We have pizza at least once a week here at the Mansion. Usually it's from the deli at The Devil's Playground, where Farmer H likes the thin crust three-meat version. Sometimes we have the Save A Lot supreme. I don't really like the crust, but they are generous with the thick pepperoni, which I take off my half and put on Farmer H's half, helping myself to his red, green, and yellow peppers. Yes. You read that right. My half, and his half. We are big pizza eaters.
The Save A Lot version is what we had Wednesday night. It's really gigantic. Normally, we each have a fourth, and save it for the next night. Farmer H was feeling a bit peckish, though, having only eaten a snack instead of lunch while working on the $5000 house. When I took out that mammoth pizza and set it on the cutting block to cool, I asked how many pieces he wanted it cut into.
This pizza has thicker crust, and I can't get it crispy, even on my holey pizza pan. So it flops when you pick it up. Farmer H said he wanted his half cut into 8 pieces. Which made them maybe two inches wide at the crust edge. I hate cutting pizza. The pan is curved, and I can't get the crust to come apart unless I rock the knife blade and go over it several times. Even when I DON'T leave the cardboard on the bottom when I cook it. I've tried my regular curved giant butcher knife, and my ceramic knife that's really sharp. It still takes multiple tries.
Of course I'm not one to bottle up my feelings when it comes to letting Farmer H know how much I resent doing things he could do for himself. I was rassen-frassen about how tired I was of cutting pizza over the last 30 years. He had wandered into the kitchen, as he is wont to do, right before I'm ready to call for him. So he's underfoot, gabbing at me, while I'm trying to do something.
"Since you're hovering and salivating like a dog [Pavlov would be lost on Farmer H], here! The knife. Do it yourself."
I had cut the pizza in half already, down the middle demarcation of pepperoni or peppers. I'd also cut Farmer H's side in half again, and divided one part of that into four pieces. My hand was tired of sawing at it. I held the knife out, and Farmer H took it.
"Okay."
I turned away to dump out my bubba cup and await fresh ice from FRIG II when Farmer H was out of the way. Oh. He WAS out of the way, heading into the living room with his pizza. My half still sat on the cutting block. Uncut.
"Oh. Well. I guess you didn't bother to cut up my pizza for me."
"Huh. To tell you the truth, I didn't even think about it."
EXACTLY. That's my point.
Friday, May 31, 2019
Thursday, May 30, 2019
The Crisis Has Been Mediated
Good ol' Even Steven! I won't go so far as Jerry Seinfeld tossing a $20 bill out the window because he knew he'd find one to replace it... but I'm generally confident that Even Steven will balance my life eventually.
A couple days ago, I revealed the very real crisis of NO DIET COKE at The Gas Station Chicken Store. The Man Owner said they wouldn't have it until Wednesday. Well, you know Mrs. HM, the eternal optimist! With a sunny outlook, rarely complaining, sipping from her half-full yellow bubba cup of ice water as she sails through life, never having met a crisis she didn't like. Okay. At least the last part is true. Crises give me something to complain about.
Anyhoo, on Tuesday, as I picked up a winning scratcher ($15) to cash in at The Gas Station Chicken Store before clambering out of T-Hoe, I stopped to add a dollar to my pocket, and count out 69 cents from my change cup on the console. Just in case. I'd hate to find my magical elixir available again, and not have money to pay.
There was a line (!) waiting to pay, so I went on around the back of the aisle to come up at the end of it, planning to bypass the soda fountain and not look foolish for pulling a cup before noticing the "OUT" sign taped to the Diet Coke spigot. Of course I turned my head to look at it on my way by.
THE SIGN WAS GONE!
I felt a bit light-headed. But I knew just what would cure that: A 44 OZ DIET COKE! Good thing I had my money with me! I poured my magical elixir into the foam cup. Just a tad too much. Don't want it sloshing in the cup while T-Hoe bounces up that hill Farmer H blacktopped. Poorly. So I took a sip. Sweet Gummi Mary! I didn't remember the Diet Coke from The Gas Station Chicken Store being SO delicious!
When it was my turn, the Man Owner was at the left (the secondary) register, waiting on a guy paying for gas. I stepped over to the main register, to a clerk I'd never seen before. She must work the shift that ends at noon. Probably gets there about the time I'm going to bed. Man Owner saw me. He said,
"That soda is on the house. You don't have to pay today."
