Dime Kneels All Loons

It started last week.

I have been finding dimes around the Mansion. No idea why this has started. Or if it will continue. Let the record show that I have not found a dime that I remember in the house since the several months right after my dad passed away the year The Pony was born. We found dimes all over the house then. So that's 18 years of finding no memorable dimes. Until last week. When I found four.

The first one was in the laundry. I didn't KNOW it was the first one. I probably would have forgotten about it if I hadn't found three more during the week. There I was, taking a load of clothes out of the washer and chucking them across the laundry room into the dryer when a dime clinked onto the gray ceramic tile floor. Making me, you know, do unexpected, unwanted exercise by kneeling down to pick it up. I figured that The Pony must have left a single dime in the pocket of his shorts that I took out of the washer, and it shook itself loose. I put it on the edge of the dryer until I finished loading, then took it to the kitchen and put it in the plastic Halloween cup under another plastic cup that sits on the back of the counter beside the stove.

The second dime appeared a day or two later, on the kitchen floor, over at the end of the counter. Smack dab in the walkway that one must navigate to go through the kitchen, past the rounded end of the counter, and hang a left to go out the kitchen door onto the back porch. I didn't know it was the second dime. I grumbled about Farmer H giving me unwanted exercise by dropping change from his pocket, and picked it up and put it ON the counter, over beside the cup-under-a-cup.

The third dime was on the basement floor, Wednesday, on the pebble-patterned press-down tile between the bottom step and a chair full of videos and my take-to-science-fair bag and my stretched-out blue sweatshirt. This dime got my attention, because it appeared out of the blue, after The Pony had gone to bed, after I had walked through that area to spend some late-night/early-morning time at New Delly in my dark basement lair. When I came out and went back to the TV area, that dime was there winking at me. I was a bit taken aback. I did not touch it. I let it sit until the next day, and asked The Pony if he had dropped it, or noticed it as he went by. He had not. Later that day, I picked it up and put it on the kitchen counter over by the box of Puffs With Lotion.

As I was making some pasta for The Pony's lunch on Saturday, he asked why I had two dimes sitting on the kitchen counter. "Oh, I just wanted to hang onto them in case I keep finding more. That's three, you know, this week."

The Pony fingered the one next to the cup-under-a-cup. "Is this the one from downstairs?"

"No. That one's over by the Puffs box."

"What does it mean, finding dimes?"

"I don't know. I looked it up on the internet after I found that basement one."

"Is it bad?"

"No. There are different theories."

"Like your conspiracies?"

"Uh huh. I can't believe your brother won't even talk to me about my conspiracies! He walks off or hangs up! You'd think he'd keep an open mind. Hey. Would you go put that load of towels and pajamas and pillowcases in the dryer for me?"

"Sure."

"Your noodles are almost done."

"Okay." The Pony turned on the dryer. He shut the lid on the washer. "Um...Mom?" He walked back into the kitchen. "Look what I found in the washer..."

Dime number four made its grand entrance.

"Okaaayyyy. Put it over there by the one next to that cup."

At this rate, I'll be $8.00 richer by the end of the year.

A New Side Business To Occupy Farmer H's Retirement Years

Most days, the universe conspires against Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. But occasionally, she gets by with a little  help from her blog buddies. Sioux was kind enough to offer up her husband as a business partner for Farmer H! She's so selfless, our Sioux. Retiring, then still working at a regular job molding the future citizens (okay, the mind is the first to go, that came out furnture citizenks) of our nation.

I foresee Farmer H and Sioux's Mister parlaying their dish-dirtying acumen into a business that should be named: N. CAHOOTS. "Two Old Coots to Jog Your Memory (As Long as No Jogging is Involved)." We may have to work on that moniker. It could mean trouble for a business card. Small print is not the friend of the clientele they are courting.

Yes, Two Old Coots could provide a sentimental bridge to yesteryear for old biddies whose children have flown the coop, or widderwomen who miss their own old coots. Leaving dirty dishes throughout the house, perhaps in plain sight, perhaps not. Throwing soiled clothing on the floor. Leaving the toilet seat up. Tracking mud through the house. Eating treats meant for someone else. Turning the TV up really loud. Holding out various items they are tired of, just because they can't find a wastebasket and don't want to hold it themselves. Piling trash like a Jenga champion above the rim of the wastebasket.

