White Car Snooping

Thursday morning, I was lazing around organizing the piles of easy-won lottery cash that I will be squandering on Farmer H for his gambling stake during Casinopalooza (which I am probably participating in as you read this). The time was around 9:45 a.m. I sat in the La-Z-Boy with my purse, all kicked back, watching some $10,000 Pyramid (with Grant Goodeve!) on the Game Show Network. Ol' Grant was pretty sharp. He won that lady $10,000. I would have been jealous, except for the fact that I won $100 three days in a row on scratcher tickets.

I had the front shades open, gazing out at the beautiful sunny day, temps already in the upper 50s. My Sweet, Sweet Juno usually walks under the window, looking in, wagging her tail. She knows I'm in there. She hears the TV on. I talk to her. I turn on the light so she can see me waving my arms to pinpoint my location. Poor Juno. She might as well be the test tube baby of Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles, because she never looks in my direction, but happily wags her tail while gazing lovingly at the empty couch on the other side of the room.

I like to look out and see what Puppy Jack is dragging around the yard. There was that China Bird Flu facemask thingy last week, on the day he got sick. Then a couple days ago, he had a huge stick, almost as long as one of those mysterious cedar-log-pyramid posts from the goat pen. Jack pranced proudly (if slowly) toward Juno with his treasure. She gave him the side-eye. Like he was a about to ram her with a jousting pole. He did not have much control. One morning he had a dead squirrel, but Copper the neighbor dog took it away from him. It's hard out there for a pup.

Anyhoo...there I was, counting out the money. Nope! Not eating bread and honey. No blackbird came along and snipped off my nose. I was not wearing a visor and cranking an adding machine. I was not up to my armpits in gold doubloons spilling out a treasure chest. I did not have a double-monocle perched on my beak like Scrooge McDuck. I was simply putting twenties in stacks, to ration Farmer H's disposable cash so he can't dispose of it all at once.

What's that? Out front...on the road that goes in front of the Mansion. Out by where the dumpster sat, and the metal post where our address hangs. A white sedan. Huh. That's odd. I think I've seen it go by. Not the small white compact car. A bigger one. What in the Not-Heaven were they doing? Why would they stop in front of the Mansion. Huh.

Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does NOT put up with such tomfoolery. If some criminal element is going to stake out her Mansion for a future robbery, or a place to dump a headless corpse, they're gonna know that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom KNOWS about it, by cracky!

I went to the door, my hair a bedhead bird's nest, in my blue pajama pants printed with stars and moons, and my purple-striped cotton campshirt, with no shoes or undergarments...and flung open that front door with the bad knob. Uh huh. Just as I thought! When Mrs. HM reared her ugly head, that car decided it was time to move along. Sometimes things get a little creepy in Hillmomba.

But maybe they were just admiring our new decorative rock, topped with driftwood, out by the picket fence.

The Goated Earth

I'm sure you're all on the edge of your seat, waiting to see the outcome of today's lottery ticket(s). You've probably been sitting there all night, falling asleep in front of your keyboard. I'm not the only person who still uses a desktop computer, am I? Because my mom had one that made my New Delly running Windows 7 Professional look like a state-of-the-art contraption that nobody would EVER call with an accent to tell me that it had a problem and they needed my credit card information to fix it. Uh huh.

My mom used to fall asleep in front of her desktop, too. She said she would wake up with her right arm stretched out, and her head laying on that bicep. Okay. Mom never said "bicep," of course. What do you think she was, an anatomy professor? Nope. Fourth grade teachers don't talk like that.

The way she described it, I'm pretty sure Mom made a prettier sleeping computer beauty than I. Because when I fall asleep at my New Delly, my head slumps over. It's like I'm sitting normally, but my chin tries to fall on my chest (a soft pillow, to be sure), so it's probably kind of frightening to stumble upon me like that. I think The Pony did that pretty often, and it must have scared several years of maturity out of him. He would go back out of my dark basement lair, and holler, "MOM? HEY MOM?" Since I don't have a door to knock on, you know. I guess he though maybe I'd expired, and he didn't want to come too close and make sure.

Anyhoo...what was going on here? I might have nodded off for a moment. Oh, yeah. The lottery. Well,

Maybe we could best describe it in terms of SCORCHED EARTH. Okay. No need to be so sensational. Let's just describe it as GOATED EARTH. Imagine it, if you will. A landscape kind of like THIS:

Nothing grows in a goat pen. Well. It DOES. But as soon as it grows, the goat eats it. So you are left with trampled-down dirt, and rocks that even goats won't eat, and trees with the bark eaten off of them, and a feeder for holding hay that goats purely love to headbutt and destroy, and most likely nibble on that metal roof of it when feeling a mite peckish.