"Oh, you don't have to do that! I even brought in my correct change, just in case!"
"No, I want you to have it, for all the trouble. Because somebody doesn't know how to put in an order right!" He motioned to my cup, and told the unknown clerk, "Don't charge her for the soda today."
Unknown Clerk looked confused, but she took the price of my beverage off the register. I made a little small talk with Man Owner, and practically skipped with delight as I made my exit, clutching three scratchers and a FREE 44 oz Diet Coke.
Oh, yeah. I had a winner. It was $15. Thanks, Even Steven.
A couple days ago, I revealed the very real crisis of NO DIET COKE at The Gas Station Chicken Store. The Man Owner said they wouldn't have it until Wednesday. Well, you know Mrs. HM, the eternal optimist! With a sunny outlook, rarely complaining, sipping from her half-full yellow bubba cup of ice water as she sails through life, never having met a crisis she didn't like. Okay. At least the last part is true. Crises give me something to complain about.
Anyhoo, on Tuesday, as I picked up a winning scratcher ($15) to cash in at The Gas Station Chicken Store before clambering out of T-Hoe, I stopped to add a dollar to my pocket, and count out 69 cents from my change cup on the console. Just in case. I'd hate to find my magical elixir available again, and not have money to pay.
There was a line (!) waiting to pay, so I went on around the back of the aisle to come up at the end of it, planning to bypass the soda fountain and not look foolish for pulling a cup before noticing the "OUT" sign taped to the Diet Coke spigot. Of course I turned my head to look at it on my way by.
THE SIGN WAS GONE!
I felt a bit light-headed. But I knew just what would cure that: A 44 OZ DIET COKE! Good thing I had my money with me! I poured my magical elixir into the foam cup. Just a tad too much. Don't want it sloshing in the cup while T-Hoe bounces up that hill Farmer H blacktopped. Poorly. So I took a sip. Sweet Gummi Mary! I didn't remember the Diet Coke from The Gas Station Chicken Store being SO delicious!
When it was my turn, the Man Owner was at the left (the secondary) register, waiting on a guy paying for gas. I stepped over to the main register, to a clerk I'd never seen before. She must work the shift that ends at noon. Probably gets there about the time I'm going to bed. Man Owner saw me. He said,
"That soda is on the house. You don't have to pay today."
"Oh, you don't have to do that! I even brought in my correct change, just in case!"
"No, I want you to have it, for all the trouble. Because somebody doesn't know how to put in an order right!" He motioned to my cup, and told the unknown clerk, "Don't charge her for the soda today."
Unknown Clerk looked confused, but she took the price of my beverage off the register. I made a little small talk with Man Owner, and practically skipped with delight as I made my exit, clutching three scratchers and a FREE 44 oz Diet Coke.
Oh, yeah. I had a winner. It was $15. Thanks, Even Steven.
Wednesday, May 29, 2019
The Burlap Sack Solution
Schooooool's OUT. For. The summer!
No, I'm not celebrating. This is my third year of retirement, you know. The days of popping Alice Cooper into a jambox after the final bell at the end of the year are done. Heh, heh. That's how long I've been teaching! The methods of music broadcast have changed considerably.
Here I am, bringing the summer cessation of book-learnin' to you like a public service announcement, when in all actuality, you've probably discerned this for yourself. Especially if you've been grocery shopping.
Let the record show that every woman in the store is wrangling at least three kids!
Mrs. HM is not a child-hater. She simply finds other people's children to be an irritant that she'd rather avoid. Like cigarette smoke in a casino. The old adage that children should be seen and not heard is something that Mrs. HM might cross-stitch, frame, and hang on the end of her shopping cart, if she was only more adept at crafts. In fact, she would add a caret to insert the word NOT in front of SEEN.
These moppets don't need to be orbiting the cart, whining and fussing, stopping to stare with wide creepy eyes at other shoppers. Mrs. HM, perhaps... Who would never recommend leaving them locked up in a hot car. No siree, Bob! Mrs. HM has a solution.
BURLAP FEED SACKS!
You know, the rough, brown, loosely-woven kind that were used for the corn my grandpa bought for his hogs. Drape it over the moppets, and they're out of sight. If they keep one hand on the cart, they won't get lost. No sights to distract them and temp them away. They can breathe. But like a bird with the cover on its cage, they might be silent!
