Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is about to declare herself nocturnal.
The sun has not been setting to my satisfaction. My evening walk is delayed later and later each night. For a couple more weeks, anyway. Lately, I have not started my driveway walk until after 8:10 p.m. By the time I come back in, snack the dogs, and fix my supper, it is after 9:00. Then I start on my "refreshed" 44 oz Diet Coke. Since it weakens throughout the afternoon as the ice melts, I shock it with a little bottle of Diet Coke and some more Great Value Cherry Limeade. I'd worry about the caffeine keeping me up, but...well...I stay up anyway.
Most nights I go to bed around 3:00 a.m., then get up at 9:00, run my errands, fritter away some computer time, fix supper for Farmer H, clean the kitchen, whip up two blog posts while I wait for the sun to edge toward the horizon, then head out for my walk. It works for me. I imagine my lifestyle will skew with the sunlight as the year slides towards Christmas time, in order to get my walk in during daylight hours.
Retirement really agrees with me. Farmer H, not so much.
Wednesday, June 7, 2017
Tuesday, June 6, 2017
Equal Time For The Non-Equal
How do you solve a problem like their Copper?
The neighbors' dog, Copper, continues to frequent the Mansion. And by frequent, I mean live here. He thinks he belongs to our pack. He's always around, on the porch, in the yard, following the Gator, wrestling with Jack, and being the bane of Juno's existence.
I tried to let him sniff the back of my hand the other day, as he crept closer and closer on the brick sidewalk while I was putting groceries from T-Hoe onto the side porch. Copper looked at me with distrust, and backed away. Seriously? It's been MONTHS since I hollered at him. He's quit barking at me when I walk in my own driveway. I don't even yell at him when he's on the porch because it's raining, and in my way as I walk around the porch for 21 minutes. I just keep walking, and he gets the hint, and runs down the steps, then right back up after I pass. He has not figured out that he can lay on the side porch, out of the rain and out of my way, and not move about 30 times down off the porch.
When I start my driveway walk, Copper creeps up behind me, almost close enough to touch the back of my leg with his nose. When I turn to look back at him he skitters away. But he will play-fight with Jack in a game of "I'm Closer To Her Than You Are." Farmer H says that he tried to pet Copper, but Copper won't let him get close enough.
A couple nights ago, Jack was taking a long time to eat his evening snack. I took a piece of a torn-up tortilla off his plate, and tossed it to Copper in the front yard. He ate it like it was a delicacy, and came to stand right in front of the porch. He looked up with a quizzical expression on his face. Like, "What was THAT all about? And is there going to be more?" No. No more. Because I don't want Copper to think he lives here.
Sunday night, I was sitting on the front porch pew, snacking the dogs, and Copper was over by Shackytown, watching Farmer H. Juno was all persnickety that evening, and left a couple of slices of Italian bread, torn in half, on her paper plate. She only ate the good stuff, that being some General Tso's chicken that Farmer H didn't eat from The Devil's Playground deli, and scraps of tortilla from my Chicken Bacon Ranch wrap that I had trimmed off.
I figured that Jack didn't need extra bread. He thinks he's a big dog, but he's physically not. I figured I'd toss a piece of that bread to Copper. But his attention was on his other master, Farmer H. When Farmer H got into his Olds Toronado and drove across the yard to park it under the carport, Copper barked and got out of the way of the bumper, and followed. Slowly. He turned to look right at me, and I tossed a piece of the bread. Of course he didn't see it, and went over to find Farmer H.
Eagle-eye Juno was sitting by the front door. She saw that piece of bread sail into the yard, and was off that porch with a quickness! Straight to the bread she loped, and ate it in one bite.
Because nothing tastes better than an unwanted scrap of dry bread that you keep the neighbor dog from eating.
The neighbors' dog, Copper, continues to frequent the Mansion. And by frequent, I mean live here. He thinks he belongs to our pack. He's always around, on the porch, in the yard, following the Gator, wrestling with Jack, and being the bane of Juno's existence.
