The Man Who Sprung The Moon

If anybody could do it, Farmer H could do it. Could take a beautiful full moon, and warp it, squash it, collapse it, make it look all sprung and broken like the insides of an old couch.

Let the record show that we were visiting The Pony in Norman, Oklahoma, nearing the full moon on Thanksgiving, November 22nd. When we walked out to head to Golden Corral for our second buffet of the day, on Wednesday, November 21st, it looked as if the moon was already full.

The Pony cautioned me about taking the photo. "Mom. Celestial objects never turn out well on a phone camera. They're not designed for that." Or maybe he was talking in code, trying to save me from the sweaving of Farmer H, who likes to drive off as soon as he's ready, nevermind allowing time for a passenger to get both feet in, close the door, and buckle up. No, there aren't two moons. That one on the right is a parking lot light.

When we were about two hours from the Mansion on Thursday, sadly without my little Pony, I tried again. The moon was just SO SPECTACULAR!

In fact, I didn't know the moon had risen. I asked Farmer H, "What town is THAT? Over that hill. I don't remember there being something big there, but I saw the lights glowing through the trees." Ha! The joke was on me, because the road veered, and I saw the moon pop up on the other side of the highway. Darn those cars for daring to drive down I-44 at dusk with their headlights on!

I was really trying to get a good view, through A-Cad's windshield, with Farmer H sweaving and hitting every bump in the road without even seeming to make much effort.

This would probably have been the pick of the litter, with darkness almost fully fallen, and the pattern of the guardrail supports, and the sign showing our location. But no. Farmer H had to sweave severely left, right at the instant I snapped the photo. HOW does anybody even squish the moon like that? And to refute Farmer H's claims that he doesn't drive off the road, I invite you to inspect the photo, which pretty much reveals that A-Cad's right-side tires are riding the white line.

One last try, as we left the interstate for our 79 miles of blacktop state highways and lettered byways to reach the Mansion.

Yes, the fog was coming. I didn't think to warn it to watch its little cat feet, lest Farmer H sweave all over them. If anyone could do it...Farmer H could do it.

The Good Old Days Of Wings And Videos

When Farmer H and I got married, he moved from the apartment complex where we met into my $17,000 house in town. He did a lot of work fixing it up. We built an addition on the back for our master bedroom, converted the walk-out half basement (with windows on three sides) to a little apartment with built-in bunk beds and a living room for HOS (Hick's Oldest Son) and The (little future) Veteran, who were 9 and 7 at the time, and came for weekend and summer visits.

Hick was working in the city, and I had transferred from my city unemployment job to the local office, which was only three blocks away. Every Wednesday, I'd drive over to Bill-Paying Town for Chinese food before Farmer H got home, and pick up two movies at our local video store. Mmm...that Chinese was fantastic. Farmer H would get Hunan Chicken, and I'd get Cashew Chicken, and we'd split an order of BBQ chicken wings. That's what they called them, BBQ. It was like no BBQ I ever ate. More like fried wings coated with Hoisin Sauce. I wish we could find them now! So sad when a restaurant changes owners!

This was way back when people still rented videotapes, sometime between 1989 and 1994, after Farmer H and I were married, but before we had Genius. On this particular Wednesday, I picked Friday the 13th for my movie. I don't remember what Farmer H got that night. I know it wasn't Booty Call, because that one hadn't come out yet. But I remember him getting it later!

Anyhoo...I'd never seen Friday the 13th, but I knew it was a horror movie. Farmer H was laying on his stomach on the floor in front of the TV. I was sitting in our recliner, a cheaper version before we saved money and bought the La-Z-Boy.

In case you've never seen Friday the 13th, you might want to check out the ending. It's probably on YouTube. In fact, it is! Here's a link! It's slightly over a minute long. That's all you need! Watch it before you read on, to fully understand Farmer H's antics.

After the other counselors at Camp Crystal Lake are murdered one by one...the lone gal who survives is floating in a canoe in the middle of the lake. The water is glassy calm, and you're breathing a sigh of relief with her as the cops pull up to the edge of the lake to make sure she's okay.