I guess those burlap sacks are still around. It's been many years since I went to the feed store with Grandma and Grandpa. My mom was going to college for her teaching degree that summer. Grandma worked nights as a nurse's aide at Number 4 (that's what everybody called it), the state mental hospital. Grandpa was a lead miner on the day shift. We'd pick him up in the truck at 3:30 at St. Joe (the lead mine) and head to the feed store.
Back then, my sister the little future ex-mayor's wife was afraid to walk across the porch boards of the feed store. Grandpa had to carry her, all red-faced and flushed from the heat, her flaming orange hair curling from the humidity. She thought she would slip through the cracks. Let the record show that she was wider than a half-inch! I think she might have been having flashbacks to falling under the bleachers at the stock car races!
I'm sure Sis and I were never annoying to other people. Well. ME, anyway. That said...
I would not have minded wearing a burlap sack over my head.
No, I'm not celebrating. This is my third year of retirement, you know. The days of popping Alice Cooper into a jambox after the final bell at the end of the year are done. Heh, heh. That's how long I've been teaching! The methods of music broadcast have changed considerably.
Here I am, bringing the summer cessation of book-learnin' to you like a public service announcement, when in all actuality, you've probably discerned this for yourself. Especially if you've been grocery shopping.
Let the record show that every woman in the store is wrangling at least three kids!
Mrs. HM is not a child-hater. She simply finds other people's children to be an irritant that she'd rather avoid. Like cigarette smoke in a casino. The old adage that children should be seen and not heard is something that Mrs. HM might cross-stitch, frame, and hang on the end of her shopping cart, if she was only more adept at crafts. In fact, she would add a caret to insert the word NOT in front of SEEN.
These moppets don't need to be orbiting the cart, whining and fussing, stopping to stare with wide creepy eyes at other shoppers. Mrs. HM, perhaps... Who would never recommend leaving them locked up in a hot car. No siree, Bob! Mrs. HM has a solution.
BURLAP FEED SACKS!
You know, the rough, brown, loosely-woven kind that were used for the corn my grandpa bought for his hogs. Drape it over the moppets, and they're out of sight. If they keep one hand on the cart, they won't get lost. No sights to distract them and temp them away. They can breathe. But like a bird with the cover on its cage, they might be silent!
I guess those burlap sacks are still around. It's been many years since I went to the feed store with Grandma and Grandpa. My mom was going to college for her teaching degree that summer. Grandma worked nights as a nurse's aide at Number 4 (that's what everybody called it), the state mental hospital. Grandpa was a lead miner on the day shift. We'd pick him up in the truck at 3:30 at St. Joe (the lead mine) and head to the feed store.
Back then, my sister the little future ex-mayor's wife was afraid to walk across the porch boards of the feed store. Grandpa had to carry her, all red-faced and flushed from the heat, her flaming orange hair curling from the humidity. She thought she would slip through the cracks. Let the record show that she was wider than a half-inch! I think she might have been having flashbacks to falling under the bleachers at the stock car races!
I'm sure Sis and I were never annoying to other people. Well. ME, anyway. That said...
I would not have minded wearing a burlap sack over my head.
Tuesday, May 28, 2019
Mrs. HM Is In Crisis Mode
There has been a catastrophe in Hillmomba. It pretty much only affects Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to a great degree. Other Hillmombans go about their business as if nothing is amiss. Let the record show that something is indeed amiss, at the highest magnitude of amissness!
THE GAS STATION CHICKEN STORE IS OUT OF DIET COKE!
If I was a dainty lady of the Victorian era, I would have taken to my fainting couch for four days. However, I am not dainty, not much of a lady, and my Victorianness is a somewhat-kept secret.
Yes, I traipsed into The Gas Station Chicken Store on Saturday, giddy with the though of my magical elixir, only to see a white scrap of paper taped to the Diet Coke spigot, hand-lettered with "OUT." Can you believe that? On a THREE-DAY weekend?
The smiley clerk told me it would be back on Tuesday, but the Man Owner stepped out of the chicken room (no chicken on the weekends now!) and said it would be Wednesday before I could enjoy my precious beverage again. I guess their delivery will be a day late, due to the holiday.
