken Store is not a bank! I'm sure Lady Owner has a policy about not giving away change, especially on a Sunday afternoon when banks are closed. That lady was probably going over to the laundromat by Save A Lot. She might have already asked THEM for quarters, too. She didn't even buy anything before she left. Anyhoo...back to me on my tater quest.

"Hi. I'd like a large mashed potato with gravy, please."

"You know what? We're out."

"NO!"

"Yeah."

"I told my husband I'd bring him some. He brought home some fried chicken from his class reunion last night, and I said I'd get him mashed potatoes and gravy to go with it."

"Well..."

"Anything you can scrape up would be fine!"

Here's the thing. The Gas Station Chicken Store sends the cook home at 2:00 on Sundays. The rest of the evening, the clerk on duty walks over to the chicken counter and takes orders if needed, and sells what's left. So maybe he really WAS out of mashed potatoes. Or maybe Lady Owner won't let them sell mashed potatoes without chicken on Sunday. Who knows?

Anyhoo...my clerk buddy came back with mashed potatoes and gravy for me! "All I had was a small."

"Thanks! That's great!"

It pays to be a regular. It pays in MASHED POTATOES AND GRAVY!