I tried to let him sniff the back of my hand the other day, as he crept closer and closer on the brick sidewalk while I was putting groceries from T-Hoe onto the side porch. Copper looked at me with distrust, and backed away. Seriously? It's been MONTHS since I hollered at him. He's quit barking at me when I walk in my own driveway. I don't even yell at him when he's on the porch because it's raining, and in my way as I walk around the porch for 21 minutes. I just keep walking, and he gets the hint, and runs down the steps, then right back up after I pass. He has not figured out that he can lay on the side porch, out of the rain and out of my way, and not move about 30 times down off the porch.
When I start my driveway walk, Copper creeps up behind me, almost close enough to touch the back of my leg with his nose. When I turn to look back at him he skitters away. But he will play-fight with Jack in a game of "I'm Closer To Her Than You Are." Farmer H says that he tried to pet Copper, but Copper won't let him get close enough.
A couple nights ago, Jack was taking a long time to eat his evening snack. I took a piece of a torn-up tortilla off his plate, and tossed it to Copper in the front yard. He ate it like it was a delicacy, and came to stand right in front of the porch. He looked up with a quizzical expression on his face. Like, "What was THAT all about? And is there going to be more?" No. No more. Because I don't want Copper to think he lives here.
Sunday night, I was sitting on the front porch pew, snacking the dogs, and Copper was over by Shackytown, watching Farmer H. Juno was all persnickety that evening, and left a couple of slices of Italian bread, torn in half, on her paper plate. She only ate the good stuff, that being some General Tso's chicken that Farmer H didn't eat from The Devil's Playground deli, and scraps of tortilla from my Chicken Bacon Ranch wrap that I had trimmed off.
I figured that Jack didn't need extra bread. He thinks he's a big dog, but he's physically not. I figured I'd toss a piece of that bread to Copper. But his attention was on his other master, Farmer H. When Farmer H got into his Olds Toronado and drove across the yard to park it under the carport, Copper barked and got out of the way of the bumper, and followed. Slowly. He turned to look right at me, and I tossed a piece of the bread. Of course he didn't see it, and went over to find Farmer H.
Eagle-eye Juno was sitting by the front door. She saw that piece of bread sail into the yard, and was off that porch with a quickness! Straight to the bread she loped, and ate it in one bite.
Because nothing tastes better than an unwanted scrap of dry bread that you keep the neighbor dog from eating.
Monday, June 5, 2017
Equal Time For Juno's Equal
Jack is one of those dogs whose flesh ticks find especially delicious. They nibble their way in, and sip his blood until he's virtually a husk of his former self. Farmer H went to PetCo to get Frontline flea and tick medicine for both dogs. Sorry, Copper! You're on your own!
Of course, Jack does not weigh 20 to 50 pounds like robust Juno. He needed the 5-20 pound dose. Farmer H thought he was buying the chewable stuff for Jack, and the drops between the shoulders for Juno. He even asked the clerk. She assured him he was getting what he asked for. Chewable flea and tick medicine for Jack. Liquid flea and tick medicine for Juno.
When Farmer H got home, he put Juno's medicine on her. She didn't object. He went to get the box for Jack, and upon actually reading the directions, found out that it was only for FLEAS! No ticks. Yet Jack had been so infested with ticks that Farmer H and HOS picked about 40 of them off him the day before. Farmer H said the inside of poor Jack's ears were almost black with ticks. Now he was Yosemite Sam mad that he had paid almost $50 for medicine that did nothing about the ticks.
Farmer H got on the phone to PetCo. Complained that he was sold a product that was NOT what he was promised. They said bring it back for a refund. Thank the Gummi Mary, he had not opened the package. Of course, PetCo is in Bill-Paying Town, a good 20 miles from Hillmomba. So Farmer H made another trip down there, and talked to a manager, who said the young clerks don't really know the products they're selling. Of course Farmer H's debit card wouldn't work in the effort to credit the refund and buy the right product. So he had to put it on the credit card. He SAYS she only charged him the difference. Not the full amount. We'll see when the charges come in. I'll be manning the automated number.
Anyhoo...Farmer H put the Frontline on Jack. Yet later in the evening, sitting on the front porch after Jack's snack, I saw a tick on his ear. Farmer H was again not happy. "C'mere, Jack!" He grabbed Jack by the ear and started trying to get the tick off. Jack was having none of that!
Jack laid down on his back and did the DEAD DOG. That's what the ex-mayor my sister's husband calls it. In fact, he used to use that term in reference to his kids when they were younger. You know, when they collapse and become dead weight, as if they have no bones in their body.