Monday, I popped in to cash some scratchers. Man Owner said, "Don't you wish somebody was smart enough to order the Diet Coke?"
Yes. Yes, I do. It's his job, you know. And it's not the first time this has happened. The world conspires against me.
I've been buying my 44 oz Diet Cokes at Orb K. They're almost as good. Cheaper, too. Only 94 cents instead of $1.69. But like the replacement Becky on Roseanne, it's not as good as the one I've enjoyed for years.
THE GAS STATION CHICKEN STORE IS OUT OF DIET COKE!
If I was a dainty lady of the Victorian era, I would have taken to my fainting couch for four days. However, I am not dainty, not much of a lady, and my Victorianness is a somewhat-kept secret.
Yes, I traipsed into The Gas Station Chicken Store on Saturday, giddy with the though of my magical elixir, only to see a white scrap of paper taped to the Diet Coke spigot, hand-lettered with "OUT." Can you believe that? On a THREE-DAY weekend?
The smiley clerk told me it would be back on Tuesday, but the Man Owner stepped out of the chicken room (no chicken on the weekends now!) and said it would be Wednesday before I could enjoy my precious beverage again. I guess their delivery will be a day late, due to the holiday.
Monday, I popped in to cash some scratchers. Man Owner said, "Don't you wish somebody was smart enough to order the Diet Coke?"
Yes. Yes, I do. It's his job, you know. And it's not the first time this has happened. The world conspires against me.
I've been buying my 44 oz Diet Cokes at Orb K. They're almost as good. Cheaper, too. Only 94 cents instead of $1.69. But like the replacement Becky on Roseanne, it's not as good as the one I've enjoyed for years.
Monday, May 27, 2019
It's The End Of The Line As We Know It
I don't even know where to start any more! People these days can't grasp the rudimentary concept of A LINE that forms to wait a turn.
I stepped through the doors of Casey's (NOT the one that ripped me off for five dollars!) on Sunday, shortly before noon. There were only a few cars in the parking lot. Nobody was at the counter. The clerk greeted me, and I handed her my winning scratcher to cash in. As she was tearing off the new tickets I'd requested, a kid (probably in the 18-22 range) came in and stood behind me. That's how it should be.
The Kid seemed a little impatient, but maybe that's just how he's wired. He kind of jiggled around, flapping the money in his hand. Which is surprising, really, because a lot of that age people only use plastic. Anyhoo... I had no issue with The Kid, other than he seemed to not like waiting for me to complete my transaction, even though I'd been in the store before he entered. He didn't say anything. Just a vibe.
As the clerk was scanning my new tickets, a young couple walked up beside me, at my left shoulder. As I turned to glance their way, wondering, What in the NOT-HEAVEN are you doing, I noticed a slice of pizza in a bag, and a bag of beef jerkey, laying on the counter. I guess they had started to pay, then left to gather other items for purchase. Too bad, so sad! You cannot save your place in line with a slice of pizza and a bag of beef jerky!
I turned right, to exit with my tickets, and the clerk asked The Kid if she could help him. Heh, heh! No staking a claim at the Casey's counter! Form a line!
Maybe they need a bright yellow sign on the front of the counter, for people to look at while they wait, explaining the concept of a line.
I stepped through the doors of Casey's (NOT the one that ripped me off for five dollars!) on Sunday, shortly before noon. There were only a few cars in the parking lot. Nobody was at the counter. The clerk greeted me, and I handed her my winning scratcher to cash in. As she was tearing off the new tickets I'd requested, a kid (probably in the 18-22 range) came in and stood behind me. That's how it should be.
The Kid seemed a little impatient, but maybe that's just how he's wired. He kind of jiggled around, flapping the money in his hand. Which is surprising, really, because a lot of that age people only use plastic. Anyhoo... I had no issue with The Kid, other than he seemed to not like waiting for me to complete my transaction, even though I'd been in the store before he entered. He didn't say anything. Just a vibe.
As the clerk was scanning my new tickets, a young couple walked up beside me, at my left shoulder. As I turned to glance their way, wondering, What in the NOT-HEAVEN are you doing, I noticed a slice of pizza in a bag, and a bag of beef jerkey, laying on the counter. I guess they had started to pay, then left to gather other items for purchase. Too bad, so sad! You cannot save your place in line with a slice of pizza and a bag of beef jerky!
