Having spent two days plus overtime in a car with Farmer H, you can bet that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has heard just about enough from him. Our trip to visit The Pony at college was 9.5 hours each way. Let the record show that there is no such thing as a silent Farmer H.
THE most annoying habit of his (let's narrow that down to SPEAKING habit, so my brain doesn't spark a fire trying to decide on his most annoying habit overall) is his way of chuckling condescendingly at the beginning of a reply to me. Even for statements that need no reply.
I can't pull up a list of all his comments this trip. I'm not some cyborg with a scan feature. The most annoying was the most recent, only 60 miles from home, after having endured SO MANY other such comments over three days.
Farmer H had pulled over near a state park. We'd seen two deer grazing near the road, which he excitedly pointed out. And then ten more deer across the entry drive. But that's not why Farmer H pulled A-Cad off on the shoulder. Nope. He had to wee-wee. I opened up my door to give him privacy from oncoming traffic, but he opened the rear passenger door as well. Oh, he didn't stand in between the doors. So I guess traffic that came up behind us got a glimpse of the goods.
Anyhoo...with my door open, a mosquito flew in. I hate mosquitoes. Especially one trapped in a car with me for 60 miles. I saw it clearly, silhouetted against the front windshield, its pointy proboscis, and crooked legs. I tried to smack it between my hands, but it skittered away, and I THINK I crushed it against the windshield with my knuckle. There was a slight smudge that could have been it, though hard to see in the misty 46 degree weather on the other side of the glass.
Farmer H climbed back into the driver's seat, and I said
"There MIGHT be a mosquito in here. One flew in, and I think I smashed it, but it might have gotten away."
"Ha ha ha. A MOSQUITO? I doubt that. There aren't any this time of year."
"Are you saying I'm too stupid to know what a mosquito is?"
"Well, I sure haven't seen any around lately."
"I didn't think I'd see a ladybug on the kitchen doorknob this time of year, either. But I did."
"Whatever. I doubt that was a mosquito."
I hope Farmer H wakes up with itchy welts all over his face.
Saturday, November 30, 2019
Friday, November 29, 2019
That Darn DISH
Poop! They've done it again. They've messed with my remittance. Got lost in the mail...
The struggle continues. I got my DISH bill last Saturday. The mail gets here after noon. I immediately wrote out my check, sitting in T-Hoe near the bus-waiting shack, and took it INSIDE the dead mouse smelling post office while I was in town. I knew it wouldn't go out until Monday. The pick-up time there is 11:00 a.m.
You would think that a bill with a bar code for scanning could make it from Missouri to Illinois in five days. Wouldn't you? I could probably hobble that far in five days. Actually, the post office had longer than that to get it there. I received that bill in EmBee on November 16, and it had a due date of November 25. Yet when I checked the website on November 25, my payment had not been credited.
You know what happened next, right? I did an automatic payment so as not to be delinquent. Oh, I'd like to be A delinquent, and trash the post office and the DISH payment department! I'm pretty sure this is a conspiracy to make people sign up for automatic payments. NO! I REFUSE!
Seriously. How fair is it to send out a bill, and give you no chance to remit payment in a timely manner? By which I mean THE DUE DATE!
Anyhoo...the bill is paid, and I imagine on November 26 my check magically appeared. So I'll be a month ahead, and DISH will have the use of my money for interest-drawing purposes for 30 days. Sure, they're not getting rich off of ME. But multiply that by a million or more subscribers, and they've got quite a racket going.
The struggle continues. I got my DISH bill last Saturday. The mail gets here after noon. I immediately wrote out my check, sitting in T-Hoe near the bus-waiting shack, and took it INSIDE the dead mouse smelling post office while I was in town. I knew it wouldn't go out until Monday. The pick-up time there is 11:00 a.m.
You would think that a bill with a bar code for scanning could make it from Missouri to Illinois in five days. Wouldn't you? I could probably hobble that far in five days. Actually, the post office had longer than that to get it there. I received that bill in EmBee on November 16, and it had a due date of November 25. Yet when I checked the website on November 25, my payment had not been credited.
You know what happened next, right? I did an automatic payment so as not to be delinquent. Oh, I'd like to be A delinquent, and trash the post office and the DISH payment department! I'm pretty sure this is a conspiracy to make people sign up for automatic payments. NO! I REFUSE!
Seriously. How fair is it to send out a bill, and give you no chance to remit payment in a timely manner? By which I mean THE DUE DATE!
Anyhoo...the bill is paid, and I imagine on November 26 my check magically appeared. So I'll be a month ahead, and DISH will have the use of my money for interest-drawing purposes for 30 days. Sure, they're not getting rich off of ME. But multiply that by a million or more subscribers, and they've got quite a racket going.