I patted Jack in commiseration. Jack was still not having it. He squirmed and twisted his head. Farmer H looked ready to put a foot on Jack's neck.
"Maybe it would be easier if you held him..."
Heh, heh! That would be akin to establishing a grip on a greased pig. Jack does NOT like being held. He will twist his long body until he springs free. He's like a roiling rope of muscle. A thick rope, like one that might hold a battleship against a pier.
Farmer H finally pulled that tick loose, and Jack sat up and looked at him adoringly, wagging his tail.
You can't keep a good dog down, baby. You can't keep a good dog down.
Of course, Jack does not weigh 20 to 50 pounds like robust Juno. He needed the 5-20 pound dose. Farmer H thought he was buying the chewable stuff for Jack, and the drops between the shoulders for Juno. He even asked the clerk. She assured him he was getting what he asked for. Chewable flea and tick medicine for Jack. Liquid flea and tick medicine for Juno.
When Farmer H got home, he put Juno's medicine on her. She didn't object. He went to get the box for Jack, and upon actually reading the directions, found out that it was only for FLEAS! No ticks. Yet Jack had been so infested with ticks that Farmer H and HOS picked about 40 of them off him the day before. Farmer H said the inside of poor Jack's ears were almost black with ticks. Now he was Yosemite Sam mad that he had paid almost $50 for medicine that did nothing about the ticks.
Farmer H got on the phone to PetCo. Complained that he was sold a product that was NOT what he was promised. They said bring it back for a refund. Thank the Gummi Mary, he had not opened the package. Of course, PetCo is in Bill-Paying Town, a good 20 miles from Hillmomba. So Farmer H made another trip down there, and talked to a manager, who said the young clerks don't really know the products they're selling. Of course Farmer H's debit card wouldn't work in the effort to credit the refund and buy the right product. So he had to put it on the credit card. He SAYS she only charged him the difference. Not the full amount. We'll see when the charges come in. I'll be manning the automated number.
Anyhoo...Farmer H put the Frontline on Jack. Yet later in the evening, sitting on the front porch after Jack's snack, I saw a tick on his ear. Farmer H was again not happy. "C'mere, Jack!" He grabbed Jack by the ear and started trying to get the tick off. Jack was having none of that!
Jack laid down on his back and did the DEAD DOG. That's what the ex-mayor my sister's husband calls it. In fact, he used to use that term in reference to his kids when they were younger. You know, when they collapse and become dead weight, as if they have no bones in their body.
I patted Jack in commiseration. Jack was still not having it. He squirmed and twisted his head. Farmer H looked ready to put a foot on Jack's neck.
"Maybe it would be easier if you held him..."
Heh, heh! That would be akin to establishing a grip on a greased pig. Jack does NOT like being held. He will twist his long body until he springs free. He's like a roiling rope of muscle. A thick rope, like one that might hold a battleship against a pier.
Farmer H finally pulled that tick loose, and Jack sat up and looked at him adoringly, wagging his tail.
You can't keep a good dog down, baby. You can't keep a good dog down.
Sunday, June 4, 2017
Juno Is A Dirty Girl
You'd never know it from her name, but my Sweet, Sweet Juno is a dirty girl!
Oh, she LOOKS clean enough, with her shiny, silky black fur, perhaps or perhaps not glossy from clandestinely eating the freshly-laid eggs of free-range chickens. But underneath is a dirty, dirty girl.
For several days, there has been asort-of off smell slightly unpleasant fragrance unknown foul odor almost unbearable stench wafting from Juno's doghouse on the back porch by the kitchen door. Flies swarm willy-nilly out of her home when we walk by, holding our breath.
One would think that Farmer H might take it upon himself to investigate, and clean out the offending offal. But no. Farmer H's solution is to bypass the kitchen door and go around the windowed alcove of the kitchen, to enter through the laundry room door. And say, "I think Juno has something dead in her house." He's a regular Sherlock Holmes rolled up in a Matlock, stuffed inside a Columbo.
Juno still lays in her house during the day. Sleeps in it at night. She must regard that scent as sweet, sweet perfume. It doesn't help matters that Farmer H applied her Frontline flea and tick liquid between her shoulder blades a two days ago. Although that might make her smell better. I don't know, because I don't breathe around her, and I don't want to touch her.
