Mrs. HM Has A Crumby Hubby

I should have known that Farmer H wasn't done annoying me. He so glibly explained away his pee some random water on the toilet seat. Then acted like I was making things up. Believe you me, Mrs. HM has a vivid imagination, and can most certainly make up better stuff than pee on a toilet seat. Even in a state of unconsciousness. Like the dream I had Friday night about villains chasing me around a casino.

Allow me to tell you some details, because now that a couple days have passed, I'm noticing some parts that might have been prophetic! In this dream, I wandered around a casino, looking for four friends, to give them money. I had a stack of five twenties in my left pants pocket, and a stack of five twenties in my right pants pocket. So, $200 I was trying to give my friends.

In this dream, two bad guys ran in with guns. I think they were dressed in black, like ninjas. Lucky that Dream HM knew the mob bosses who ran the casino! They yelled at me and my friends to "Head down to the tunnel!" I guess that was as secret hiding place. As my friends and the mob bosses scurried, somebody flung a bucket of coins in the air, which distracted the other patrons into crawling around grabbing them, and blocked the path of those ninja villains.

Heh, heh! I woke up due to Farmer H's morning dressing routine, and never knew what happened. I felt cheated. We shall revisit this dream, perhaps tomorrow...

Anyhoo... that revelation just hit me, but what I started out to do right now was show you some evidence a picture:

It's not a banana peel stuffed in the cushions, but it's garbage left by Farmer H at his La-Z-Boy. I discovered it Sunday morning, and at first thought it was crushed-up crackers. We have crackers, but Farmer H doesn't eat them. Not even in chili. And they're older than the last time we had chili, so I might need to use them as dog treats. Anyhoo... my second guess was those little hard breadsticks that come in plastic with a little pool of cheese for dipping. I know I've seen some of them that Farmer H bought at the auction right after Christmas.

Oh, I didn't do a taste test! That would be crazy! I just left those crumbs there. I'm not a MAID, by cracky! I went on about my business, and when I came upstairs to make Farmer H his supper that evening, the crumbs had mysteriously disappeared. I'm hoping he threw them away, rather than eating them.

Farmer H even had the good sense to ADMIT HIS WRONGDOING this time! He said it was popcorn. We have some little individual bags of different flavors that I bought to include in The Pony's package from Easter.

"I guess it was on the footrest, and fell down there when I closed up the chair."

I didn't even bother to ask how you get popcorn on the footrest while you're leaned back in a La-Z-Boy eating popcorn.

Now He's A Literary Critic

Farmer H's book arrived on Friday. I must say that I was surprised. That could be because when I ordered it off Lulu, I received a message that it would be here on Wednesday, through FedEx. Yet when I tried to use the tracking two days later, I first got a message that the package was not trackable, and then a message that the package would arrive on Monday, by mail.

Well. It got here. In a padded envelope, rolled up by the mailman, and shoved to the back of EmBee's throat. I left the book, still in the envelope, on the kitchen counter for Farmer H to open. I know he wouldn't have minded if I took it out, but that's about 30% of the fun of getting a new book: OPENING THE PACKAGE!

I knew from the description that this book was paperback, and 138 pages. That was no shock. What WAS a shock was when Farmer H hollered down the steps to me, at 11:08 p.m. on Friday night,

"I finished my book!"

SWEET GUMMI MARY! Farmer H is not a reader. In fact, he'd even left for the auction at 6:00 that evening, and returned around 8:30. So he'd read that book in 2.5 hours! Maybe it was large print. Maybe there were photos. Maybe the spacing was generous.

Anyhoo... Farmer H had finished the book he'd been excited about.

"That was good. I'm not so sure he told the whole truth, though. I think he might've left some stuff out."

Farmer H. The literary critic.

Plop, Plop, Pizz, Pizz, Oh, What A Big Lie That Is!

I am losing patience with Farmer H. No! Really! I know that is hard to fathom, what with the glowing reviews he gets here on an almost daily basis. But he's gone too far this time. I think Judge Judy needs to give him a speech about her leg, and the current state of precipitation.