Thursday, November 28, 2019
I Really Don't Think Farmer H Has Caught On That I Might Be Trying To Kill Him
Farmer H and I had our 30th wedding anniversary on Sunday. We didn't do anything special. He gave me a card, and I gave him a card. I asked if he wanted anything special on my way to Country Mart. He said he did not. That he would have a pulled pork sandwich with sliced pickles for supper.
Of course I wanted to do something special for my Sweet Baboo. Heh, heh! But something special that wouldn't require any effort, and little money. A treat, perhaps. Like I give Jack and Juno and even Copper Jack each day when I return from town. Only not in the form of scraps or past-date food.
My decision was easy. As I pushed my cart/walker down the deli aisle, I saw some prepared desserts.
I got Farmer H a slice of cake. And one for myself, too, of course! I didn't want to buy a whole cake, How many days would we celebrate, really?
That's half of my piece. Not a very flattering photo, but it sure was tasty! The cake, not the photo.
I had originally contemplated buying Farmer H a piece of carrot cake. He likes it. My mom used to make it for him. Country Mart had it in the clear plastic containers, too. Big squares, with a little carrot on the icing. I went with the chocolate, though. Because I like chocolate, and I didn't want Farmer H saying he'd rather have MY piece. So I got them both the same. Farmer H said later that he preferred the chocolate to a carrot cake.
Yes, I know that Farmer H should not be eating sweets. How did I know he would eat THE WHOLE SLICE in one sitting? I DIDN'T know. Just like I didn't know he'd bought himself a Cookies n Cream candy bar at The Devil's Playground the next day, until I saw it on the receipt with the dog food and cat food.
Of course I wanted to do something special for my Sweet Baboo. Heh, heh! But something special that wouldn't require any effort, and little money. A treat, perhaps. Like I give Jack and Juno and even Copper Jack each day when I return from town. Only not in the form of scraps or past-date food.
My decision was easy. As I pushed my cart/walker down the deli aisle, I saw some prepared desserts.
I got Farmer H a slice of cake. And one for myself, too, of course! I didn't want to buy a whole cake, How many days would we celebrate, really?
I had originally contemplated buying Farmer H a piece of carrot cake. He likes it. My mom used to make it for him. Country Mart had it in the clear plastic containers, too. Big squares, with a little carrot on the icing. I went with the chocolate, though. Because I like chocolate, and I didn't want Farmer H saying he'd rather have MY piece. So I got them both the same. Farmer H said later that he preferred the chocolate to a carrot cake.
Yes, I know that Farmer H should not be eating sweets. How did I know he would eat THE WHOLE SLICE in one sitting? I DIDN'T know. Just like I didn't know he'd bought himself a Cookies n Cream candy bar at The Devil's Playground the next day, until I saw it on the receipt with the dog food and cat food.
Wednesday, November 27, 2019
Mrs. HM Will NOT Be Shamed!
Saturday, Farmer H and I went to the casino and ate at the Burger Brothers inside. The restaurant was quite messy. Like nobody had cleaned up after the lunch rush, although it was now 4:00. The trash cans were overflowing, and the napkin dispenser on the wall was empty. They used to have dispensers on each table, but I guess that was too much trouble. Or too convenient for the customers!
Each table has a metal circular holder for mustard, ketchup, salt, pepper. Our ketchup was almost empty. I asked Farmer H, who was facing the rest of the room, while I sat with a view of the playing floor through the glass, to go trade it with the ketchup from another table.
"I can't, HM. There are people sitting at every table."
Fair enough. That would probably be frowned upon. I squeezed out just enough ketchup for my fries. Good thing Farmer H didn't want any.
As I was getting ready to bite my burger, I asked Farmer H to pass the salt. I like it on the burger, it brings out the flavor. I don't salt the fries. Or pepper them, either! I don't know who started that disgusting habit, but it ruins fries in case you want to offer them to someone else if you don't eat them all. Farmer H, Genius, and The Pony all put pepper on their fries! I guess maybe they're sending me a message...
Anyhoo...Farmer H held out a shaker.
"Here's the salt."
"That's not salt! That's PEPPER! You can tell by the brown container."
Sweet Gummi Mary! How has Farmer H lived this long, being so...um...uninformed!
"That's the only shaker here."
Farmer H looked at the table next to us. They'd already been seated when we arrived.
"Excuse me. Ma'am? Could we please borrow your salt? We don't have any."
"Sure. WE don't USE salt!"