Poor, poor Juno! She's still just as loving as ever. After her evening snack on the front porch, she comes to stand between my feet. She actually sits down between my feet, if by between, we understand that her anus is on my right instep. I usually pet her, but for two nights I have only sweet-talked her. She looks sad. Like, "Pet me, pet me, Sweet Gummi Mary, why won't you PET ME?"
Last night, after finally finishing her cold leftover Maple Bacon Beans (not her favorite snack), Juno looked up at me and rested her chin on my belly. Her chin with the mini goatee of whiskers coated with Maple Bacon Bean juice. That would never happen with Jack. He licks every molecule of food off himself and the paper plate and the porch boards and, given the opportunity, probably off Juno's chin whiskers as well.
I'm pretty sure the dead thing in Juno's house is part of what I saw laying under the front porch pew a few days ago. Some kind of rodent. A rabbit, maybe, or a squirrel. The skull part had long curved teeth. And the liver was bigger than that of a mouse.
I told Farmer H this morning that Juno's house still stunk.
"Yeah. That'll stop in a couple of days."
I plan to withhold my love.
You can use your imagination as to whether it's from Juno or Farmer H.
Oh, she LOOKS clean enough, with her shiny, silky black fur, perhaps or perhaps not glossy from clandestinely eating the freshly-laid eggs of free-range chickens. But underneath is a dirty, dirty girl.
For several days, there has been a
One would think that Farmer H might take it upon himself to investigate, and clean out the offending offal. But no. Farmer H's solution is to bypass the kitchen door and go around the windowed alcove of the kitchen, to enter through the laundry room door. And say, "I think Juno has something dead in her house." He's a regular Sherlock Holmes rolled up in a Matlock, stuffed inside a Columbo.
Juno still lays in her house during the day. Sleeps in it at night. She must regard that scent as sweet, sweet perfume. It doesn't help matters that Farmer H applied her Frontline flea and tick liquid between her shoulder blades a two days ago. Although that might make her smell better. I don't know, because I don't breathe around her, and I don't want to touch her.
Poor, poor Juno! She's still just as loving as ever. After her evening snack on the front porch, she comes to stand between my feet. She actually sits down between my feet, if by between, we understand that her anus is on my right instep. I usually pet her, but for two nights I have only sweet-talked her. She looks sad. Like, "Pet me, pet me, Sweet Gummi Mary, why won't you PET ME?"
Last night, after finally finishing her cold leftover Maple Bacon Beans (not her favorite snack), Juno looked up at me and rested her chin on my belly. Her chin with the mini goatee of whiskers coated with Maple Bacon Bean juice. That would never happen with Jack. He licks every molecule of food off himself and the paper plate and the porch boards and, given the opportunity, probably off Juno's chin whiskers as well.
I'm pretty sure the dead thing in Juno's house is part of what I saw laying under the front porch pew a few days ago. Some kind of rodent. A rabbit, maybe, or a squirrel. The skull part had long curved teeth. And the liver was bigger than that of a mouse.
I told Farmer H this morning that Juno's house still stunk.
"Yeah. That'll stop in a couple of days."
I plan to withhold my love.
You can use your imagination as to whether it's from Juno or Farmer H.
Saturday, June 3, 2017
They're BAAAAACK To Feeling My Magnetic Pull
Hmm...you know how some people say that teachers' kids are the worst-behaved, and preachers' kids are Not-Heaven-raisers? And how some doctors advise you to lose weight and stop smoking, even as they are dusting cigarette ash off their ample stomachs? (Play along here! Imagine the days before smoking was banned from public places!)
Well...this promoter of hunch-heeding did not heed her hunches today!!!
And now it has come back to bite me in my ample buttocks. I had NO one-hundred-dollar winning scratch-off ticket today! In fact, I only had a single winner, for $5. Oh, well. Easy come, easy go! But I should have heeded my hunches. Trouble is...I'm never sure if Even Steven is evening out my recent winnings, or setting me up for the next Evening which will give me MORE winnings. It's like that blasted chicken and the egg! I don't know which comes first.