I turned right, to exit with my tickets, and the clerk asked The Kid if she could help him. Heh, heh! No staking a claim at the Casey's counter! Form a line!
Maybe they need a bright yellow sign on the front of the counter, for people to look at while they wait, explaining the concept of a line.
Sunday, May 26, 2019
He Could Be Sniffing Sweaty Men's Armpits
Farmer H has many hidden talents that he neglects to reveal.
I'm sure you recall his love of hot dogs. That's not a talent. But hot dogs need buns. I guess you could say that Farmer H is a bun man. I had no idea! I found out completely by accident.
Farmer H keeps planning to grill hot dogs on Gassy G, but then changes the day. It's due to weather, or working late on the $5000 house, or mowing the yard before it rains the next day to shoot those blades up higher than pre-mow. As you might imagine, Mrs. HM's buns are taking the hit.
Our package of hot dogs lasts longer than the buns, as long as Farmer H isn't snacking on them. I used to buy the most delicious buns at The Devil's Playground. My sister the ex-mayor's wife tipped me off when I ran into her one day on the bread aisle.
"See these? With blue on the label? I always get them. Feel. Yeah! They're SO FRESH!"
For a couple years now, I've been buying those buns. A few weeks ago, I noticed that they didn't feel as soft. I probably felt every pack of those buns. Which is a lot, considering there were three shelves of them. Their dates were good, but they felt stale. I bought a pack anyway, because those are my go-to buns. When we ate them, they were firm, and the light brown part on top crumbled. The taste was not great, if you consider that there really is a different taste to different brands of plain white processed hot dog buns. I think The Devil has been monkeying around with his baker.
Lucky for me, I had a bag of Country Mart's generic buns in the cabinet. They were still a couple days from the expiration date. So we ate them once Farmer H finally grilled those hot dogs. Juno, Jack, and Copper Jack got The Devil's Buns. "Here ya go, fleabags! Sorry they're like Styrofoam!"
I'd bought more hot dogs, a giant pack of 20, and have been feeding them to Farmer H now and then on auction nights. He backed out of grilling last week, due to a little tornado warning. So I roasted the hot dogs on a pizza pan in the oven. I told him,
"I bought more of those Devil's buns, and they feel really stale. It's still three days until they expire. I also have some of the Country Mart buns. They're way softer, but the date passed two days ago. They look okay to me."
Farmer H loaded up his hot dogs with slaw and a side of Maple Bacon Beans. I was writing out some bills while sitting on the short couch, just an end table away from him in the La-Z-Boy.
"How were those buns? Okay? So I know if to use them."
"Yeah. They're fine. I knew they would be. I didn't smell any mold."
"WHAT? What are you talking about? Smell the mold?"
"Yeah. I can smell the mold. That's how I tell if bread is moldy."
Farmer H is full of bull! I can't even count the number of times he's started eating something, then started sputtering that the bread was moldy. Usually his own fault, for being too lazy to open the cabinet for proper bread, but instead raiding the package on the counter, which is DOG BREAD!
If only I'd known how valuable his schnozz was! I could have set him up as a perfume tester, or better yet, a quality control expert for men's deodorant!
I'm sure you recall his love of hot dogs. That's not a talent. But hot dogs need buns. I guess you could say that Farmer H is a bun man. I had no idea! I found out completely by accident.
Farmer H keeps planning to grill hot dogs on Gassy G, but then changes the day. It's due to weather, or working late on the $5000 house, or mowing the yard before it rains the next day to shoot those blades up higher than pre-mow. As you might imagine, Mrs. HM's buns are taking the hit.
Our package of hot dogs lasts longer than the buns, as long as Farmer H isn't snacking on them. I used to buy the most delicious buns at The Devil's Playground. My sister the ex-mayor's wife tipped me off when I ran into her one day on the bread aisle.
"See these? With blue on the label? I always get them. Feel. Yeah! They're SO FRESH!"
For a couple years now, I've been buying those buns. A few weeks ago, I noticed that they didn't feel as soft. I probably felt every pack of those buns. Which is a lot, considering there were three shelves of them. Their dates were good, but they felt stale. I bought a pack anyway, because those are my go-to buns. When we ate them, they were firm, and the light brown part on top crumbled. The taste was not great, if you consider that there really is a different taste to different brands of plain white processed hot dog buns. I think The Devil has been monkeying around with his baker.
