Nice Guys Finish Fast

For those of you who kindly pointed out the selflessness of Farmer H when he picked up a candy corn kernel and a pretzel from the kitchen floor, after driving for 11.5 hours across four state lines... some new information might enlighten you on the limits of such selflessness.

 

Thursday, Farmer H grilled hamburgers on GassyG Jr. There were two left that I earmarked for his supper the next evening. As he was heading to his recliner with his food, I put the two extra burgers in a rectangular Chinese Tupperware container, and set them on the cutting block to cool.

Farmer H returned to the kitchen after eating. Oh, not to throw away the paper towel and plate where I had drained his pickle slices for him, nor the plate I had used to slice his onion. I'd already cleaned that up. He came to get some little lemon cookies that I'd bought him. You know, the small bag of store-brand cookies that used to cost $1, but are now 2-for-$3.

Not long after THAT, Farmer H brought those little cookies back to the kitchen, and set their bag on the cutting block beside the two hamburgers that I'd left out to cool. You might think that someone so helpful as himself would snap the lid on the now-cooled hamburgers, and turn to slide them into FRIG II. You would think wrong. Even though they were HIS future burgers, and he's put away such items before, he left them for me to walk across the kitchen and cover and FRIG them.

I guess Farmer H's selflessness DOES know bounds. He's all finished being Mr. Nice Guy.

Lights Off, Shades Down, Nobody Roams

I went by The Pony's house on Wednesday to pick up his house payment check. The Pony is a good tennant! Always has his payment on time. I put those payments in our credit union, to refill the account we drained to buy and renovate Pony House. No loans for the Hillbilly family!

Anyhoo... that part of my errand trip went without incident. Got the payment, drove it a few blocks, deposited it, then headed out to our bank to withdraw our weekly cash allowance. It was just after 3:00. I saw three vehicles waiting to use the ATM that's in the back wall of the bank. I passed them to get to the three drive-thru lanes.

THEY WERE ALL CLOSED!

What in the Not-Heaven? I looked at the time. 3:10 p.m. Last time I checked, the drive-thru was open until 4:30. Later on Fridays. Yet all the lights were off inside. The shades over the big drive-thru window were down. No green or red traffic-light-thingies on at the individual lanes. No signs posted anywhere. Huh. Looks like no allowance for Mrs. HM!

I drove T-Hoe down the alley behind the bank, making a call to The Pony.

"Hey. The bank is CLOSED! I thought you might look up their hours for me. Just to see if they've changed."

"Yeah. Okay. It says the lobby is open until 2:00, and the drive-thru until 4:30."

"That's what I thought! It's no holiday that I know of. Not sure what's going on, but looks like I'll have to use the gas I just bought to drive back over here tomorrow! I'm going to get here before 2:00, just in case! Then I can at least go in the lobby."

"It's not any holiday. So I don't know why they would be closed."

"Something weird is going on. I'll just have to come back."

Which I did, on Thursday. I got to the bank around 1:50. I was NOT happy to get up so early, heh, heh, so I could shower and drive over there in time.

Two of the three drive-thru lanes had the green light on. Two cars sitting in them. I picked the lane closest to the window. Which now had the shades up, and lights on. Two gals working.

"Hi. How are you?"

"Good. I was actually here yesterday, but it was closed..."

"Oh, yes. We had an emergency. But at least we got everybody home safe!"

WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN?

Were the employees imprisoned in a Russian gulag for trying to smuggle in cannabis vape cartridges? Were they stranded by a blizzard while climbing Mt. Everest? Walking barefoot across Death Valley? What did she MEAN they got everybody home safe???

"Oh. I thought maybe I was here too late. It was about 3:10."

"No. We just weren't able to open. I couldn't pull in anybody from other branches."

You'd think somebody could have at least driven over there and slapped a handwritten sign on the window. Unless they couldn't get out of the gulag/off the peak/out of the desert...

Mrs. HM Almost Gets Whiplash At The Gas Station Chicken Store

More impatient customer shenanigans on Tuesday! I was 7th in line at the Gas Station Chicken Store. I was NOT the impatient customer. It was the third guy in line. He said he was paying for $40 of gas, and handed the cashier two twenties.

"Do you want your red tickets for the gas drawing?"