Anyhoo...I spoke one day too soon about not having anything to write about because the weirdos were shunning my magnet. They were out in force today, flocking, flocking, on my tail, in my face, relentless in their torment. Okay. Maybe it wasn't all directed personally at ME. But I took it that way. Because in MY world, EVERYTHING is all about ME! I know. You have trouble believing that, I'm sure.
Sweet Gummi Mary! The parking lot of Orb K was full, so I couldn't cash in one of yesterday's scratcher winners like I had planned, so I headed across the road to Save A Lot, but traffic at that junction was so snarled that I gave up and made a right turn and then doubled back. Of course Save A Lot's parking lot was also pretty full. I got a good space, but I figured that it was a little tight, so I backed out and then saw there was no better space. On the other side of the row were two empty spaces together, but one was marred by a car parked over the line. I took the full space, figuring that nobody could squeeze into that partial space.
You know what happens when Mrs. Hillbilly Mom figures, right? Even Steven laughs. Then throws her a whammy. When I came out of Save A Lot, after having to wait for five minutes because all four of the bagging racks were occupied, two by the same person, who had her mom bagging groceries at one while she ignored her little boy crawling across the counter with a sippy cup, putting his feet all over the bagging rack I could have taken bags from...I found what a belly laugh Even Steven was having at my expense.
A dark SUV, newer than T-Hoe, was parked up against the driver's side. That's right. I have a habit of folding in the mirrors when I park. And if I hadn't, that DSUV might have broken it off, it was so close. No way could I walk in between, much less open the door and get in. I was about to commence a Yosemite Sam fit, but then I saw that INSIDE that DSUV sat a man in the passenger seat, with a little girl standing around in the back seat. So I stowed away my groceries (including those little ice cream cups with the wooden spoons, on this 88-degree day), and climbed into T-Hoe's passenger seat to wait them out. Clearly, that passenger guy could not open up his door to get out and walk around and back up to give me access.
FINALLY, a lady came out with a single bag of groceries, and I was pretty stoked that after only 10 minutes of waiting, I could actually get in my car and drive away. I got out and stood by T-Hoe's passenger door with anticipation. But that darn driver must have been texting or just jacking around, because it took her another five minutes to actually back out. Then I had got behind her, stopped in the middle of the parking lot aisle, not going anywhere. Two other cars went around her, but the passage was tight, and I did not. I sat there to shame her if she looked in her rearview mirror. I swear she had her DSUV turned off. Three or four minutes later, she decided to drive again.
From there I went to Country Mart for some hoisin sauce and bananas. The sidewalk back to T-Hoe was blocked by one of those carts with a red toddler car built onto the front. So I had to walk through the parked cars to get to T-Hoe's back end. Something broken was right beside him, which I made sure to avoid while backing out. Don't want Farmer H having the wrong flat fixed again.
The gas station chicken clerk was all flustered, and asked me to wait, apologetically, until she got some paperwork taken care of. I didn't mind. She's always nice, and I told her it was CRAZY out there today, and she said, "TELL me about it!"
"Oh, well. It IS the first weekend of the month."
"Yeah. The crazies are out. That's what my dad always used to say. 'The crazies come out at the first of the month.'"
"Well, here it is, first of the month, and I'M OUT!"
A guy had wandered in and was standing by the counter. He said he was waiting on chicken, so the clerk hit the secret buzzer to alert the fryer. The guy said something about getting chicken and a tweaker.
"You know, people used to come in here and ask me if we had tweakers. And I'd say, 'No, ma'am. We don't sell drugged-up people here!' Then I realized they were talking about that ENERGY DRINK. Haha!"
So...I made it out of the gas station chicken store with my 44 oz Diet Coke, some losing scratchers, and, thankfully, no tweaker of any kind. But at least I had some blogging material to take with me.
Well...this promoter of hunch-heeding did not heed her hunches today!!!
And now it has come back to bite me in my ample buttocks. I had NO one-hundred-dollar winning scratch-off ticket today! In fact, I only had a single winner, for $5. Oh, well. Easy come, easy go! But I should have heeded my hunches. Trouble is...I'm never sure if Even Steven is evening out my recent winnings, or setting me up for the next Evening which will give me MORE winnings. It's like that blasted chicken and the egg! I don't know which comes first.