Farmer H took that picture to show a tree that blew down during our latest storm on Sunday night. I wasn't really sure what tree he was trying to show me. But I think it's the one behind the foreground log. If you look closely, it has a splintered trunk.

Anyhoo...what was the subject today? Oh, yeah. My addiction wonderful scratch-off tickets. I did NOT have a $100 winner today. Can you believe that? I'm shocked. SHOCKED, I tell you! I bought the ticket, but it was a LOSER!!! I did, however, win $20 on its companion. I plan to trade that in and pony-up ten more bucks to get another big ticket on the way to Oklahoma. No need to dial back on the lottery tickets when you're headed for a (or 8-10) casino(s).

That losing ticket would probably taste like a delicacy to Billy the goat.

Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Go Back To The Mansion...

Shh...did you hear that? Wait! Is it the howl of a wolf in the distance? A creaking floorboard? The squeak of a heavy wooden door on its wrought-iron hinges? The flap of bat wings past your head? No...wait a minute...I've heard that sound before. Two consecutive days previous. I know what that is! It's the gleeful squealing of a self-centered, retired quinquagenarian with a gambling problem!

Read it and weep, losers! And I mean "losers" in the most innocent form of the word, as in, "one who does not win." It's not an insult. It's almost endearing, actually. Just a descriptor. To distinguish others from Mrs. Hillbilly Mom herself, who is a WINNER of $100 for the third day in a row. What's that? Pics or it didn't happen?

I know, I know...there's really nothing to comment about. It's not like I EARNED anything, like an Oscar with my performance, or a gold medal with my athletic prowess. Nope. I was in the right place at the right time, and snagged my third winning ticket in a row.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to cash that in and buy another one tomorrow. You've gotta make hay while the iron is hot, you know. Strike while the sun shines. The odds are against me falling butt-backwards onto a $100 winner on the fourth straight day. But you can't win if you don't play, right?

Besides, even if all good things must end...at least I'll get another blog post out of it.

You Probably Won't Want To Hear This...

As Casinopalooza draws near, I am trying to conserve my luck. You know. Like saving up one's calories for the Thanksgiving through Christmas holiday season. Hold back a little before, so you can indulge, or at least feast normally (if not with abandon) when all the goodies are in front of you. And like with a sports season, or a gold medal quest, nobody wants to peak too soon.

Oh, I've still been buying my scratch-off tickets at the usual rate. I just don't want all of my luck to be squandered on tickets when I am going to be in 8-10 casinos soon. I don't want any premature jackpotification. What's that you say? "Why don't you just stop buying your tickets until after Casinopalooza, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom?" The Not-Heaven you say! Sweet Gummi Mary! I said I want to conserve my luck. Not have my luck atrophy. Wither like a grape on the vine. No siree, Bob! I want to come home with barrel full of luck wine, not half a shot-glass of luck vinegar.

I took yesterday's big winner to town with me. If I was planning a casino trip with the #1 Son, I would hang onto it until the week before. Just so I could have a tidy bankroll for him. But this IS the week before Casinopalooza. And Daddy needs a new pair of shoe inserts from The Good Feet Store some squandering money. So I planned to cash it, put half of it away for safekeeping, and put half back into tickets.

At the gas station chicken store, the Man Owner was working the register. We're likethis, you know. I had no qualms about asking him what number his Golden Tickets were on.

"You're not going to like this. It's number 19."

"Oh! Well...I've won twice on 19s, and not to long ago. But I don't feel right about this one. I'll have to pass on that. I hate to get the first or last ticket on a roll. Give me one of those 50x ten-dollar tickets, and a Millionaire Riches ten-dollar ticket."

Yes, I know it's boring to read about Mrs. Hillbilly Mom playing the lottery. But I got nothin', folks! Farmer H is not cooperating. It's been almost two weeks since the police stopped him. So you're stuck with this. I'm writing for two, you know. Two blogs. Seven days a week. I'm blogging 2/7/52!

