My Trusty Assistant Makes Yet Another Oblivious Attempt To Increase My Workload

FRIG II's ice maker has been making more than ice. It's been making groaning noises that could foreshadow death. Except mostly, the noises only come when the coil thingy is turning to push out ice when we depress the lever. For a week now, I've been mentioning to The Pony that I really need to slide out the bin, and chop out the ice slabs that form and restrict the coil thingy.

Friday night, the time had come. I caught The Pony by surprise when he was returning to the kitchen for something he'd forgotten with his Chinese food.

"Here, let's get this ice chipped out now. It sounds bad."

"Oh. Okay."

"Get me a butter knife, and a bowl to put what's left of the good ice cubes. We don't want to waste it, I'll want some later tonight."

"Here's the knife. Do you want a Styrofoam bowl? Or one of the big ones?"

"That's not big enough. Get the plastic brown bowl from the corner cabinet."

"This one?"

"Yeah. Now you put the bad ice in the sink as I chop it out. Because when I toss it from the cutting block, it sticks to my fingers, and falls on the floor and shatters."

"Okay."

"Pony. If you're going to put it in the sink, you need to be between me and the sink. Not all the way over here on my other side."

"Well, you didn't SAY where to go..."

"Okay. Here. Take it. Watch out. I'm chopping. You'll need to take the whole bin, and shake it out over the sink for those crumbs. Then we'll put the good ice in the bowl back in."

"Oh, Mom. You'll need to chop some in the freezer, too. On those metal parts."

"I forgot about that. Put the cubes back in the bin while I do that."

"Got 'em. Now what about the bowl?"

"It's still clean! It just had ice in it. All it needs to do is dry out. Put it upside down in the clean sink."

We got FRIG II's ice bin put back in place. I went to sit down a few minutes to discuss Farmer H's wrongest thing of the day. The Pony went to have a soak in the big triangle bathtub. When I returned to the kitchen, I saw where The Pony had put my clean brown plastic bowl to drip dry.

IN THE REGULAR SINK, WHERE I HAD TWO RAMEKINS SOAKING!

It's not like that bowl could have gotten dirty, just having its rim on the sink bottom. Or rather, the pile of ice slabs from FRIG II's ice bin. The ramekins are small. I think they'd held salsa and honey mustard. They wash easier if they're soaked first.

It's the IDEA of The Pony totally ignoring my instructions. He knows that we call the side with the dish drainer the CLEAN SINK, because everything in it is clean, in various stages of drying.

Sometimes Farmer H says, "That boy don't have a lick of common sense."

Sometimes, I agree.

Thinking Inside The Envelope

Hope I don't dislocate my elbows patting myself on the back, but I have successfully withdrawn money from my checking account without showing my driver's license(!) for two weeks in a row! AND, I sent in a dollar for two rolls of pennies, and the teller sent them out without a reminder!

There was just one little catch. Take a look at my money envelope that was returned in the canister.

It's hard to tell from this angle, but that envelope was more bloated than the Florida python who had just swallowed a deer.

THE TELLER PUT TWO ROLLS OF PENNIES INSIDE MY CASH ENVELOPE!

Who does that? A cash envelope is for bills, or a few loose coins! Not ROLLS of coins! Last time, even though she needed a threat reminder to send out either my pennies, or my dollar back... at least the teller knew to set the coin rolls in the canister.

Oh, well. As Miranda Lambert sings, "It takes All Kinds of Kinds."
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For inquiring minds... behind the envelope are scratcher winners I was taking to cash in. The yellow PacMan won $15, and the 100,000 Jackpot ticket behind it won $20.
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You Can't Trot Home Again

Sometimes a glimmer of warmth escapes from my cold, cold heart. Like a thin line of light under a door. Not often! But sometimes. When Farmer H and I are berating criticizing illuminating The Pony on some of his less-endearing behaviors.

"Looks like I'll need to buy butter when I go to the store this week."

"That's a LOT of butter!"

"I hope you're not digging a hole to China in that butter again."

"Actually, it's not butter. It's not very good."

"I Can't Believe It's Not Butter! We are elderly people, on a fixed income! Get used to it!"

"I always buy REAL butter."