Anyhoo...I spoke one day too soon about not having anything to write about because the weirdos were shunning my magnet. They were out in force today, flocking, flocking, on my tail, in my face, relentless in their torment. Okay. Maybe it wasn't all directed personally at ME. But I took it that way. Because in MY world, EVERYTHING is all about ME! I know. You have trouble believing that, I'm sure.
Sweet Gummi Mary! The parking lot of Orb K was full, so I couldn't cash in one of yesterday's scratcher winners like I had planned, so I headed across the road to Save A Lot, but traffic at that junction was so snarled that I gave up and made a right turn and then doubled back. Of course Save A Lot's parking lot was also pretty full. I got a good space, but I figured that it was a little tight, so I backed out and then saw there was no better space. On the other side of the row were two empty spaces together, but one was marred by a car parked over the line. I took the full space, figuring that nobody could squeeze into that partial space.
You know what happens when Mrs. Hillbilly Mom figures, right? Even Steven laughs. Then throws her a whammy. When I came out of Save A Lot, after having to wait for five minutes because all four of the bagging racks were occupied, two by the same person, who had her mom bagging groceries at one while she ignored her little boy crawling across the counter with a sippy cup, putting his feet all over the bagging rack I could have taken bags from...I found what a belly laugh Even Steven was having at my expense.
A dark SUV, newer than T-Hoe, was parked up against the driver's side. That's right. I have a habit of folding in the mirrors when I park. And if I hadn't, that DSUV might have broken it off, it was so close. No way could I walk in between, much less open the door and get in. I was about to commence a Yosemite Sam fit, but then I saw that INSIDE that DSUV sat a man in the passenger seat, with a little girl standing around in the back seat. So I stowed away my groceries (including those little ice cream cups with the wooden spoons, on this 88-degree day), and climbed into T-Hoe's passenger seat to wait them out. Clearly, that passenger guy could not open up his door to get out and walk around and back up to give me access.
FINALLY, a lady came out with a single bag of groceries, and I was pretty stoked that after only 10 minutes of waiting, I could actually get in my car and drive away. I got out and stood by T-Hoe's passenger door with anticipation. But that darn driver must have been texting or just jacking around, because it took her another five minutes to actually back out. Then I had got behind her, stopped in the middle of the parking lot aisle, not going anywhere. Two other cars went around her, but the passage was tight, and I did not. I sat there to shame her if she looked in her rearview mirror. I swear she had her DSUV turned off. Three or four minutes later, she decided to drive again.
From there I went to Country Mart for some hoisin sauce and bananas. The sidewalk back to T-Hoe was blocked by one of those carts with a red toddler car built onto the front. So I had to walk through the parked cars to get to T-Hoe's back end. Something broken was right beside him, which I made sure to avoid while backing out. Don't want Farmer H having the wrong flat fixed again.
The gas station chicken clerk was all flustered, and asked me to wait, apologetically, until she got some paperwork taken care of. I didn't mind. She's always nice, and I told her it was CRAZY out there today, and she said, "TELL me about it!"
"Oh, well. It IS the first weekend of the month."
"Yeah. The crazies are out. That's what my dad always used to say. 'The crazies come out at the first of the month.'"
"Well, here it is, first of the month, and I'M OUT!"
A guy had wandered in and was standing by the counter. He said he was waiting on chicken, so the clerk hit the secret buzzer to alert the fryer. The guy said something about getting chicken and a tweaker.
"You know, people used to come in here and ask me if we had tweakers. And I'd say, 'No, ma'am. We don't sell drugged-up people here!' Then I realized they were talking about that ENERGY DRINK. Haha!"
So...I made it out of the gas station chicken store with my 44 oz Diet Coke, some losing scratchers, and, thankfully, no tweaker of any kind. But at least I had some blogging material to take with me.
Friday, June 2, 2017
Feed A Cold, Starve A Fever, Heed A Hunch
Alas, there have not been enough weirdos attracted to my magnet of late. I have run out of things to complain about. Lucky for all one of you readers, I still have my lottery addiction, though! No intervention for me! I couldn't take the cut in income.
Of course I have another $100 winner to share with you. I can't help myself. And it's never just a simple matter of driving to town, seeing a convenience store, and thinking, "Huh. I might as well stop in there and get a ticket." Oh, no. My scratch-off purchases are planned. I have a blueprint. It takes shape while I'm walking in the driveway in the evening. Or, if more pressing concerns occupy my mind, when I'm relaxing around midnight in my OPC (Old People Chair).