For 30 years, I have chided Farmer H for his careless bathroom habits. No, he's not a seat leaver-upper. That only happened ONCE, and I discovered it in the middle of the night, in the months before Baby Genius was born. It's one of the few lessons Farmer H learned.

There has been an ongoing battle about is aim. Sweet Gummi Mary! As careless as he is, putting the seat up would not help. It would only mean that I risked my head popping off from the pressure of bending over to constantly wipe up the floor. As it is now, I risk my head popping off from elevated blood pressure due to yelling at Farmer H. At least twice a week, I have to say,

"Why is my butt wet after sitting on the toilet?"

Farmer H is always clueless. He gives that little chuckle, as if I'm SIMPLE, like that character Pangle in Cold Mountain. Then he says,

"I don't know. Because I didn't pee on it."

 "I don't pee out of the back of my right thigh. So I don't know how that seat got wet."

"I don't either. I wiped it off."

"Why would you wipe it off if you didn't pee on it? I saw the square of toilet paper you didn't bother to flush. I guess that was your wiper. You missed some."

"Ha ha. HM, I wiped it off! There was nothing on the seat."

"My butt/thigh says there was. Why can't you just admit it? And stop doing it!"

"I wiped it because I knew you'd say I peed on it. So just in case, I wiped off the seat."

"Yet it was still wet."

"Maybe some water splashed up there."

"WATER? From WHAT?"

"When I peed. Maybe water splashed up out of the toilet onto the seat."

What in the NOT-HEAVEN? Is Farmer H peeing out of a fire hose? That's the stupidest thing I ever heard. Short of putting in a surveillance camera, I don't know how to confront him with proof of his guilt.

The Cheeky Status Of Genius

As a follow-up to the tale of Genius's lottery ticket misfortune a couple days ago, I can now reveal how he's coping. He contacted me Friday morning, concerning another, more joyous matter, and I was able to determine his Post Loser Stress Syndrome status.

Genius is coping.

He is not, however, one to blindly turn the other cheek. I gingerly delved into the incident, and heard the edge in Genius's voice.

"I guess you're over the lottery ticket incident..."

"Actually, I'm not! I'm still mad! But what am I gonna do? I can't demand the money."

"Heh, heh. I bet you're not gonna let Friend scratch one of your two tickets I'm getting ready to mail with your letter this week."

"NO! In fact, I still had my letter last week after we scratched the Easter tickets. They came on the same day. I opened the letter, and snatched up my two tickets. 'YOU HAVE LOST YOUR TICKET PRIVILEGES!' He just laughed."

"So you're both going to the wedding? You're not THAT mad..."

"No. Everything's okay for the wedding trip. I've got a half day of work, and then we're leaving. The rehearsal and dinner is tonight. I'll be there late. The good thing is, it's at a winery, with a hotel."

That's a VERY good thing. I'm pretty sure Genius will be mellow after a few glasses of wine.

Farmer H Has Money Problems

Every week, I dole out Farmer H's cash allowance. We started this method many years ago. I don't like the idea of Farmer H carrying around the checkbook. I'm the one who writes out the bills. Early on, I gave him a couple checks to have on hand, but I never knew when he might use them. The check numbers got out of order, and the checks he carried in his tri-fold got all misshapen so that I didn't want to used them if he traded them for a more current check number. Plus, Farmer H forgot to tell me the amount and vendor where he spent the check, so I'd have to wait for the statement to reconcile my ledger.

We are not credit card people. We have one. I don't even carry mine with me on a daily basis. We use the debit card for things like groceries and pet food and prescriptions and Lowe's items. Farmer H remembers to give me his receipts about 80 percent of the time. But for our weekly expenditures, we each have (an equal) cash allowance to use as we see fit, including gas for our vehicles.

I go to the bank every Friday, and withdraw the weekly cash. I put Farmer H's money in a secret hiding place in the Mansion kitchen. Don't be breaking in to look for it! Farmer H knows where to find his money. He leaves it there until Monday morning, when he replenishes his tri-fold.

