The Label Is In The Mind Of The Beholder

Last week, Farmer H won some treats at Senior Center bingo. He shared some of it with me, taking out granola bars, a tin of cookies, and a marshmallow Santa. I gave the box of Fruity Pebbles cereal, and the Hot Cocoa Ball, to The Pony, but kept the two boxes of Thin Mints.

I had merely glanced into the bag. I set out the Thin Mints on the counter. Anybody around here knows that Thin Mints are a delicious Girl Scout Cookie, a dark wafer covered with mint-flavored chocolate. Mmm! Save A Lot has a generic version that is also just as tasty. I have not had any for over a year. They're just not on my radar when I go shopping.

Anyhoo... I was waiting until just the right time to crack open one of those boxes and enjoy a Thin Mint or two. That time came on Monday evening, when I was preparing to watch the premiere of Deal or No Deal Island. I opened the tubish box and slid out the tray. Took three cookies with me to the short couch, and sat down to munch.

WAIT A MINUTE!

Those were NOT cookies!!! They were MINTS! Can you believe it? MINTS, in a box marked THIN MINTS! Sweet Gummi Mary! How dare that company mislead me into thinking there were COOKIES inside that box!

I guess maybe the Girl Scouts should rethink their branding and call their product Thin Mint Cookies. Though when you buy Girl Scout Cookies, you do kind of assume they will be cookies.

I can't believe I was bamboozled into thinking I had two delicious boxes of cookies. Wishful thinking, I suppose.

I guess my first clue before biting in should have been that this produce was more thick than thin. And was tiny, barely bigger than a quarter. They're not bad, for being just a mint. Kind of like an oversized Junior Mint, with a not-as-shiny, more melty chocolate coating.

I will still consume them. Probably even offer some to Farmer H...

Farmer H, The Contortionist

Oh, the lengths Farmer H will go to in order to declare the opposite of any opinion I might have! He plays a mental game of Twister. His mind goes through a more strenuous workout than a Chinese acrobat. His brain walks a line finer than a canyon-spanning tightrope of a Flying Wallenda.

A couple evenings ago, Farmer H was home at 4:00. I was headed to the master bathroom to change out of my town clothes. He barged past me into the bedroom to put the flip house keys on the dresser, then went into the bathroom.

"Oh. I guess I'll just wait here behind the couch until you're done."

Back came Farmer H. "I'm done now."

"Are you going back in the bedroom?"

"No. I'm going down to the basement." He kept walking, past me, to the steps.

"I just asked, because you left the light on in there."

"I left it on for you."

"I don't need a light. It's still daylight. Even if it was night, I can take one step into the bedroom and find the bathroom light as I go in."

"Huh." Farmer H huffed, and started back from the top of the basement steps.

"I'll turn it off when I go in there. My point is that as you came out, leaving that light on, I asked right then if you were going back. So you could turn it off then."

"I left it on for you."

"Nobody needs a light in the daytime! Just admit that you forgot to turn off the light!"

"But I didn't. I turned it on for you."

I don't believe that for one minute. It's a fight to get Farmer H to turn on the living room light in the dead of night at 8:00 p.m., even though all he has to do is reach his hand up from where he sits in the recliner. It's an opposite thing. And an oppositional thing. 

Let the record show that he didn't leave the BATHROOM light on for me!

The Pony Should Not Be Held Captive

I feel bad for Farmer H meddling in The Pony's home life. On Saturday evening, I called Farmer H to see when he'd be home. I was holding off starting his supper. He said 

"I'm on my way to Pony's house right now with a dresser."

That's a whole other story, which might be told elsewhere eventually. Just know that it's a dresser The Pony had said he could use in his second bedroom, but that Farmer H was taking it there out of the blue.

I immediately called The Pony to warn him. Farmer H has a bad habit of barging in whenever it's convenient for him, to use The Pony's bathroom while he's at work, or to drop off something on the spur of the moment. The phone rang many times, then The Pony answered.

"You must be like Dad, able to see through the phone, and call at the worst time, heh, heh! Dad just got here and we were carrying in the dresser."

"Okay. I was just warning you that he was coming."

"At least he called me this time. But yes, I do not like him coming unannounced. I want to at least make sure I have pants on. And he was here earlier this week, complaining about my boxes in the living room. AND he went in the kitchen, and he had no business there."

Let the record show that The Pony had a new laptop, and a desk chair delivered early in the week. So the boxes were still there. The trash pickup is Tuesday, but The Pony said the boxes would blow around even if he had trash pickup since then. So he was planning to burn the boxes in the back yard. (People do that around here.) And that Farmer H told him to do it THAT DAY after getting the dresser, but it was SO WINDY that even I had trouble standing when a gust hit me while walking into 10Box.

Anyhoo... The Pony got his boxes burned on Sunday afternoon. There's a flat spot up by the gravel alley behind his house that is away from homes and trees. He had a 2-liter bottle that once held soda, full of water, to put out any sparks that might have lit into the grass. It was all done by the time I stopped by (announced earlier that morning).

Anyhoo... The Pony should not have to live life wondering when Farmer H might barge in and spout criticism over his housekeeping skills. The Pony has 20 months of payments into that house already. It no longer belongs to Farmer H!

Ponyburgers

The Pony went to the store while taking some days off. So he's been cooking his own meals. He sent me pictures on the night I was having leftover roasted vegetables and frozen chicken.

"Mmmmm."

Had the buns ready and waiting. Nice and toasted.

Not sure why The Pony made them one at a time.

That makes me want a burger! No lettuce for me, though. Pickles and onions would be fine. I could take or leave the cheese.