I can't even begin to list the services Two Old Coots could offer.

We'll start booking them soon. Just dial NCAHOOT (rhymes with nincompoop). Reserve your Two Old Coots early, before the rush, as college season kicks into gear.

The Helpful, Helpful Helpmate

Farmer H thinks he's doing me a favor.

He SAYS he's doing me a favor. Whether the favor is really his intention, or whether his actions are evil payback, are up for debate.

Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not have a dishwasher. Not even some Flintstonesque critter that licks the dishes clean. Nope. All she has are her own two hands and a sink. With running water, even though the lever is backwards with the hot and cold.

Farmer H wants a pat on the back or a cookie or blog recognition, I suppose, for making my life easier. He CLAIMS. "Alls I was doing was helping you out by rinsing my bowl." Uh huh. That's his story and he's stickin' to it. Just like the clinging foodstuffs on the sides of his dishes.

No matter what piece of the place setting Farmer H helps me with, no matter what the food it held, that eat-off-of item always has remnants clinging. Sometimes, it's a plastic sectioned plate that held Hunan Chicken and fried rice. Always a few particles of rice left, and some vegetable stringy things. But no celery, because Farmer H tells them to leave that out of his order. And always the congealed grease or oil. Although it's wet grease or oil. Because Farmer H won't wait the five minutes it takes for the water to heat up, but rinses his dishes with cold water. Incompletely.

Helping me.

This was the bowl (one that used to belong to my mom, not my regular plates) I filled with leftover Maple Bacon Beans last night for Farmer H. And heated in the microwave. Left over from the solar car cookout. They were delicious, I must say. Farmer H must think so too, because he's leaving some behind for later, it looks like. At least he didn't stack another rinsed bowl inside it, thus making me scrub both the inside AND the outside.

Sometimes, I wish Farmer H would not help me. It would make my life a little easier.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's Really Really Bad Terrible Kind Of Day

Yesterday, the universe worked overtime to conspire against Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

The day started with a beep. At 6:30 a.m. An hour which Mrs. HM has no desire to be aware of, now that she's retired. That beep was caused by some electronic gadget that objects to its power source being squelched. So let's get this right. I had to wake up to discover that the power was out, which meant that there was nothing interesting to do, so I might as well go back to sleep.

At 8:30 I got up and was pleased to see that the power was back on. I went to the kitchen and reset the microwave clock, and within 15 seconds, the power had gone off again. Not my fault! Just a coincidence. The power came back on pretty quick that time.

I sat down with Shiba, my laptop, in the La-Z-Boy, and was texted by my sister the ex-mayor's wife. She asked if the #1 son's solar car team was okay, because she saw that it was still at the starting point, while the other cars were well on their way up the western border of Missouri, and ready to cross over into Kansas. Well. I can't get that tracking program on Shiba, so I headed down to New Delly to look for myself. And there it was, a green dot representing his team, sitting on a road near Springfield.

Of course I was beside myself with worry, what with Farmer H having also texted me to see how the race was going. I didn't want to bother #1. He's in a race, you know. But he has 23 other team members and support staff with him. So I sent a text asking if his solar car was okay. He must have had someone else driving that lead car for him, because he responded right away. Their car's transponder had quit working. They were actually running in 4th place. Whoopie!

Then I went to transfer laundry from the washer to the dryer, and of course random single socks fell short of the dryer, forcing me to bend over in a manner somewhat like exercise to pick them up. I blame Farmer H, who never should have put in that plastic laundry sink that he found at work, and I told him I didn't want. Put it right there between the washer and dryer, when he built the house, even though I told him I would never use a laundry sink! Most people have their washer and dryer side-by-side, you know. Or stacked on top of one another. Not separated so you have to fling wet clothing across the room.