Lucky for me, I had a bag of Country Mart's generic buns in the cabinet. They were still a couple days from the expiration date. So we ate them once Farmer H finally grilled those hot dogs. Juno, Jack, and Copper Jack got The Devil's Buns. "Here ya go, fleabags! Sorry they're like Styrofoam!"
I'd bought more hot dogs, a giant pack of 20, and have been feeding them to Farmer H now and then on auction nights. He backed out of grilling last week, due to a little tornado warning. So I roasted the hot dogs on a pizza pan in the oven. I told him,
"I bought more of those Devil's buns, and they feel really stale. It's still three days until they expire. I also have some of the Country Mart buns. They're way softer, but the date passed two days ago. They look okay to me."
Farmer H loaded up his hot dogs with slaw and a side of Maple Bacon Beans. I was writing out some bills while sitting on the short couch, just an end table away from him in the La-Z-Boy.
"How were those buns? Okay? So I know if to use them."
"Yeah. They're fine. I knew they would be. I didn't smell any mold."
"WHAT? What are you talking about? Smell the mold?"
"Yeah. I can smell the mold. That's how I tell if bread is moldy."
Farmer H is full of bull! I can't even count the number of times he's started eating something, then started sputtering that the bread was moldy. Usually his own fault, for being too lazy to open the cabinet for proper bread, but instead raiding the package on the counter, which is DOG BREAD!
If only I'd known how valuable his schnozz was! I could have set him up as a perfume tester, or better yet, a quality control expert for men's deodorant!
Saturday, May 25, 2019
Well, That Makes All The Difference
Friday morning, I rushed to the main post office to mail the boys' weekly letters. On the way, I decided I needed some stamps. I have half a book of flag stamps, but I generally get something more colorful to put on the boys' letters. You know, because that's what twenty-something dudes dwell on when they get a letter from their mom, not the enclosed money or lottery tickets.
Yes, I guess those stamps are more for me than they are for the boys. I enjoy picking out which ones to put on. Let's see, they've had snowmen and songbirds and Hot Wheels Cars and childhood pets and classic trucks and funeral-looking flower bunches. Anything with several varieties.
There was only one man at the counter, and he'd been shuffled down to fill out paperwork. I stepped up and asked the mail lady for a book of stamps. She said, "That'll be eleven dollars." I handed her three fives (from the change I got back from my winning scratcher the day before), and she shoved the stamps across the counter before making change.
I took the four ones she handed me back (counting them to be sure!), and picked up the stamps. Oh. Not really what I had in mind.
"Do you have anything besides flowers?"
"I have flags."
"No, I still have some flags. Okay. Thanks."
As I started towards the door, the mail lady said, "Technically... they're CACTUS!"
I looked over my shoulder at her. "Oh. Well. THAT makes all the difference!"
The second mail lady, behind the NEXT WINDOW sign, snorted.
I'm killin' 'em at the post office.
Still look like flowers to me! I'm pretty sure the boys aren't going to glance at it and think: CACTUS!
Yes, I guess those stamps are more for me than they are for the boys. I enjoy picking out which ones to put on. Let's see, they've had snowmen and songbirds and Hot Wheels Cars and childhood pets and classic trucks and funeral-looking flower bunches. Anything with several varieties.
There was only one man at the counter, and he'd been shuffled down to fill out paperwork. I stepped up and asked the mail lady for a book of stamps. She said, "That'll be eleven dollars." I handed her three fives (from the change I got back from my winning scratcher the day before), and she shoved the stamps across the counter before making change.
I took the four ones she handed me back (counting them to be sure!), and picked up the stamps. Oh. Not really what I had in mind.
"Do you have anything besides flowers?"
"I have flags."
"No, I still have some flags. Okay. Thanks."
As I started towards the door, the mail lady said, "Technically... they're CACTUS!"
I looked over my shoulder at her. "Oh. Well. THAT makes all the difference!"
The second mail lady, behind the NEXT WINDOW sign, snorted.
I'm killin' 'em at the post office.
Still look like flowers to me! I'm pretty sure the boys aren't going to glance at it and think: CACTUS!
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