"You're living a millionaire lifestyle on pauper wages! Don't forget that your salary for job-searching is $20 per week! AND I might have to dock your pay if you continue to 'help' me in the kitchen. My plastic measuring cup is still sitting there, since I can't wash dishes in the morning because of no hot water, and I can't wash dishes after supper because of no hot water."

"That's another thing. I'm going to see how much our electric bill has gone up in the month you've been home."

"Face it, Pony. You're stuck in a real-life commercial where those people are turning into their elderly parents. You just don't know you're turning into us yet."

A fleeting mask of sadness crossed The Pony's face. Then he dipped my short Pioneer Woman ceramic knife into the tub of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter that he had carried to set beside his plate on the living room coffee table. As he brought his knife-scoop of ICBINB from tub to plate, the blob FELL OFF ON THE KEYBOARD OF HIS LAPTOP.

Let the record show that The Pony does not have a cheap HIPPIE like mine. He has a quality laptop with a large screen for gaming, and the guts to perform any graphy formula desires of a chemical engineering student.

I slapped my hands over my face. OH, THE TECHMANITY! I snuck little peeks by flapping open my hand-shutters, as The Pony scrapped the not-quite-believeable butter off his laptop. THEN I saw that it had NOT landed on the flat part that acts as a mouse, but ON THE KEYS THEMSELVES!

"TRIGGERED! TRIGGERED! TRIGGERED! I need my safe space!"

"You have me laughing so hard I can't pick it up!"

"Now you are getting a job target in your file!"

Sweet Gummi Mary! The Pony has grown wild after 4 years out of the home paddock. He'll have to be broken all over again.

The Return Of My Little Helper

Now that The Pony is home from college, I have an extra pair of arms. An arm. Half an arm, in a sling. Truth be told, sometimes The Pony is not all that helpful. He's like the George Costanza spastic arm that twitched at random.

Anyhoo... I'm not knocking The Pony's help. He's pretty good at bringing in the groceries, and carrying something downstairs for me. In the kitchen, however... he's a bit of an albatross around my mostly-devoid-of-thyroid neck.

Wednesday night, Farmer H was grilling some chicken breasts and sausages. I was making salad. The Pony wanted some Stove Top Stuffing. He had brought some back in his apartment belongings. I know it only takes butter (I Can't Believe It's Not) and water. I asked him to check the box for the amounts, and put them in a saucepan.

"Oh, Mom. It takes one-and-a-half cups of water, and a quarter-cup of butter. How do you measure the butter out of the tub?"

"I just look at it, and dig out what looks like a quarter-cup. It's not like it matters to be exact on the butter. Oh, and there's a measuring cup there in the clean sink."

"Okay. Uh. This doesn't look too good..."

"It's CLEAN! I keep it in there. All I ever use it for is water, like for instant oatmeal. I turn it upside down to dry. That's just water spots."

The next thing I knew, The Pony was at the stove, digging BUTTER OUT OF MY PLASTIC MEASURING CUP!

"Pony! WHAT are you doing? Why in the world would you put butter in the measuring cup and pack it down?"

"To get a quarter-cup. I'm measuring it."

"You asked, and I specifically said that I just dip out an amount that looks like a quarter-cup! Now I have to scrub my plastic measuring cup! And I never have hot water because you use it up in the mornings with your shower, and in the evenings with your bath in the giant tub!"

"Um, you TOLD me to get the measuring cup! To measure the butter!"

"No. I told you how to measure the butter, then I told you where the measuring cup was for the water. Which is more important to get accurate."

"Nooo... you told me to get the measuring cup for the butter!"

"Why would I do that? Do you think I WANT to scrub butter out of a plastic measuring cup, when I could have just turned it upside down to drain out water?"

"Do you want me to wash it out for you?"

"NO! Please, no! I'd rather it only have to be done once, the right way, the first time."

We won't discuss the fact that he at first wanted a FORK to dig out the butter, but I switched him to a serving spoon, since it could also be used for stirring, and serving later.

A Touch Of Crass

Since my in-home spa day was such a success, I just might take the advice of blog buddy Sioux and open a spa here at the Mansion.