Anyhoo...I went to get my hair cut, and I went to the main post office hub, and in doing so, I passed by the Casey's General Store where I get T-Hoe's gas. T-Hoe didn't need any gas today. But I'd been thinking about buying my scratchers there. I haven't won from there in a LONG time. But #1 had one or two of his winners (he's on 4 weeks in a row now, won $10 this week) from there. Yes, it had been on my mind when I thought about my tickets. But I kept telling myself NO. They don't win. The people there aren't very friendly. But then again, I'm due for a winner there. Oh, the imp on one shoulder debating the imp on the other shoulder.

I pulled into that Casey's on the way back. To get my Golden Ticket. You might imagine my disappointment as I looked at the ticket number on the way out to T-Hoe (nobody was using the air hose, blocking my ramp!) and saw that it was ticket #000. That's the first one on a roll. Woe was me. It's not like I would have asked them, though, and changed my mind. You don't ask the clerks in that store. You might as well ask the Soup Nazi for your bread. It isn't done.

When I got home and made lunch and settled down to scratch...I won $20 each on those two ten-dollar tickets. And here's how my Golden Ticket went:

Yes. That's another $100 winner. I matched 10 numbers for $10 each. I was plenty excited when I saw that the very first number was a match. That meant I'd at least get my money back for the ticket. Then, when I uncovered the first row, and saw that all five of them were winners, I was pretty excited, because I knew it would mean at least fifty dollars. And THEN I found those other five winners. Oh, yeah. And it was ticket 000.

Yep. I brought home $140 total today, after buying fifty dollars worth out of my yesterday's hundred-dollar winner.

I'm probably going to lose my shirt during Casinopalooza.

There's Bound To Be Repercussions From Even Steven, But Hopefully Not On Casinopalooza Weekend

Let the record show that fortune has been smiling on Mrs. Hillbilly Mom over the past few days. Sure, her beloved Puppy Jack took ill. But he avoided the Grim Reaper by hiding under Farmer H's Little Barbershop of Horrors for five hours. Or more.

Even though he's underfoot two extra days a week, Farmer H has found reason to be out of the Mansion stacking bricks or combing through other people's junk at Goodwills and flea markets.

Mrs. HM was coming up goose eggs in the scratch-off sweepstakes for a couple weeks. But then the #1 son revealed that he'd had winners THREE WEEKS IN A ROW. For $40, $40, and $5, on the two tickets she puts in his letter every week. Once that info was out, Mrs. HM had a run of luck herself, with consecutive winners of $40. A fluke of intermittent nothing days, and then she was right back in the winner's circle with a $60 winner, and a $50 winner, and yesterday, a winning combo totaling $75. Of course she puts a little money aside to fund Farmer H's casino bankroll for the upcoming gambling weekend with Sis and the ex-mayor. But she has the rest to invest right back into losing. Or winning. Like today:

Yes. That's a $100 winner. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is high-rollin' it with her ill-gotten gains. With her extra expendable ticket money, she's been choosing the $30 Golden Ticket. Charlie Bucket himself could not have been more excited. Looks like there's another Golden Ticket in her future.

PLAY RESPONSIBLY, PEOPLE!

And play smart! Don't go back to the store where you got a $100 winner until they're on a new book of those tickets. This one was only #2 out of 20 on a roll. The guy who won the first (and only, so far) grand prize on this ticket has a YouTube channel where he scratches whole books at a time. According to his experiences, there is a $100 winner in each book, with 7 winning tickets out of the 20, and usually a book's payoff is around $350 (with a cost of $600 to purchase the whole book).

I would never buy a whole book of tickets, even on $1 or $2 games, because you know for a fact that you're getting about 75% losers, since the odds are around 1 in 4 to win on those tickets. And 1 in 2.82 on the Golden Ticket. It tells you on the back. You can also look up info about each scratcher on the Missouri Lottery website, including how many of each prize is left.

Yep. Know your limits, and know your math. AND...if you're not a very lucky person, it's probably best not to risk it.

It Wasn't Exactly Gas Station Chicken

I am ready to shout at The Devil. On my last three trips to The Devil's Playground, the deli has been out of those pinwheel sandwich wrap thingies. Farmer H has requested them to have for lunches during his extra two days a week off. I bought him the Italian kind a while back and he really liked them. We hadn't had any for a couple of years, so it's a new favorite. I had decided to get some for myself as well, but a different, blander kind. Well! The Devil put the kibosh on that plan!