"No. I'll get them when I come back in."

I wondered why he would be coming back in. Just pump your gas and go! He wasn't out there long. Here came ThirdGuy in the door. He stood to the side of the counter.

"What's the difference between regular and mid-grade?"

The cashier was very nice. I almost chuckled at her response.

"Well, the grade of gas. And the price."

"Oh." Back out went ThirdGuy. But not for long. Back in. Stood at the side. Interrupted. "I'm not putting mid-grade in my car. I'm getting regular."

"Sir, you'll have to wait a minute..."

Back out went ThirdGuy. I don't know what his problem was. At the Gas Station Chicken Store, the pumps are old. They don't take cards. They don't have to be set before you can pump. Just pick up the pump handle, and flip up the little lever. The gas will come out when you squeeze the nozzle thingy. Then you go inside to pay when you're done.

It was finally my turn. In the midst of trying to tear off the scratcher tickets I'd asked for, Cashier had to deal with the ever-returning ThirdGuy.

"I don't want somebody else to pull up and pump the gas I paid for."

"Sir. It will be a minute."

Back out. Seriously. If he just stayed out there, waiting until the other customers came out, nobody was going to be able to pump his gas. What he didn't realize was that anyone can pull up and pump gas at any pump, without going in to pay first. A beepy thing goes off inside when someone finishes pumping, and the cashier looks out and turns off the beepy thing. She would know if somebody else pumped gas on that pump, and she still would have honored ThirdGuy's money. It's not like she would forget what he looked like!

BACKKKKK came ThirdGuy. "I just want my $40 back."

"It's going to be a minute. I have these other people ahead of you to wait on. Step over here, and I'll get to you when I'm done with them."

Such a demanding demander! I suppose Cashier was going to explain the pumping process, and tell him to just go pump the regular gas he wanted. Or hand his money back.

My neck was sore from the ThirdGuy show. I needed one of those fake-injury neck braces! I'd have received less damage at a tennis match!

The Most Annoying Man In Hillmomba

Farmer H took a four-day multi-state trip to visit Genius this weekend. Left at 4:30 a.m. Friday, and returned around 8:30 Monday night. By 8:35 he had already gotten on my nerves. I'm sure you are shocked.

 

Farmer H wheeled his suitcase in the kitchen door as I was sitting at my HIPPIE at the kitchen table. He parked it there and rounded the kitchen counter to head to the bathroom. Then he came back and stood at the end of the counter, over my left shoulder, while we discussed his agenda for Tuesday. 

 

All at once, Farmer H, having just driven 11.5 hours, returning home after a four-day absence, strode to the table, bent over, and picked up a piece of candy corn and a pretzel from the floor by the curlicued pedestal legs.

 

"What in the world? I was going to sweep that up."

 

"Well. I saw food on the floor. I've been seeing it there. So I picked it up."

 

"Did you pick up the dust, too? And the grit tracked in from the porch? I was going to sweep it."

 

"There was food on the floor."

 

Here's the deal. Don't for one minute think Farmer H was being altruistic and helping me fulfill my household duties. No. He was being all passive aggressive, putting me in my place, showing that after all his travels, he was concerned about keeping this Mansion spotless. HIM! The man who can't even see his own poop on the toilet seat!

 

I do not sweep the kitchen floor every day. It's a losing battle. Once a week works for me. So much grit and cedar shavings tracked in that door, several times a day. I'd have to crouch there like a ball boy at Wimbledon, dashing to sweep as soon as the door closed, to keep the floor spotless. And no way was I going to spend my Farmer-H-less four-day weekend doing chores.

 

As for the candy corn and pretzel... it's likely that I dropped them, but also feasible that Farmer H deposited them there himself. They were midway between my side and his side of the table.

 

Farmer H bought two bags of Halloween candy at the auction two weeks ago. The kind with candy corn and little pumpkins. He tore the corner off one bag, and would come to the table after supper, and pour a handful to carry back to the recliner. Then I bought some dry-roasted peanuts to mix with it, and left a Chinese Tupperware soup container of the mix sitting there on the end of the table. I could have dropped a kernel while mixing the two ingredients, or Farmer H could have spilled one when he came to get a handful of the mix, once I'd put his candy corn in with the peanuts.