This week, I saw on Wednesday that Farmer H's money was still in the secret hiding place. That was unusual. I planned to mention it when he came home, but he beat me to it by phone around noon.

"I got to town this morning, and I didn't have no money! I stopped by Casey's for a breakfast sandwich and a soda. It was $5.06. I was lucky I had a five in my billfold. And change in my pocket. I forgot to pick up my money this week!"

"Yeah. I saw it here. Do you want me to lay it out for you?"

"Put it where I keep my Storage Unit Store money. Then I'll remember it."

"Good thing you had that five."

"Well... I had a hundred on me, but I didn't want to break it."

Farmer H people problems.

Mrs. HM Plans, Genius's Friend Laughs

Every holiday, I send my boys a package full of treats. When Genius was in college, Farmer H delivered his stuff in person. It was only a 2-hour drive. The Pony is 9 hours away, so his goes in a flat-rate box, by mail. Now that Genius lives in Kansas City, his also is sent by mail.

I asked Genius if he wanted such a care package for the Easter holiday. I always include enough for Genius's Friend, too. They share an apartment, with Genius commuting to his job every day, and Friend working from home, being sent about the country and western hemisphere several times a month by his employer. They don't really need me sending them treats, since each draws a salary higher than my own when I retired after 28 years! Still, it's a tradition for me to send Genius treats.

Anyhoo... Genius said they didn't really need any treats for Easter, as they'd barely finished the Valentines goodies. However, they wouldn't mind some scratcher tickets. Since I always include some in the package, I was getting off easy with just an envelope of lottery tickets to mail. Friend is like an extra son to Farmer H and me, so of course I include some for him. I do not, however, send him regular tickets every week when I send two in Genius's letter. I think Genius lets him scratch one anyway, though the assignation of any winnings is at Genius's whim.

Because some of the ticket assortment was bigger than a regular envelope, I got a manila envelope for the Genius and Friend tickets. I put the smaller ones in a regular business size envelope, with GENIUS on one, and FRIEND on the other, and tucked the two larger tickets into the flap, without sealing up the business envelopes. Then I shoved them, side by side, down into the manila envelope. At the post office, I told the gal I'd rather my envelope didn't get bent. She said in that case, it would have to be mailed as a package, so I said NO, and paid a dollar-something regular postage to send it. 

The Pony got his regular box, with enclosed scratchers, faster than any package I've ever sent him. I was happy to get a text from The Pony on Monday evening, declaring that he had won $85 on his scratchers! I'm pretty sure he was happier than I. The problem with The Pony's winnings is that he'll have to wait until we make a visit, and I buy those winners from him, or until I deposit money in one of his accounts. He has not specified his preference for payment yet. It's kind of hard to redeem Missouri lottery tickets when you're living smack-dab in the middle of Oklahoma.

Later Monday night, I got a text from Friend. A picture!

That's just the WIN ALL part that I cropped out. He actually sent me the whole ticket.

It was a $10 ticket, and he won $100. Of course I was excited. Giving someone else a winning ticket is almost as good as having a winning ticket for myself! Thus commenced an interesting three-way text exchange.

"Wow! That's a good "winnell," as Farmer H calls it!"

FRIEND: "If only a few of those $5s were a little higher."

"I know. They shouldn't have less than the value of the ticket, I think. But MoLottery didn't consult me!"

FRIEND: "Hahaha. I ended up with $190 overall."

"Great! The Pony had $85, including one $50 winner."

FRIEND: "Awesome! Genius is not so lucky with his haul."

"I notice that he is not revealing his winnings. I'm sure he's stewing, because I obviously picked the best tickets to give you and The Pony."

GENIUS: "MEANWHILE I just won $45."

"That's $45 more than you had before your envelope arrived! I can't use my x-ray vision to pick out equal winners. If I could, I'd keep them for myself. That $45 can buy you a couple drinks to drown your losing sorrows."