Who is buying all of the pinwheel sandwich wrap thingies from The Devil? It must be those dadblasted working people! Picking them up for lunch on their way to work. I get to The Playground around 10:00. They have their fried chicken ready to go. I know they just truck in their pinwheel sandwich wrap thingies. They're Black Market or Fresh Market or Market Fresh or some brand. I'm sure they are frozen, cold-trucked, unloaded, and put out on in the deli cool case. You can't tell me that they only get one batch, sell them out, and leave that spot empty for six more days.

You'd think The Devil would be smart enough to order more of those pinwheel sandwich wrap thingies, since they sell so well. I've popped in at different times, later in the day, and still no pinwheel sandwich wrap thingies.

So...I picked up a pack of the Chicken Caesar Wrap. It's a big tortilla rolled around some chunks of white meat chicken layered with a leaf of romaine lettuce, sprinkled with Parmesan cheese, and dashed with Caesar dressing. Farmer H didn't really want that. He ate a little big sandwich that I also got in place of the pinwheel sandwich wrap thingies. I ate the Chicken Caesar Wrap. It was good! Of course, I had to tear off about a half mile of tortilla. There wasn't enough filling to justify all that dough. Still. It was good.

This week, they were out of the pinwheel sandwich wrap thingies AND the Chicken Caesar Wrap. Darn that Devil! Darn him all to Not-Heaven!

I picked up some flour tortillas and romaine lettuce and grated Parmesan cheese. I forgot about the Caesar dressing, but figured I could substitute the blue cheese dressing that is in the door of FRIG II, that I made a special trip to town for at Christmas to get for the #1 Son. That's because the bottle I bought for him at Thanksgiving was taken home by him. Anyhoo...in Save A Lot for some other stuff, I found Caesar dressing!

That's what I had for lunch today. A homemade chicken Caesar wrap, using some Tyson pulled chicken that I had already frozen in individual serving bags in the mini deep freeze. I don't like the tortilla as much as the one The Devil's Black Market uses...but at least there was less of it.

Farmer H was on his own.

The Four-Legged Invalid Has Left The Under-Shack Deathbed

I am ECSTATIC to report that Puppy Jack seems to be on the mend. Farmer H saw him on the front porch this morning. He wasn't shaking. When I looked out around 10:30, Jack was laying in a dust hole in the front yard, where the chickens used to take their dust bath. He was in the bright sun, temps in the 40s at that time. I opened the front door, but the sound didn't rouse him. I squinted for a few minutes, until I could see him belly moving with breath.

Farmer H came to get lunch, and we sat down on the front porch to observe Jack. He got all excited. His people sitting on the porch usually mean food. Farmer H sat in the woven-metal chair with a little big sandwich, some long vanilla wafer cookies (sugar free!) and a tiny bag of Sour Cream and Onion Sun Chips. Jack watched him hopefully. Finally, Farmer H declared he was finished.

"Don't give Jack any bread!"

"I won't. Here, Jack." Farmer H tore off some of the cold cuts and cheese. Jack ate it up. Then Farmer H prepared to toss the rest to my Sweet, Sweet Juno. "Come on, Juno!" She knows better than to sit and stare during eating time. Goes off to the side and lays down. But she's ready when summoned. I don't think she likes mustard, because she took her end of the sandwich down to the end of the porch and took it apart. She ate every crumb, though. Juno is fat and sassy. And smiling.

When I returned from town, Jack was there to greet me. I gave him a handful of cat kibble. And a little extra. He ate it like he was ravenous. I suppose his innards were empty. He wasn't frolicking like normal, but he didn't shake or whimper or foam at the mouth.

During my walk, Jack and Juno did the mouth jive, where they bite at each others jowls while running beside each other, growling. Afterward, Jack walked sedately to the porch when I mentioned the evening snack. Juno was wired, though, leaping and yipping, back to her old self. Not depressed like yesterday.

Jack had the meat from Thursday's chicken thigh, and Juno had the bone with some meat clinging. They also had (1 for Jack, 2 for Juno) the cheesey breadsticks left from Casey's pizza last weekend. I forgot it was in the bottom of FRIG II. In addition, Juno had a Kaiser roll.

Our little guy is still not quite up to snuff. Not his usual boisterous self. A bit subdued.

Please pardon my blue Croc, and peek-a-boo foot with no sock. I'm a shameless hussy! I'd just gotten dressed after the shower, and slipped them on before putting on socks for town. And regular shoes, of course. I don't wear my Crocs in public!

I think Puppy Jack is on the road to recovery.