 

As for the pretzel, it was a little pretzel twist, honey mustard flavor, from a bag on the table right beside the candy corn mix.  The bag has a ziploc top. Farmer H would stop for a handful of pretzels as he came in from his daily travels, then, while holding them, squeeze that ziploc top back together. I also have a few pretzels while sitting at HIPPIE. I put mine in a ramekin. So either of us might have dropped a pretzel.

Anyhoo... Farmer H had seen food on the floor for a few days, but hadn't picked it up THEN. Nope. Not when he was alone. Only in front of Mrs. HM. Five minutes after returning from a four-day multi-state trip.

More Tales From The Mart Of Country

Never a dull moment when Mrs. Hillbilly Mom goes to town. 

 

Monday, as I stood at the left lottery machine inside the doors of Country Mart, something in my peripheral vision demanded my attention. Over past the ice machine, at the opening of the little hallway leading to the restrooms, was strung a yellow crime scene tape. Not so much for a crime. Just a CAUTION tape, up high on the walls.

 

Huh. I've never been in those restrooms, or even down that hall. They're generally open to the public. It's not a stunt like the Gas Station Chicken Store pulls, telling people the restrooms are out of order so they don't use them. Though there WAS a handwritten sign on the wall by the CAUTION tape, proclaiming the restrooms to be out of order.

 

As I was gawking at this new signage, A MAN AND TWO BOYS WALKED OUT! Walked right under the CAUTION tape, past me, and out the doors.

 

Well. That was unusual. But I noticed the two boys were wearing T-shirts with a business name on the back: Wiggins Plumbing [not the actual name]. I had seen that name before around town. So I wondered if maybe the man was fixing the restrooms, and had his summer-vacation sons along with him. One looked around 11, and the other about 6.

 

The cashiers were in a tizzy.

 

"Did you see that?"

 

"Yes! I didn't notice anybody going IN there, but they all three just came out."

 

"I wonder if that's our plumber. I'm going to go see..." Off she hustled to the parking lot, returning shortly. "Yeah, they're working on it."

 

Indeed, as I walked back to T-Hoe, I saw that Wiggins Plumbing trailer that I've noticed around town. It was backing into the space next to T-Hoe! The space that had been occupied when I went inside. T-Hoe was in the offset space, where that bicycle gal had once blocked me inside. The trailer was at an angle. I wasn't sure if I could get out, since the yellow concrete bumper thingy was in front of T-Hoe's tires. A man came walking from the side of the trailer, turning sideways to squeeze between T-Hoe's back bumper and the side of that trailer.

 

"Oh. Is this YOU?"

 

"Yes. That's me."

 

"Do you think you can get out?"

 

"I hope so. I hope I don't hit the side of your trailer when I back up. Maybe I can back far enough to turn the wheels and get out sideways."

 

"Here. I'll just move for you."

 

That was a smart decision. It was a really nice trailer, the closed-in kind like you might haul a race car in, black with yellow lettering. He drove forward, I was able to get out, and gave him a wave as I went past. I'm sure he was going to back into the space T-Hoe had occupied. It would give him twice the length as a regular parking space, due to the location at the end of the building.

 

He must have had a whole lot of equipment in that trailer. Maybe a selection of pipes, since tools shouldn't take up so much room.

ALMOST Everyone Who Works There Is Super Nice

Good thing I go to the store twice a week, or you'd have nothing to read about. Back at Country Mart on Sunday, loading up on bananas, those mysterious potato-tomatoes, frozen french fries, some deli items, and buns and hamburgers... I pushed my cart up to the end of the checkout line.

 

The Old Lady Checker who used to be kind of mean to me came out from her station at the short checkout. She's nice to me now, like we're best buddies. She went past me with a nod, to the little old lady in front of me with a heaping cart.

 

"Ma'am? I can check you out over here. Just bring your cart."

 

The LOL was as spindly frail thing. As opposed to a spindly hearty thing. Her neck was like that of a cartoon vulture. You know how it dips down and then back up, in a U shape. Spindly had a world-class dowager's hump. I could have played ring toss on her neck if I had some of those wooden cross-stitch ring things that could fit over her head. Anyhoo... Spindly started to back up like an anemic turtle.

 

"Pick that up! It's not mine. But would you pick it up?"