GENIUS: "This can pay for our trip to our friends' wedding this weekend."

[Let the record show that Genius and Friend have a whole community of their-college-graduate friends living in Kansas City, and that this wedding is, I assume, in St. Louis or College Town. There was another wedding a few months ago. Genius was supposed to be a best man in one of them.]

"Well, among the three of you, you've won all the money back that was spent on tickets! Can't beat that with a stick! Sorry yours didn't win as much."

GENIUS: "Well, Friend picked the stacks we each got!"

"What??? I tried to separate them by date and purchase point, so everyone would have a fair shot at a fortune. I got them over three days, and laid them out so nobody had all the same day or same kind or same place. That'll learn ya, to let him sort them!"

GENIUS: "No, they were still in separate envelopes, but he picked which one we each got."

"All my fair play planning for naught! I DID have your names on the envelopes, you know. Except for the big tickets that didn't fit. I tried to tuck them in the flap of the named envelopes. Because I'm OCD like that."

GENIUS: "'I DIDN'T SEE THAT!' Friend says, while laughing."

"You're not going to make him spend it all on the wedding trip, are you? I'll be darned if I would even share my own winnings with your dad!"

GENIUS: "He was scratching the ones with MY name!"

"Ohhh... I guess I shouldn't be laughing. You DID buy him drinks and give him $20 when you won your $400 jackpot on CasinoPalooza. Maybe he'll share some of your rightful winnings back with you. Or not."

Heh, heh! I don't know how they resolved it. I think possession is 10/10 of the lottery law! I didn't want to text Genius the next day, in case there were any hard feelings, which would start it up again. I'm pretty sure they came to an agreement. We didn't get a call to bail Genius out of jail or anything. I'm sure he would have been just fine about the envelopes being wrongly assigned, if Genius had won all that money on an envelope designated for Friend! It's not like you can look at a ticket and tell it's a winner.

I have a feeling Genius will keep closer tabs on future tickets. Friend might not be scratching any of those weekly tickets for a while.

You Know It's Springtime In Hillmomba When Mrs. HM Gets A Butt-Chewin'

Spring has sprung in Hillmomba. A little bird didn't tell me. My ample buttocks told me.

My butt doesn't so much have a language of its own. It communicates non-verbally, in the form of itching. Localized itching, not a wide-spread rash such as poison ivy. I don't get poison ivy. Had it once as a kid, on one forearm, and never again. Not that I'm complaining. I gladly let my sister the future ex-mayor's wife, and my mom, monopolize the pretty pink calamine lotion.

There are four distinct bites voicing their discomfort from my butt. One is in the upper butt-back border, above and to my left of the crack. Another is on the crease of the butt-thigh border, right side. The other two are technically in thigh territory, about three inches below the butt proper, on the right side.

I blame Farmer H.

Wouldn't you? Where am I going to pick up insecticritters that bite my flesh in that area? I figure Farmer H, after mowing the fields most of Sunday, sat down in his La-Z-Boy before and after cooking our Easter feast on Gassy G. So any chiggers he picked up while stirring the grasses had a chance to disembark into the comfy cushions of the La-Z-Boy. Where I sit each morning in my thin-fabric pajama pants.

Of course I relayed this scenario to Farmer H, and he DENIED having anything to do with my itching. Can you believe that? I'm sure you can.

"I don't know why you always want to blame me!"

"Where else am I going to get bitten by something like that? I never walk in the grass. Always on the sidewalk or concrete or gravel, for maybe five minutes a day, when I go to town. You mowed Sunday, and I started itching Monday."

"You could have got it from the dogs."

"Yes. In which case I'd expect to have itchy bumps on my scalp, or neck, or chest, or arms. Parts that come in contact with the dogs as I pet them or hug them on the side porch."

"See there? Even you admit it."

"No. I do not. I guess you think I pet the dogs by rubbing my butt on them!"

Farmer H had no response to that bit of logic. So I'm declaring myself the winner of this blame game.