Of course they didn't. Even though it was sitting on the table between her and a man, and not in the metal holder. Don't get me started! Oops! Too late! I'm already rolling. She said it in that haughty manner of city people, who know what's best for everyone, what with being superior, never watching TV, not even PBS, probably not even having one in their house. We probably could have gotten their ketchup, too, which they would pronounce CATSUP, which they would also never use, probably having smuggled in their very own GREY POUPON in a hammered-copper container, sheathed in a bamboo shoulder holster, with a special pocket for dry ice to keep it cool.
"Oh, I don't use it either, but SHE does!"
Smugly said the diabetic, who three hours later I would catch eating two pieces of cheesecake with a side of individual ice cream cup.
I refuse to be salt-shamed by the likes of a toilet-seat-pooping sugar-eater!
Each table has a metal circular holder for mustard, ketchup, salt, pepper. Our ketchup was almost empty. I asked Farmer H, who was facing the rest of the room, while I sat with a view of the playing floor through the glass, to go trade it with the ketchup from another table.
"I can't, HM. There are people sitting at every table."
Fair enough. That would probably be frowned upon. I squeezed out just enough ketchup for my fries. Good thing Farmer H didn't want any.
As I was getting ready to bite my burger, I asked Farmer H to pass the salt. I like it on the burger, it brings out the flavor. I don't salt the fries. Or pepper them, either! I don't know who started that disgusting habit, but it ruins fries in case you want to offer them to someone else if you don't eat them all. Farmer H, Genius, and The Pony all put pepper on their fries! I guess maybe they're sending me a message...
Anyhoo...Farmer H held out a shaker.
"Here's the salt."
"That's not salt! That's PEPPER! You can tell by the brown container."
Sweet Gummi Mary! How has Farmer H lived this long, being so...um...uninformed!
"That's the only shaker here."
Farmer H looked at the table next to us. They'd already been seated when we arrived.
"Excuse me. Ma'am? Could we please borrow your salt? We don't have any."
"Sure. WE don't USE salt!"
Of course they didn't. Even though it was sitting on the table between her and a man, and not in the metal holder. Don't get me started! Oops! Too late! I'm already rolling. She said it in that haughty manner of city people, who know what's best for everyone, what with being superior, never watching TV, not even PBS, probably not even having one in their house. We probably could have gotten their ketchup, too, which they would pronounce CATSUP, which they would also never use, probably having smuggled in their very own GREY POUPON in a hammered-copper container, sheathed in a bamboo shoulder holster, with a special pocket for dry ice to keep it cool.
"Oh, I don't use it either, but SHE does!"
Smugly said the diabetic, who three hours later I would catch eating two pieces of cheesecake with a side of individual ice cream cup.
I refuse to be salt-shamed by the likes of a toilet-seat-pooping sugar-eater!
Tuesday, November 26, 2019
A Shaming Trilogy, Part 3: I've Got My Eye On You
We had no sooner left the casino on Saturday than I spied, with my little eye, Farmer H rubbing the side of his face next to A-Cad's window.
"Tell me you didn't just RUB YOUR EYE, after touching those slot machines for two hours!"
"Yes. I did."
"So now you'll get sick, and I'll catch it!"
"You are always blaming ME! I think YOU'RE the one bringing sickness home to ME! You were the one around all those kids. And now you don't even get a flu shot!"
"I don't get a flu shot because I'm NOT around all those germ-harboring kids anymore. I'm not around anyone. When I go out, I know not to touch my face until I wash my hands. I know to get away from people who are coughing. You've ALWAYS tried to turn everything around to the other person. You won't accept responsibility for anything!"
"I bet my friend got the flu from her grandkids."
"I bet so too. Especially if they had the nasal mist instead of the shot. They give kids the actual flu, you know. A mild case, to make antibodies. The kids get the attenuated virus. But when the kids come down with their mild case, they're shedding REAL FLU VIRUS. That's why kids who live in homes with people who are immunocompromised can't have the mist."
"Still, you could have brought it home to ME."
"I don't think so. YOU are the one who had the flu one year, in MAY. They did the blood test, and you had it! And then gave it to ME, even though I'd had the flu shot back in October."
"Well. That part is true..."
Baby steps, people. Admitting that he has a problem is the first step.
"Tell me you didn't just RUB YOUR EYE, after touching those slot machines for two hours!"
"Yes. I did."
"So now you'll get sick, and I'll catch it!"
"You are always blaming ME! I think YOU'RE the one bringing sickness home to ME! You were the one around all those kids. And now you don't even get a flu shot!"