 

"Sure." Old Lady Checker retrieved something off the floor and put it back on the snack shelf. She squeezed through between my cart and Spindly's, giving me a conspiratorial wink. 

 

Spindly was busy trying not to knock over the end cap. She had plenty of room beside my cart. After all, Old Lady Checker had squeezed between us, and she's not svelte.

 

I continued to the line where she'd been waiting. It was the young Potato Tomato Guy. An older woman ahead of me was joshing with him. He said,

 

"I DO know the saying, 'Happy wife, happy life.'"

 

Heh, heh. He's gonna be just fine. Once he learns the difference between potatoes and tomatoes. I warned him when he picked up my three GIANT BAKERS and grabbed his chart, that they were the same as last time, $1.29. He chuckled and said,

 

"You really had me confused!"

 

As if I had anything to do with it! Anyhoo... he was really friendly and did a good enough job. As I left, I heard Old Lady Checker asking Spindly if she needed help loading her groceries. She did.

 

"Oh, let me send Potato Tomato Guy out with you! He's got less girth than me!"

 

So he left his checkout line to go load Spindly's groceries in her car. They're really friendly there at Country Mart. Except for a certain deli manager...

Mrs. HM Sincerely Flatters

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right? That makes Mrs. HM a sincere flatterer. Yesterday, I found myself replying to a comment using a quote from my second best old ex-teaching buddy Karen. She came before Mabel, but I have to have a rating system for my old ex-teaching buddies.

Anyhoo... Karen used to start out a reply with "So basically what your saying is..." and proceed to put words in your mouth that were not quite the gist of what you were trying to communicate. It was kind of funny, and we were not at all hesitant to mock her about it.

Another Karenism was "I know you like a book!" She didn't read us like the palm of her hand, though. My fourth best old teaching buddy, Jim, was a part of our trio. We did our monthly grocery shopping together after payday, driving 20 miles to a town that had a Shop N Save, rather than our local mom and pop grocery. As small-town celebrities, we preferred our privacy. The shopping excursion also included supper at Golden Corral. The buffet was good enough for Karen and me, but Jim also had to have the sirloin tips.

On weekends, we'd convene at each others homes on a rotating basis, to drink beer and play poker. It's not like there's a lot to do in a small town. Fridays were the poker games, and Saturdays were faculty parties at assorted hosts' and hostesses' homes. That's when Trivial Pursuit was a big deal. Good thing nobody answered a question with MOOPS.

Anyhoo... I was terrible at poker, which we played for Rold Gold Pretzel Sticks, while chewing on Rold Gold Pretzel Rods like they were cigars. Jim and Karen smoked cigarettes, and tried to teach me how, but I was a slow learner. Just like with poker. Another one of Karen's favorite sayings was a sing-songy, "When will she EVER learn?" after trouncing me at yet another hand of poker.

Jim was a bit more diplomatic, reserving his comments to "Take a red!" when somebody got all hyped-up about the unfairness of something he'd done. Jim liked boot-cut jeans because they made his feet look smaller. He'd spend $15 on the laundry, washing and drying his $10 Walmart tennis shoes. At least that's what we told him, listening to those shoes clunk for hours in the complex dryer outside the kitchen door of his townhouse. He also cranked the air conditioning so low in the summer that frost formed on the INSIDE of the windows.

Ah... good times.

One frigid Monday morning during the dead of winter, I got in my car for the drive to school, and discovered that my gas line had frozen. I didn't know exactly what was wrong until a tow truck came after school, but only that my car wouldn't start. Thank the future Gummi Mary, I was an early arriver. I went back inside and used the land line (the only kind of phone available back then) to call my buddy Karen to swing by on her way to work, and pick me up.

I was a bit perturbed when, later in the day, my principal said, "I see your friend Karen dropped you off this morning." He cut eyes at the athletic director, and they nodded like they were listening to a boom-chicka-wow-wow porn soundtrack. Sheesh! Can a gal not catch a ride to work with a friend without risking her reputation? 

 

I would have held a grudge against that guy, but he's the one who defended me over a not-so-stellar record coaching the volleyball team, saying "You can't make chicken salad out of chicken sh!t."

That's a saying I try not to imitate. It's not very flattering.