Well! When that final scene played out, Farmer H JUMPED STRAIGHT UP IN A LAYING DOWN POSITION! I've never seen anything like it, before or since. I have no idea how he did that. He was stretched out like Superman on the carpet, and then shot about a foot into the air, looking like Superman stretched out flying. Of course he fell back to the floor pretty quick, and started crabbing backwards in a frenzy, butting into my recliner.

I think he also squealed like a schoolgirl. Farmer H doesn't like to be surprised. At least he didn't jump out of the La-Z-Boy when I surprised him yesterday evening by coming in the door from the porch.

The Shaken

Once upon an evening leery, while he snacked, meek and feary
Kicked back in the La-Z-Boy eating ice cream, wishing he had more--
While he slurped on, clearly gorging, suddenly there came a-barging
As of someone boldly charging, charging through the Mansion door.
"Who the hell," he gasped, flustered, "a-barging in my Mansion door--
I am shaken to the core!"

After questioning Farmer H about his bathroom tapping, and not getting a satisfactory answer...I had let it go. You have to choose your battles, you know. And my most current battle involves Farmer H not peeling apart stuck paper plates when it's his turn.

Anyhoo...I had no revenge on my mind when I ascended the 13 steps to the living room. I had been trying to text The Pony a picture, but after 30 minutes it hadn't gone through. The usual solution is to take the phone out on the front porch, lean out from under the metal roof, and let those invisible picture rays cast themselves upon the innernets to travel to Norman, Oklahoma.

I was still having trouble. (Formerly known as Puppy) Jack jumped up the minute I opened the door. He'd been curled up by that fake rosin beagle Farmer H put on the front porch at the feet of one of the sentinel Indians. It was about the cutest thing you could hope to see if you opened the Mansion door and stepped out onto the dark porch. I pulled the door to, but didn't latch it. I didn't want Farmer H to walk by and notice that it wasn't locked, and lock me out! There'd been no sign of him in the living room, but I'd heard him walking in the area of the boys' rooms. So I figured he'd gone to their bathroom.

While waiting for that picture to load for five minutes, I petted Jack, who soon lost interest in me and took to humping the fat tuxedo cat, Stockings. I walked back and forth on the porch. Still no picture-sending. So I headed back inside. I pushed the door open, and thought I'd given Farmer H a heart attack!

There he sat, in his La-Z-Boy, holding a partially peeled banana in one hand, and an individual cup of ice cream (vanilla swirled with chocolate and strawberry) in the other. I have no idea how he was eating those two foods while needing a third hand. Unless he was using the banana as a spoon.

Anyhoo...Farmer H's eyes bugged out like he'd seen a ghost. Or a home invader.

"How'd you get out there?"

"I walked out. To send The Pony a picture."

"I never saw you go out! When did you come up? How did you do that?"

"I guess you were in the bathroom."

"Maybe..."

Farmer H took a while to settle down. I sat down on the couch to chat for a moment. He acted like I had walked through the wall, rather than entering through an open door.

I cannot lie. I kind of enjoyed his discombobulation.

What I Need Is A Lie-Detector. And Maybe A Cone Of Silence.

You never know which thread in life's rich tapestry is going to unravel for Mrs. HM on any given day. If you were a betting person, though, you'd pick a Farmer H thread.

Thursday evening, I was minding my own business, responding to a text from The Pony about his very healthy grades this semester, when I was jolted out of my bliss by sounds from above. My dark basement lair sits right under the master bathroom, you know. I'd subconsciously noticed that Farmer H stumped his seemingly footless ankles across the tile. Didn't think much about it.

I heard the toilet flush. Then a THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP! Like when the toilet brush is knocked against the rim of the toilet, after scrubbing, to get the water droplets out. I'd just cleaned that toilet yesterday, so I couldn't imagine Farmer H, who never cleans the toilet, doing it today.

Oh. Maybe it was the sound of the plunger being knocked against the rim of the toilet. Shaking (hopefully just) water off the plunger. Then the toilet flushed again.

I had just commenced a text to Farmer H to investigate when I became aware that my dark lair was brighter than usual. I turned and saw that the fluorescent light in my office, the one in the corner directly under the toilet, which has been (supposedly) burnt out for many months, was glowing like it had two new bulbs! Let the record show that my dark basement lair has four such light panels, three of which have been burnt out for months.

If you are the squeamish type, you may not want to read on...