"I don't get a flu shot because I'm NOT around all those germ-harboring kids anymore. I'm not around anyone. When I go out, I know not to touch my face until I wash my hands. I know to get away from people who are coughing. You've ALWAYS tried to turn everything around to the other person. You won't accept responsibility for anything!"
"I bet my friend got the flu from her grandkids."
"I bet so too. Especially if they had the nasal mist instead of the shot. They give kids the actual flu, you know. A mild case, to make antibodies. The kids get the attenuated virus. But when the kids come down with their mild case, they're shedding REAL FLU VIRUS. That's why kids who live in homes with people who are immunocompromised can't have the mist."
"Still, you could have brought it home to ME."
"I don't think so. YOU are the one who had the flu one year, in MAY. They did the blood test, and you had it! And then gave it to ME, even though I'd had the flu shot back in October."
"Well. That part is true..."
Baby steps, people. Admitting that he has a problem is the first step.
Monday, November 25, 2019
A Shaming Trilogy, Part 2: Caught In The Act
Saturday, Farmer H took me to the casino to celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary. We both lost money, but it was expendable income which we quickly disposed of, so we're not paupers. Yet.
Farmer H's original idea was to have lunch at the burger place inside the casino. He called me around 11:00, as he was closing up his Storage Unit Store due to bad weather and no business. Of course I had JUST put three pans of Chex Mix into the oven. It takes two hours to cook, with stirring mandatory every 15 minutes. So by the time I got ready, and we swove up there, we hit the casino around 2:30.
Farmer H fed himself a lunch of two hot dogs, leftover Chex Mix Bugles, and two cookies from the AUCTION dough. So he said we'd just make the burgers our supper. At 4:00. That was fine with me, since I'd had nothing but some peanut butter crackers on the way there. I even had two left for a future Jack and Juno treat, because I don't like the kind on the bright orange crackers. I prefer the round plain crackers.
Anyhoo...we lost some money, ate a pretty good lunch, and were back home at 6:00. Too late for my 44 oz Diet Coke! I was okay with that. I do keep 20 oz bottles of it in the basement mini fridge for emergencies like this. I put away the Chex Mix, now completely cooled, and treated myself for a bowl to take down to my lair to complement my Diet Coke. I also made up a container for Farmer H.
In the midst of these preparations, I made a visit to my now-unstained master bathroom facilities. This trip requires passing behind the La-Z-Boyed Farmer H. When I came out, I saw that he'd made a trip to the kitchen. He was eating TWO pieces of cheesecake (chocolate, and strawberry-topped), with an individual cup of strawberry and chocolate swirled ice cream on the side!
"Are you kidding me? TWO pieces of cheesecake?"
"I didn't have one last night, so now I'm having two. They were stuck together. So I just had them both."
"Because it's SO hard to pull two pieces of pre-cut different cheesecake slices apart. You say that because you got caught! For all I know, you're having two every night. And not even any protein with them! Are you falling into a coma yet?"
"Oh! I need to go take my medicine. I'll take TWO, ha, ha!"
"If you insist on eating sugar, you HAVE to have some protein with it, at least. Even those pork rinds there will help."
"Huh. 8 grams of protein per serving. 0 carbohydrates."
"SEE? You have to be smarter about this. When you don't answer your phone over in the BARn, I'm pretty sure it's because you're laying on the floor in a coma, from eating auction cherry pies..."
"No, HM. I'm not eating cherry pies. I told you, they was my buddy's wife's. We all buy things, and set them in a pile."
Farmer H opened up the Chex Mix. Obviously not sated by his just-eaten snack and additional pork rinds.
"THAT'S all carbs! Except for the nuts."
"I'm not going to eat it ALL!"
We'll see. Since I would be downstairs in my lair, and he would not be under observation.
Farmer H's original idea was to have lunch at the burger place inside the casino. He called me around 11:00, as he was closing up his Storage Unit Store due to bad weather and no business. Of course I had JUST put three pans of Chex Mix into the oven. It takes two hours to cook, with stirring mandatory every 15 minutes. So by the time I got ready, and we swove up there, we hit the casino around 2:30.
Farmer H fed himself a lunch of two hot dogs, leftover Chex Mix Bugles, and two cookies from the AUCTION dough. So he said we'd just make the burgers our supper. At 4:00. That was fine with me, since I'd had nothing but some peanut butter crackers on the way there. I even had two left for a future Jack and Juno treat, because I don't like the kind on the bright orange crackers. I prefer the round plain crackers.
Anyhoo...we lost some money, ate a pretty good lunch, and were back home at 6:00. Too late for my 44 oz Diet Coke! I was okay with that. I do keep 20 oz bottles of it in the basement mini fridge for emergencies like this. I put away the Chex Mix, now completely cooled, and treated myself for a bowl to take down to my lair to complement my Diet Coke. I also made up a container for Farmer H.