I consider the day's winnings, and what I can afford to play, and where my latest winners and losers have come from, and the likelihood of where in each store's current book of tickets a winner might be lurking. Let the record show that this lottery-playing hobby is a science, by cracky! And that I don't set out to win a giant jackpot, but to break even, so I can play again, and have another chance at a bigger prize.
This morning, I set out to get my tickets at Waterside Mart and the Casey's General Store where I get T-Hoe's gas. It's their turn in the rotation, and I was going right past them to mail the boys' weekly letters. I was planning to top off T-Hoe's half-full gas tank, and buy a Golden Ticket and one of the new $5 tickets.
However...as I was about to signal and enter the center turn lane to pull in for my gas...I saw the huge gasoline tanker truck waiting to pull out. Uh uh! No way! I was not getting gas NOW! That's a no-no. The gas in the tanks gets all stirred up. Particles float around, and you pump them into your T-Hoe's gas tank, and then before you know it, he's sputtering like a 5-pack-a-day smoker trying to scale Mt. Everest. It happened before, and my vehicle (pre-T-Hoe) was sidelined with a clogged fuel filter. So I avoid tank delivery days. Normally, Casey's gets theirs on Tuesdays, when their merchandise supply truck comes. But I guess that in preparing for the holiday weekend, the schedule was off for gasoline.
Anyhoo...I whizzed right on past Casey's, and got my planned ticket at Waterside Mart, and continued to the main post office branch for letter-mailing. I toyed with the idea of going across town to my other dependable Casey's, but that thought did not give me a hopeful feeling. It was like when you're looking for something, and people helping you say, "Nope. You're cold. Colder!" It wasn't happening.
So...I thought maybe I could just get my second ticket at the gas station chicken store when I stopped for my 44 oz Diet Coke. That didn't seem logical to me, either. I had just won $40 there yesterday, and was cashing in their ticket. I knew their roll would be advanced far enough for another win to be feasible. They sell a lot of tickets. But I just wasn't feeling it.
As I went back past the gas Casey's, I saw that my very special parking place over by the dumpster was open. That must be a sign, I figured. Just like the gas truck made me not stop there 20 minutes previous, now I was feeling like I should stop and not get gas, but get my ticket. That was the plan. So I stopped and got a Golden Ticket. This one:
I'm pretty glad I did. And the one from Waterside Mart won $30, so I got my money back on it.
Of course I have another $100 winner to share with you. I can't help myself. And it's never just a simple matter of driving to town, seeing a convenience store, and thinking, "Huh. I might as well stop in there and get a ticket." Oh, no. My scratch-off purchases are planned. I have a blueprint. It takes shape while I'm walking in the driveway in the evening. Or, if more pressing concerns occupy my mind, when I'm relaxing around midnight in my OPC (Old People Chair).
I consider the day's winnings, and what I can afford to play, and where my latest winners and losers have come from, and the likelihood of where in each store's current book of tickets a winner might be lurking. Let the record show that this lottery-playing hobby is a science, by cracky! And that I don't set out to win a giant jackpot, but to break even, so I can play again, and have another chance at a bigger prize.
This morning, I set out to get my tickets at Waterside Mart and the Casey's General Store where I get T-Hoe's gas. It's their turn in the rotation, and I was going right past them to mail the boys' weekly letters. I was planning to top off T-Hoe's half-full gas tank, and buy a Golden Ticket and one of the new $5 tickets.
However...as I was about to signal and enter the center turn lane to pull in for my gas...I saw the huge gasoline tanker truck waiting to pull out. Uh uh! No way! I was not getting gas NOW! That's a no-no. The gas in the tanks gets all stirred up. Particles float around, and you pump them into your T-Hoe's gas tank, and then before you know it, he's sputtering like a 5-pack-a-day smoker trying to scale Mt. Everest. It happened before, and my vehicle (pre-T-Hoe) was sidelined with a clogged fuel filter. So I avoid tank delivery days. Normally, Casey's gets theirs on Tuesdays, when their merchandise supply truck comes. But I guess that in preparing for the holiday weekend, the schedule was off for gasoline.