"What's going on up there? Did you clog the toilet? You thumped so hard that one of my lights came back on!"

"No I hah to pup twice" [That's unedited]

"Well, the light under the toilet is on now, and I definitely heard thumping."

"Just me walking had to hurry back for second pup" [Also unedited]

"Huh. Sounded like you tapping something on the side of the toilet."

"Turds plopping in I guess"

"Dang! They must have shot out like cannon balls!"

No way was that tapping the sound of...um...excrement! It was a definite rhythmic tapping. I'm pretty sure Farmer H is just shining me on. Gaslighting me about the tapping.

I kind of got even, though. That story tomorrow.

Sadly, The Saga Continues

Seems like only yesterday ('cause it WAS) that I was ranting about Farmer H ordering me to hand him a paper plate, because he was too lazy to unstick the two that were stuck together. I've had enough of that crap. This time, I set a trap!

Farmer H made himself a ham sandwich for lunch. He used the GOOD paper plates, the sturdy ones, not the white plain version. So I couldn't quibble with him over his plate selection. However, as he was sitting in his La-Z-Boy with his sandwich, I began preparing my own lunch. Not much preparation needed, since The Devil's Playground was out of pinwheels of any kind, the last two trips I made there.

My new lunch this week has been a can of Sardines in Mustard Sauce, and a slice of Ozark Hearth 22 Grains and Seeds Bread. All I have to do is toss a can of sardines on my tray, add a slice of bread, and make sure I have a fork. I do use a plate, though. I'm not a savage!

I was sure there'd be a single plate in the Everyday China rack. The one left after I peeled them apart for Farmer H when he commanded me at the previous night's supper. Sadly, there was not! He must have used another one for something else. So...I peeled two plates apart, and put one on my tray for lunch, and put the other one back.

"Wait just a minute!" I told myself. "Why leave a single plate there for HIM? I'm taking both of them, and that single one that's next! He'll have to tear off his own plate if he wants one for his rolls when he warms up supper!"

See what I did there? I put three plates on my tray, stacked on top of each other. That way, I could bring my tray up later, discard the top plate that was used, and still have one ready to go for my next meal. While Farmer H would have to pry his own plates apart if he wanted one out of the rack.

Sweet Gummy Mary! He's a sly one, Farmer H!

I came upstairs before my supper to find a paper plate laying on the counter. Farmer H had used it to write on. I'd been asking him for days to sell me some one-dollar bills and some dimes and quarters from his Storage Unit Store cash. That way, he has fewer small bills and change to carry, and I have soda money for a couple weeks. Written on the plate was: $10 ones, $3 quarters, $7 dimes.

I picked up the note-written plate, and it was a SINGLE! Good! I reached to the rack, expecting to find a single in front, since Farmer H had obviously torn two apart.

NOPE! Double. And the one after it a double! Farmer H had bypassed the front of the plates, and foraged for a single! That's dirty pool! Of course I went straight to the boys' bathtub to confront him about it. I saw him in there this time, leaning forward when I came up, so I wasn't a creepy hideaway thing.

Of course I chastised Farmer H for rifling through the stuck-together plates until he came to a single plate. He denied it. Over and over. I wish he would just admit it! I even told him how I'd set the trap, so I KNEW there was no single plate in front, as he kept insisting.

Oh, yeah. He ALSO insisted that the bigger Styrofoam bowl that I'd set out for my salad, and he'd filled with 12 dirty junk quarters (!) was actually meant to have coins in it, because he got it from the bottom of the stack of bowls I have coins in. Um. NO. Because all those bowls are the small ones, and the small bowl with four quarters left in it was still there on the bottom of the stack. I'd left that big bowl on top, knowing I'd be putting my salad together in that spot on the counter.

I swear. These big ol' bears are SO easy to trap. Even if they fancy themselves good liars.

One Trip Forward And Three Plates Back

Sweet Gummi Mary! Just a few days ago, I was thinking that Farmer H and I had this retirement thingy figured out. He was not driving me nearly as crazy as when he first chucked the whole "employment" thing. Well. Let's just say THE CRAZY IS BACK!

It was bad enough that I had to pick up his discarded candy wrappers in the hotel room on our Thanksgiving trip to see The Pony. It's not like HIS Popeye arm is in a cast. He needs to throw away his own dang trash!