In the midst of these preparations, I made a visit to my now-unstained master bathroom facilities. This trip requires passing behind the La-Z-Boyed Farmer H. When I came out, I saw that he'd made a trip to the kitchen. He was eating TWO pieces of cheesecake (chocolate, and strawberry-topped), with an individual cup of strawberry and chocolate swirled ice cream on the side!
"Are you kidding me? TWO pieces of cheesecake?"
"I didn't have one last night, so now I'm having two. They were stuck together. So I just had them both."
"Because it's SO hard to pull two pieces of pre-cut different cheesecake slices apart. You say that because you got caught! For all I know, you're having two every night. And not even any protein with them! Are you falling into a coma yet?"
"Oh! I need to go take my medicine. I'll take TWO, ha, ha!"
"If you insist on eating sugar, you HAVE to have some protein with it, at least. Even those pork rinds there will help."
"Huh. 8 grams of protein per serving. 0 carbohydrates."
"SEE? You have to be smarter about this. When you don't answer your phone over in the BARn, I'm pretty sure it's because you're laying on the floor in a coma, from eating auction cherry pies..."
"No, HM. I'm not eating cherry pies. I told you, they was my buddy's wife's. We all buy things, and set them in a pile."
Farmer H opened up the Chex Mix. Obviously not sated by his just-eaten snack and additional pork rinds.
"THAT'S all carbs! Except for the nuts."
"I'm not going to eat it ALL!"
We'll see. Since I would be downstairs in my lair, and he would not be under observation.
Sunday, November 24, 2019
A Shaming Trilogy, Part 1: Every Mansion Has Its Pooper
Farmer H and I had a little talk when he came home early from his Storage Unit Store on Saturday. Oh, he wasn't rushing home to see me. The weather was cold and rainy. No business.
"You need to clean your dried poop off the back of the toilet seat again. I'm not your nanny. Not your home health aide. If you can't take care of your toileting needs, we'll hire one."
The reaction was much along the same vein as last week, when Farmer H said about all the stuff he tracks in on his boots daily, "ONE OF US needs to run the vacuum."
"Maybe YOU pooped on the toilet."
"No. That would be downstairs. IN, not ON. Besides, I heard you at 6:00 a.m. pooping."
"No. I just farted."
"When you get up from your lunch, I expect you to clean your dried poop off the back of the toilet seat."
"Whatever, HM."
"Surely you don't think it's wrong of me to object to sitting on your dried poop. Or to wiping off your dried poop."
He went into the master bathroom. Stayed a while. Came back out. Was ALMOST apologetic.
"Huh. I guess that happened right before I got in the shower."
"Imagine if YOU sat in MY poop several times a week. And then cleaned it off. And I denied it when you confronted me about my habits."
"I don't know how I didn't see that."
"Yeah. That's what I always ask myself. How could you NOT SEE that?"
Let the record show that we went to a casino on Saturday. Once we were back home, I was standing at the end table, putting my gambling purse back in order, when I burped.
"EXCUSE YOU!" said Farmer H.
"Sorry. I am NOT going to listen to etiquette instructions from a toilet-seat pooper."
"You need to clean your dried poop off the back of the toilet seat again. I'm not your nanny. Not your home health aide. If you can't take care of your toileting needs, we'll hire one."
The reaction was much along the same vein as last week, when Farmer H said about all the stuff he tracks in on his boots daily, "ONE OF US needs to run the vacuum."
"Maybe YOU pooped on the toilet."
"No. That would be downstairs. IN, not ON. Besides, I heard you at 6:00 a.m. pooping."
"No. I just farted."
"When you get up from your lunch, I expect you to clean your dried poop off the back of the toilet seat."
"Whatever, HM."
"Surely you don't think it's wrong of me to object to sitting on your dried poop. Or to wiping off your dried poop."
He went into the master bathroom. Stayed a while. Came back out. Was ALMOST apologetic.
"Huh. I guess that happened right before I got in the shower."
"Imagine if YOU sat in MY poop several times a week. And then cleaned it off. And I denied it when you confronted me about my habits."
"I don't know how I didn't see that."
"Yeah. That's what I always ask myself. How could you NOT SEE that?"
Let the record show that we went to a casino on Saturday. Once we were back home, I was standing at the end table, putting my gambling purse back in order, when I burped.
"EXCUSE YOU!" said Farmer H.
"Sorry. I am NOT going to listen to etiquette instructions from a toilet-seat pooper."
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