Anyhoo...I whizzed right on past Casey's, and got my planned ticket at Waterside Mart, and continued to the main post office branch for letter-mailing. I toyed with the idea of going across town to my other dependable Casey's, but that thought did not give me a hopeful feeling. It was like when you're looking for something, and people helping you say, "Nope. You're cold. Colder!" It wasn't happening.
So...I thought maybe I could just get my second ticket at the gas station chicken store when I stopped for my 44 oz Diet Coke. That didn't seem logical to me, either. I had just won $40 there yesterday, and was cashing in their ticket. I knew their roll would be advanced far enough for another win to be feasible. They sell a lot of tickets. But I just wasn't feeling it.
As I went back past the gas Casey's, I saw that my very special parking place over by the dumpster was open. That must be a sign, I figured. Just like the gas truck made me not stop there 20 minutes previous, now I was feeling like I should stop and not get gas, but get my ticket. That was the plan. So I stopped and got a Golden Ticket. This one:
I'm pretty glad I did. And the one from Waterside Mart won $30, so I got my money back on it.
Thursday, June 1, 2017
Some Days You're On A Roll, Some Days You're High-Rollin', And Some Days, You're BOTH
Last week was the best week ever in the history of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's lottery ticket hobby.
I decided to go high-rollin' with some of my winnings brought back from Casinopalooza 2. I cashed in a $20 winning scratcher, and put with it $100 of cold hard (actually limp paper) casino cash. I used that to buy three $30 Golden Tickets, and three assorted $10 tickets. I got three winners.
Sorry those aren't the best pictures. The close-ups of the winning parts were on the pictures I sent to my sister the ex-mayor's wife, and they're still on my phone, and not accessible unless I traipse upstairs and out onto the porch and wait five minutes (if I'm lucky) for each one to be sent to my email. And that's not happening!
Anyhoo...that first one was a 10X $10 for a $100 winner. The second was a 2X $50 for another $100 winner. And the third one was a WIN ALL symbol, adding up to a $200 winner.
Oh, but that's not all! I don't have a picture, because the #1 Son said. "That's a lot of effort," when I asked him to email me a picture...but HE won $100 on a $5 ticket I mailed to him on Friday. Seriously. You'd think HE had to traipse up 13 steps and sit on the porch and wait, when actually all HE had to do was point his phone at his ticket, push a button, click on email, type couple letters of the address, and hit SEND. Sweet Gummi Mary! Kids these days could do that in their sleep. In a COMA, even! So you are deprived of his winner's picture.
So...over a 3-day span, I acquired a total of $500 in winners. I don't remember exactly what I spent to purchase them, because I was mostly cashing in previous winners until I took the hundred from my casino bankroll.
In any case, I'm still winning. Shh...Even Steven doesn't need to hear that.
I decided to go high-rollin' with some of my winnings brought back from Casinopalooza 2. I cashed in a $20 winning scratcher, and put with it $100 of cold hard (actually limp paper) casino cash. I used that to buy three $30 Golden Tickets, and three assorted $10 tickets. I got three winners.
Sorry those aren't the best pictures. The close-ups of the winning parts were on the pictures I sent to my sister the ex-mayor's wife, and they're still on my phone, and not accessible unless I traipse upstairs and out onto the porch and wait five minutes (if I'm lucky) for each one to be sent to my email. And that's not happening!
Anyhoo...that first one was a 10X $10 for a $100 winner. The second was a 2X $50 for another $100 winner. And the third one was a WIN ALL symbol, adding up to a $200 winner.
Oh, but that's not all! I don't have a picture, because the #1 Son said. "That's a lot of effort," when I asked him to email me a picture...but HE won $100 on a $5 ticket I mailed to him on Friday. Seriously. You'd think HE had to traipse up 13 steps and sit on the porch and wait, when actually all HE had to do was point his phone at his ticket, push a button, click on email, type couple letters of the address, and hit SEND. Sweet Gummi Mary! Kids these days could do that in their sleep. In a COMA, even! So you are deprived of his winner's picture.
So...over a 3-day span, I acquired a total of $500 in winners. I don't remember exactly what I spent to purchase them, because I was mostly cashing in previous winners until I took the hundred from my casino bankroll.
In any case, I'm still winning. Shh...Even Steven doesn't need to hear that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)