I think we might name it "A Touch of Crass." We'd cater to an elite clientele. Our motto would be: "If you're out road-walkin', don't come a-knockin'." No hot springs or mudbaths, but we could take clients down to The Creach for a soak. Surely you remember The Creach, our creek beach that is so popular that people drive in from miles around to hang out there.

The Pony would assist me with running A Touch of Crass. He's highly qualified. His specialty would be foot massage. And by that, I mean he would give full-body massages, using his FEET. The clients wouldn't know it, because they'd have cucumber slices over their eyes. And with The Pony's extra-long toes, they'd think it was fingers anyway.

For an extra fee, clients could enjoy a bubbling water massage in Poolio. No jets to propel the water. That would be Farmer H's job. He's really good at bubbling pool water. There's no need for clients to know that the water in Poolio is the same water that's been in there for 15 years. Though I WILL include the details on this Buttwater Soup in the fine print of their release form.

Make your reservation today! A two-hour session for the low, low price of $200. Plus a 50% gratuity. We also offer support dogs...for a price not yet determined. Also take note: NO MASKS ALLOWED.

Spa Day In Hillmomba

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom treated herself to a spa day on Monday. Well. As much of a spa day as she will ever have. And one that's available in Outer Hillmomba.

Yep. I colored my lovely lady-mullet with L'Oreal. Then I clipped 7 out of my 10 toenails. The other 3 didn't need it.

Slow down! Do you need smelling salts? I know the excitement is palpable. Sit down so you have less distance to fall. Take a breath.

I decreed that Farmer H remain gone from the Mansion between the hours of 10:00 and 12:00. It doesn't take that long. Only 35 minutes. But I wasn't sure when I'd get around to it. The Pony was relegated to his cell room until I gave the all-clear.

It's not like I was traipsing around in my birthday suit, with a wad of gooey black gel on my head. I was comfortable in pajamas, with an old towel held around my shoulders with a chip clip. Yellow towel, red chip clip. Isn't that how they do it at a salon? Still, I didn't want any spectators. And I didn't want to sit on the toilet for 35 minutes while they had the run of the Mansion.

Now all I need is a haircut. I don't feel the urge to go to Terrible Cuts. Especially since their sister salon in Springfield has exposed about 140 customers to the VIRUS, thanks to a Covid Carrie. That's the current version of a Typhoid Mary.

Before long, I'm going to have a long mullet like Joe Dirt. But I'm not going to eat my fries and ketchup off a poop meteor!

Something New To Complain About

What's with Dairy Queen and their sizes? C'mon! I know we have an insider in our midst. Spill it! WHY do they only have two sizes, which they call REGULAR and LARGE? That's different from all the normal fast food menus! Whatever happened to small, medium, and large? Let's not even talk about child-size or mini!

The Pony wanted some food brought home from my trip to town. He said he wanted to try the Dairy Queen Alaskan Fish Sandwich. He saw a picture of it on the menu last week when he got a Chicken Strip Basket. So Sunday, I put T-Hoe in line for the drive-thru. Not sure if they're letting people go inside yet. There have been few to none cars in their parking lot.

Anyhoo... I was the 7th car in line. Lucky for me, the 5th car peeled out of there in disgust after ordering. So my wait was ONLY 14 minutes. That's way faster than my bank, and they're not even frying food!

Anyhoo... I had ordered small fries for myself, and an Alaskan Fish Sandwich Combo for The Pony, medium, with a Sprite. That's how I said it into the speaker. Nobody corrected me. Just said it would be $8.53. It wasn't quite as much as I expected, but I never go there.

When I paid, the gal handed out the Sprite. It looked small to me. Then she gave me the bag, and said, "Two small fries, and a fish sandwich."

"Wait. I actually ordered a medium. But you gave me a small combo."

"We only have two sizes. Regular, and large."

"But you just said the fries are small."

"That's regular."

"So you only have TWO sizes?"

"Well, unless you count the kid's size."

I know the drivers behind me were holding out their thumbs and fingers and squishing my head, for holding up the line. But I didn't want to disappoint The Pony. It's not like I'd have to face his wrath, were it Genius instead.

Dairy Queen needs a picture of all the cup sizes (not in a Frank Costanza kind of explanation) on their menu board, with the names of the sizes. Because if someone wants a small, they have to order a child's drink. Unless they're having a Blizzard, in which case they want a Mini.