I headed off to town, and of course Farmer H and Sis started texting me in reply to the solar car update, just as I hit the narrowest section of county road, down by the low water bridge, with a van coming at me so that I had to get tire-scrapingly close to that 12-inch blacktop drop-off edge. Of course I did not check my phone while driving. It doesn't take more than one public service announcement about the dead and maimed to make Mrs. HM eschew texting and driving.

Since I hadn't been to Save A Lot for two days, I stopped by for some salsa and green onions. Oh, and a pack of peanut butter/cheese crackers. And two bags of Peppered Bacon potato chips, which I've never seen before. Of course the only line open had some crazy college-age-looking guy in it with a full cart. I would have pegged him for an extreme couponer, but Save A Lot doesn't take them. Still, he had that cart piled full, and told the girl checker, "Do you want me just to hold them up and tell you how many?" And she agreed! Even though I saw stuff under those piled boxes that he wasn't showing her.

An old dude who might have been homeless came up behind me in line. I didn't engage. My weirdo magnet has been pretty powerful lately. I couldn't see what he had, but it mustn't have been much, because he didn't even have a cart. Then the old Methuselah's granddaughter with the coal-black hair opened up her register and said she could help someone, and wouldn't you know it, the homeless dude went to it first. Maybe it's just me, but I certainly felt entitled to that register, because I was next in line. And besides, what else does a homeless dude have to do all day, anyway? I had to get home to not-watch the solar car race on my computer! So I moved over to that register and paid cash, and got back $1.67 in change. Two pennies short of a 44 oz Diet Coke at the gas station chicken store.

My soda purchase was okay. I couldn't get excited about it, because the Diet Coke has not been up to snuff lately. I keep hoping someone smart will change the CO-2 canister so it's tasty again. However, when I got home and tried it, my Diet Coke tasted like Pepsi. Ptooey! Still, the good news is that I had 44 ounces of it. So there's that.

When I stopped to rip the mail from EmBee's innards, there was a red dually truck parked on our gravel road by the creek. What fresh not-heaven...? I jumped back in T-Hoe with a couple of sale ads, and drove by that truck. It held a lady with short hair who seemed engrossed in her phone, which is a big freakin' joke because there's no service down there in the dip. So she was just playing phone possum to make me not notice her. But I did, in her truck that had no bed on it, but two pieces of what looked like silver tin corrugated barn roofing bent to make ersatz fenders over those double tires. Who knows what she was up to. I had other fish to fry.

Okay, that was a lie, I did not fry fish for my lunch. I went to make my Super Nachos for lunch, and as I sprinkled the fajita chicken pieces I had painstakingly chopped over it, a piece bounced off the quesoed lettuce and fell to the floor. I measure out my calories, you know. And that represented AT LEAST 3 wasted! As I bent (again with the unplanned exercise!) to pick it up out from under the cabinets...I grabbed a piece of dried petrified mummified former fajita chicken. YUCK! Somebody really needs to sweep that kitchen floor more often!

Good news was that the solar car team had their electronic gewgaw updated, and I got to watch the end of the race at 6:00. But then I bit into a bite of leftover bratwurst and chomped on a bone/toenail/hoof UCO (unidentified chewing object).

So it was not really a red-letter day. Unless I think of myself as Hester Prynne. And then I guess it kind of was.

Let Mrs. HM Be Brief And To-The-Point Just This Once

Don't you hate it when you're eating a two-day-old leftover grilled bratwurst that your husband told you would be the plain one, not the BBQ flavored ones from Save A Lot, as long as you took the longest ones, and you cut it, after a struggle, because it's kind of charred, and repels your knife because it's stuffed in there tighter than sausage in a casing (oh, wait), and then you bite into it and not only is it NOT the plain one, but there's something hard in there, like a piece of bone or maybe a toenail, or part of a cloven hoof?

Yeah. Don't you hate it when that happens?

Rumble Averted By Fowl Mouths

This morning (and by that I mean around 11:00) The Pony and I were moving BBQ leftovers from the BARn FRIG to the Mansion FRIG II after feeding the solar car team last night. Okay, The Pony was moving most of the leftovers. I just went in the BARn and repackaged them and told him where to put them and helped him figure out how T-Hoe's fold-down seat worked. Heaven help us if that boy is steered into a mechanical engineering field.