It was even worse that on the same trip, I had to flush the toilet for him! Yeah. Only once. But isn't once more than enough???

"I don't want to look at your bubbly pee! Flush the dang toilet!"

"Oh. I thought I did."

It was ultimately worser that I sat in his pee! YIKES! That shouldn't happen to a professional pee-sitter!

"I can't believe I just sat in your pee! My whole right butt cheek and thigh are coated with it! I need to get home as fast as we can, to take a shower! I will be sitting on your pee for 10 hours!"

"Oh, quit being so dramatic. I usually wipe off the seat with a piece of toilet paper. I guess I forgot, since we were on the way out the door."

Yeah, right. That's horrific, but it was Tuesday, back at home, that put my teeth on edge like when Farmer H had told me that my stress at making a holiday meal RUINS HIS ENJOYMENT OF IT!

There I was, sitting in the La-Z-Boy, when Farmer H popped in before going over to his Freight Container Garage to play with his toys get Santa toys ready for his upcoming Breakfast With Santa on December 8th.

A short discussion ensued concerning our upcoming CasinoPalooza 3 with Genius and The Pony.

"We'll get there around 12:00, and meet them at Downstream. We can't check in until 3:00. So we can go to a few other casinos, like that one where we like their deli, and have lunch at it."

Let the record show that I've already mentioned this plan to Farmer H twice. Asking how he felt about it, and if he thought that would be a good use of time until we were able to check in. The other option had been playing right there at Downstream, eating lunch in their little grill, and then checking in when they allowed.

"So...where do you think we'll eat supper Saturday night? I just want to know, because I can't be having TWO buffets in one day again!"

"I don't know. I'll eat anywhere. It's you that's picky."

"As long as it's not two buffets, I can find something to eat. It's Genius on that keto kick, and The Pony who's picky about his food."

"I don't know. I just do whatever. You're the one who plans everything, and stuff comes up that doesn't always go along with the plan."

"It depends on when we try to check in. One time they let us check in at two."

"You need to figure out what you're doing. I haven't heard the plan."

"I just told you the plan! We'll go out to those farther away casinos, and have lunch, and then come back to the closer ones, and check in."

Sheesh! First he says I plan too much. Then he says I don't have a plan! I've told him that since the day we met, he's always been Mr. Opposite. He always says the opposite of what I say or do. Funny how he says, "No. YOU'RE the one who's opposite."

But that's just small potatoes compared to what Farmer H did next! I'd come up to make his supper at 3:00. He entered the Mansion around 3:30. The potatoes and carrots were already roasting in the oven. I was peeling onions to add to the roasting pan, getting ready to drape them with bacon and coat them with Hidden Valley Ranch powder. Farmer H came to the kitchen, and said he was getting his medicine.

"It's going to be an hour until it's ready. I already said we'd eat between 4:30 and 5:00, so you can go to that Christmas program. I thought you took the medicine right before you eat."

"I do. I can wait."

Well. I went back to put the ham in at 4:15. It was already pre-cooked, and sliced. Just needed warming. I draped some bacon over it so it wouldn't dry out. I put the rolls in the oven. Here came Farmer H, like a cat hearing a can-opener, or my dogs hearing the kitchen door. I told him another 15 minutes, so he went to take his medicine, and came right back.

"Well. Since you're in here. You can put the bacon in a container while I rub some butter on top of the rolls."

Of course he used a plastic fork that won't stab. Instead of the tongs I recommended for grabbing bacon. Then he got out a slotted spoon for dishing potatoes and carrots, and couldn't close the drawer because he'd dislodged a wide spatula. Then he hit the foil I'd removed from the top of the rolls with a bacon slice each time he lifted it from the pan to the container, because he'd not had the sense to put that foil out of his way. Then he dipped himself some potatoes and carrots, and laid the slotted spoon so it flipped out of the roaster pan, spattering bacon drippings on the stovetop. THEN the foil from the rolls slid off the canisters where he'd laid it, down over other stuff that didn't need bacon-greasing.