Her ADORATION Knows No Bounds

I think blog buddy Kathy might be right with her comment a few posts ago that Scarlett is like a woman who keeps going back to her abuser! Our adopted dog Scarlett ADORES Farmer H so much that she cannot quit him.

A few days ago, Farmer H arrived home as I was leaving for town. Let the record show that the dogs and I have our departure routine. We do not need the interference help from Farmer H. I toss my daily banana peel over the porch rail. The dogs hear the kitchen door open, and the plop of the peel. They rush to greet me. I have a small treat in hand for each of them. I toss it onto the side porch as I descend the steps.

Jack eats his treat while Scarlett is mouthing hers, trying to ascertain if it is, indeed, food. I'm pretty sure she was never given table scraps in her former life trapped inside a wire kennel 12 or more hours per day. Jack comes to the steps, and puts his digging paws on the hand rail. When I get to the bottom, I sweet-talk him and pet him for a few minutes. Scarlett keeps her distance. She knows that HER petting will be when I get back.

Farmer H had parked T-Hoe, and came to sit on the side porch. That made Scarlett hyper after her treat. She was wiggly and reaching a paw to me as I went down the steps. Of course Farmer H thought he was in control of The Universe, and scolded her. "NO! Scarlett NO!" 

Scarlett sidled up against the object of her ADORATION while still reaching a paw towards me. Farmer H looped his right arm over her neck. Essentially trapping Scarlett in a headlock. She endured it. Her eyes did reflect her eventual confusion. "Daddy why you do this to me?" Such a lady. She did not snarl or claw. Only tried to back her way out of the clinch.

"Stop! Let her go! She's fine. I don't want you to give her an ear hematoma like poor Juno."

Farmer H was not the cause of Juno's ear hematoma. It was from shaking her head when the five Mailbox Row cats got ear mites, and shared them with Juno. But still, she had the fat ear, which eventually crinkled and was not the same.

Farmer H released Scarlett. She stood on the side porch, not longer pawing at me. But still shooting imaginary cartoon hearts from her eyes towards Farmer H.

A Year Late And $25 Short

The Pony has taken a mini vacation during his birthday time. On Friday, he asked Farmer H if he wanted to go to lunch. As with all meals we share with The Pony, we pay. Farmer H had a $25 gift card for a local Mexican chain that he had gotten at the Senior Center when they gave out before-Christmas gifts. He and The Pony had tried it before, but the restaurant said it was for the location in School-Turn Town, and not the one they went to in Sis-Town.

Anyhoo... Farmer H and The Pony went lunch at the School-Turn location.

Farmer H had the Fajitas Lunch for $11.99. It came with the fajita in foil, and the guacamole, lettuce, salsa, cheese, and refried beans on one plate. Then the shrimp and chicken on another plate. 

The Pony had the Burrito Azteca shown here, for $13.99. Not sure what that white sauce is. They shared the chips and salsa that came with their meals.

Their sodas cost $2.99 apiece! Like Farmer H pointed out, a whole meal at the Senior Center is only $4.00! Too bad he didn't take The Pony there!

When they finished, Farmer H used his gift card to pay. Except they told him it had ZERO DOLLARS on it! So he had to pay with our debit card. Farmer H is going to let them know about this at the Senior Center on Monday. Not sure if that gift card expired at the end of 2023, or if it wasn't loaded with money, or if the other location scammed him.

Anyhoo... Farmer H had the nerve to complain to me that The Pony always orders the most expensive item. Seriously? Look at the food Farmer H had, and the food The Pony had. I hardly think The Pony's motive was to scam Farmer H out of lunch money! I would have thought Farmer H's meal would be more expensive than The Pony's. It had SHRIMP! And more total food!

Anyhoo... it's not like that meal came out of Farmer H's pocket. It was OUR debit card, by cracky!

It's Deer:30 Somewhere

Several evenings this week, deer have been lurking along the county blacktop road as I come home from town. They're on the stretch down by the low water bridge, near where I got behind the hay trailer with unsecured round bales. 

Sometimes they are crossing the road from the creek into the woods. Sometimes they are in a field, grazing. They are big healthy deer. We've had a mild winter. They are well-fed. I told Farmer H they were all does, but he said this time of year, the bucks have lost their antlers. I don't quite believe that. Otherwise, how do you get a big buck with 12-point antlers? Do they grow all at once like that? I don't know, and am not curious enough to look it up. It would be just like Farmer H to spout out something that he knows I am ignorant of, and claim it to be the truth!

Anyhoo... these deer are a welcome sight, leaping and flipping the white fluffy underside of their tails. That act is called "flagging." I DO know that! I am glad they have avoided hitting me, and I them. I've had to stop several times to let them cross.

Not so lucky was a critter The Pony spied on his way home from our casino trip last week. He wasn't even out of the driveway yet.

"Dead? Raccoon?"

It didn't look like a raccoon to me. But definitely dead! Farmer H verified it as a raccoon. He got an up-close look at the tail. That's all I was asking about, whether it was a raccoon. But Farmer H blurted out:

"It's gone now. I took care of it."

Do I think Farmer H got a shovel and dug a hole and buried that dead raccoon? Not-Heaven NO! I'm 99.9 percent sure Farmer H grabbed it by the tail and tossed it into the sinkhole! He considered the sinkhole to be nature's wastebasket.

I'm guessing maybe that raccoon was guilty of coming up on the porch and eating out of the dogs' food dishes. He would be no match for three dogs. Especially my little Jack, the baby-mole killer. And Copper Jack. Scarlett... not so much except for the chasing. 

Scarlett barely knows how to eat a half-slice of bread spread with bacon grease! She picks it up, chews, spits it out, picks it up again, spits it out, licks it, then starts chewing. Just when I thought she was learning that she's a dog.