As The Pony carried stuff into the Mansion's front door, while Jack laid on his back and watched, I sat in T-Hoe in the front yard. That's what's great about the country. It's one great big driveway. While whiling away fives of minutes, I remembered that I needed to find out about my 2nd pair of glasses. I was headed out to the bank, which is pretty close to the eye doc. I consulted my estranged BFF Google for the office phone number. Which was really kind of hard, looking up a number to find out about my new glasses when I wasn't wearing any glasses.

"Hello? This is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. I was there on July 12th, for an exam, and I ordered two pairs of glasses. I paid for everything that day. You said they would be here in two weeks. It's been THREE weeks, and I still don't have my second pair of glasses."

"Oh, my. Let me look. Hm...I don't see them. Uh. Let me look in my other magic file. I'm going to put you on hold for a minute, okay?"

BOOM! I was on hold before I could agree or disagree. But I didn't make a stink, because my farmyard animals were doing that for me. I could hardly hear her because of the roosters crowing. It doesn't help that we have about a dozen or more. And that they don't seem to understand the concept of SUNRISE. Also, those dang guineas were cackling, and there's nothing quite as annoying as a cackling guinea unless it's a screaming peacock. Which thank-Farmer H we don't have, but we used to live up the block from a backyard full at my $17,000 house.

This putting-on-hold with the music is when they lay the phone down, turn to their co-workers, make that spiral crazy sign by their ear, and badmouth me until they can come back on the line and be civil, after first covering their butt with a tall tale of how my glasses slipped down in between the file cabinet and the counter, or how Mr. Magoo picked them up by mistake and wore them home, and just now brought them back, because he's a really slow driver, that Mr. Magoo.

"Ma'am? I found them. They were right on top!"

Sure they were. What kind of fool did she take me for? If they were in the office, somewhere right on top, somebody would have called to wake me at the crack of 9:00 a.m. like they did with my first pair of glasses, and The Pony's two pairs of glasses. I suspect they'd been sitting there since the day I picked up that first pair, and the girl didn't look thoroughly enough when I told her there should be two.

"That's good. I'm coming out that way. I'll stop by and pick them up."

Seriously. Should a woman have to track down her own glasses? Remember the days when the customer was always right? Or at least the days when the customer was provided the service for which she prepaid, in a timely manner?

Handbaskets, people. Get your handbaskets in order. Get them ON order! From my proposed handbasket factory!

There Might Be A Rumble

Tomorrow, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is waging war on reading the riot act to calling to huffily accuse malpractice by making a polite telephone inquiry to her optometrist's office.

The glasses I ordered three weeks ago are nowhere to be found. They said it would take two weeks. Huh. It used to take one week, but ever since I got the worst pair of glasses ever ground to imperfection in the history of moderately-aged women wearing glasses...I have not been one to rush the craftsmen. I believe I went back more than 10 times with those spectacles, not caring if I made a spectacle of myself. THEY SUCKED! The glasses. AND the optometrist's office.

My best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel told me not to trust any doctor there except one. But I got a NEW doctor. One who was tops in his glasses class, and who was also in the military, and has been published in medical journals. AND The Pony had his brother, who has the same credentials. Anyhoo...I liked him. I really liked him.

When I went to pick out glasses, I saw the ones I wanted right away. AND a second pair. Since I didn't get any last year, I treated myself to two. Maybe.

The Pony had his appointment the day after mine. He picked out two pair of glasses. He's blind without them. He needs a spare when he's all the way in Oklahoma. Because without them, he can't see to look up an optometrist! The Pony's glasses came in one week later. In fact, it was only five days.

The next week, near the end, which made it two weeks, I got a call that my glasses were in. So I went. Tried them on. I can see great! Except I only saw one pair of glasses.

"I ordered two pair. Paid for both of them the day I had my appointment."

"Oh. Let me check. No. Not here. It's not unusual for glasses to come in on different days."

So now three weeks have passed. And I have paid for two pair of glasses. And received one pair.

Nobody can do a job right anymore, can they?