But here's the last straw. Farmer H reached for a paper plate to put his rolls on. They're in a wooden holder that says "Everyday China." There's been a problem with the last pack of paper plates I got from Save A Lot. They stick together. More than usual. You need two hands to wrest them apart, and one of them gets kind of maimed in the process. There will be two stuck plates, a single one, two stuck, a single one. You know how it goes. It always seems like whenever I need a plate, they're stuck together. I pry them apart, and put one back.

Now Farmer H reached for a plate, and got the two stuck together. He PUT THEM BACK, and reached behind them for a single. But there wasn't a single. I guess he'd been in the kitchen a few times, and taken all the singles a good ways back.

"YOU'RE the one who keeps taking the single plates! You take what's in front! Peel them apart!"

"Then do it for me."

"WHAT?"

"Get me a plate! They're stuck together."

"I know that! Why don't you do it yourself? Are you helpless?"

"Well. You're in my way."

"I wasn't in your way when you grabbed the stuck-together plates out of there!"

"Just do it."

"I can't believe you! It's like I'm taking care of a toddler!"

Dang it! At least a toddler is lovable. Sometimes.

A Simple Request

Let's not forget that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was still feeling the debilitating effects of the sickovirus on Tuesday. It was not getting better, and perhaps getting worse. It was that acute bronchitis stage, with the fits of coughing and no sleep, and the whistling like a teakettle every time I exhaled.

The Pony and Farmer H were pretty good about ratcheting down their foot speed to walk with me from the hotel room to the casino. It was slightly longer than the length of our driveway, so I'm guessing it was about 1/10 of a mile. That shouldn't be a problem for me, but the sickovirus said otherwise. I was weak as a kitten by the time we got there, and the back of my throat felt like a piece of sandpaper at high noon in the Mojave Desert.

Another unfortunate symptom of the sickovirus was that I SEEMED TO BE ALLERGIC TO CIGARETTE SMOKE! Normally, I can tolerate smoke in a casino. I don't like it. I complain about it by eviscerating those demon smokers here on my blog. But I can tolerate it. Not this trip. In fact, it took me until the second night to figure out that SMOKE was what set off those near-uncontrollable fits of coughing. I could not co-exist with it at all. I had to get up and move if a smoker was in the vicinity.

I estimate that about 90% of the patrons of Riverwind Casino are smokers. But they're the healthy kind of smokers, who rarely inhale. Because every one of them sat with a lit cigarette streaming its byproducts right across my face. Not puffing. Just holding.

Anyhoo...I was worried about a coughing fit when I went to bed. At home, that's the worst time for trying to sleep. In bed. At night. I always keep a bubba cup of ice water on my nightstand. But at the casino hotel, I did not have my bubba cup. I had my purple slim credit union wanna-be-bubba cup. But it doesn't hold much water, nor insulate the ice.

During the evening hours, as we'd stop by the room, I took sips from my 32 oz Diet Coke that I'd brought all the way from Adair, Oklahoma. A distance of about 3.5 hours. Those Styrofoam cups really hold the cold. In fact, I'd filled it full of ice back there at our pizza-slice lunch, and topped it off with Diet Coke. Because I knew I couldn't be sipping Diet Coke on a 3.5 hour drive. Anyhoo...I'm used to sipping my 44 oz Diet Coke at home, well into the nighttime hours. So it was perfectly palatable to me.

The last time we were all together in the room, I told Farmer H,

"Get some ice in the bucket before you go to bed, so I can have some water through the night."

"I'm not even sure where the ice is."

"I'm pretty sure it's by the drink machines on the way to the front desk. Wait. Don't get ice in the bucket. It will just melt. Dump the rest of my soda out of the Casey's cup, and fill it with ice. Put a little water in. That will last all night."

"Okay."

On the long walk to the casino, I pointed out the ice machine. Farmer H and The Pony both nodded.

You know what happened, right? I came back to the room around 11:30. Picked up my Casey's cup for a long swig of ice water. And got a snort of watery Diet Coke with about 2 cubes of ice in it.

Farmer H had not filled my cup with ice and water. I checked the ice bucket, just in case he'd mixed up my directions. Dry as a bone! So all night, during my fits of coughing, I had to sip watery, slightly less than lukewarm Diet Coke.

The next morning, in all my hoarseness, I asked Farmer H why he didn't get my ice.

"I didn't know you wanted any."

Good thing I didn't spontaneously combust. I doubt Farmer H would have peed on me to put me out.