As If The Sweaving Wasn't Enough

Perhaps you've heard about Farmer H's driving style. It's a combination of swerving and weaving. Sweaving. Like he's compelled to yank the wheel from side-to-side as he's rolling down the road, not giving one whit of attention to the pavement marked with lines, but looking off into fields at barns and tractors.

As much as I dislike riding with Farmer H when he's being a master sweaver...I dislike arguing with Farmer H even more. I know, right? You'd think it was one of my favorite pastimes! Au contraire. Arguing with Farmer H is a waste of energy, saliva, and vocal cord wear-and-tear. The message never gets through. Because, you see, Farmer H, in his own mind, IS NEVER WRONG!

Like yesterday. We were in town, on the way from my pharmacy to the gas station chicken store. Oh, don't think I've recruited Farmer H to chauffeur me around Hillmomba so we can be together as much as possible before I get him all to myself when he retires in five weeks. No siree, Bob! We were together because we were returning from a casino visit, and he said he'd take me to get my soda, rather than me driving ten minutes back to town on my own. You can't imagine how grateful I was for that selfless offer...really. You can't.

Farmer H pulled across the intersection beside Dairy Queen, and made a right turn into the parking lot of the gas station chicken store WITHOUT USING A TURN SIGNAL!!!

I watch Live PD every weekend. Friday night AND Saturday night, by cracky! I know that nothing good comes of turning without a signal. One minute you're riding along in you automobile, no particular place to go...and the next minute, you're being handcuffed and a dog is sniffing your car for the weed the cop said he smelled when you rolled down your window.

"You didn't signal!"

"Nope."

"You turned without a signal!"

"No. I just veered in."

"So that's what you're going to tell the cop? 'I know I didn't use a signal. I didn't really turn. I just veered.' Is that it? Next thing you know, you're up against the car and an officer is groping your junk! There goes your weed!"

"Oh, well."

Uh huh. Farmer H is above the law. And he has absolutely no sense of humor.

You Can't Keep A Good Hand Down

MOM DOWN! We've got a bleeder!

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, of 1313 Backroads Boulevard, Hillmomba 77777, was seriously injured Wednesday afternoon in her dark basement lair. Mrs. HM had completed scratching off one of her scratch-off tickets, and was dusting off the scrapings, when the incident occurred.

It was not termed an accident by the medical examiner, who just happens to be Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. No, that injury was a result of a deliberate act of scratcher-dusting that Mrs. HM performs on a daily basis. This time, the odds were NOT in her favor, and she slid her hand awkwardly along the side of a $10 ticket while dusting off the scrapings into her daily scraping pile. The edge of the ticket sliced Mrs. HM's palm along the crease where the index finger joins the hand.

While painful and messy, the injury will not interfere with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's scratching ability, though it may sideline her from washing dishes by hand for a week or two. Or a couple of hours. Mrs. HM expects a full recovery, and will not be slowed down in the scratching of future scratch-off tickets.

She is recovering at home, without prescription medication, her pain relieved by the endorphins that surged through her leaking blood vessel when she dusted off that ten-dollar winner.

Cards and well-wishes may be sent to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom here in the comment section.

And There WAS Light!

When we last convened, Farmer H had decreed that it was the responsibility of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to change the bulb on our dark dusk-to-dawn light. Okay, not so much for her to shinny up that pole like a ring-tailed lemur, or a postman who grew up in the Pacific Northwest...but for her to report it to the electric company, and make the arrangements.

At 8:30 Wednesday morning, I called. After a brief sojourn listening to a recording stating that all customer service representatives were busy...I was connected to a polite young man who asked for my address. Even though I'm sure they can see that from your phone number when you call in. They probably have a little camera on that utility pole that can watch me inside the Mansion, too. Oh, wait! That's the camera in my laptop, Shiba. OH WAIT! That's just my conspiracy-theory mind working overtime.

Anyhoo...let's call this representative Chad. He seemed befuddled. Asked the nature of my problem. There had been a select-a-number option for STREET LIGHTS, but since our light is not on a street, of course I didn't choose that, but selected to talk to a real person. Besides, they had a section all about dusk-to-dawn lights, and didn't refer to them as street lights. So I told Chad that my dusk-to-dawn light had quit shining last week.

Chad seemed even more befuddled. So I said, "I know I should have chosen street light, but I don't think it IS a street light. It's a dusk-to-dawn. On a utility pole, in our front yard." That didn't seem to clarify matters at all.

"Are you sure you have a light? I'm not doubting you, but..."

"Yes. It quit working. We pay $11.22 a month for it."

"Oh. Um. Thank you. That's helpful. Um. Do you have more than one account?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, I have the statement here, but I don't see the account number. I think it was on the part I mail back with the check. We have an account with the BARn that we built in the other field, before we built the house."

"No, no. That's fine. Let me look it up. Here. I see. Yes, you DO have a light. Sometimes...people call us and say their light is out, when it really belongs to their neighbor, who called and said they were tired of paying for that light on the property line. But I can see this is your light."

"Yes. I have the number from the pole. Would that help? My husband took a picture of it."

"Is it [REDACTED]?"

"Yes. That's it."

"Okay, ma'am. We'll put a work crew on it. I just want you to understand that it generally takes 7-10 days. And if the weather is stormy, it will take longer. At one point back in May, the guys were 3-4 weeks behind."

"Oh, I understand. Like now, with the heat, I don't expect them to fix my light ahead of people without power."

"Yes. We'll get to it as soon as we can."

Yeah. So...I typed up the gist of this conversation Wednesday morning right after the call. Got my post all ready. Set it to publish at 6:05 p.m. on Wednesday...

AND AN HOUR LATER, THE AMEREN TRUCK SHOWED UP!!!

Yeah. That's what I get for working ahead. I was NOT going to re-do that post. So NOW, I'll share the rest of the story.

The truck stopped out by the carport, where Copper charged at it with gnashing teeth. I thought the guy might be afraid to get out. I stepped out on the front porch, and told him he could drive though the yard when he stepped out on his running board. As he crossed the yard, I hollered that "It's not my dog, I don't even know his name, but he hasn't bitten anybody that I know of."

The Ameren guy said he hoped he wasn't hungry for a leg, and drove over to the light pole, then hollered that he was going to turn around, and proceeded past Shackytown to the BARn field, and came back to lift himself in his bucket.

I sat on the front porch, hollering, "DOG!" at Copper, hoping he'd lay off. Once that lift bucket started to rise, Copper got spooked, and ran across the yard with his tail between his legs to lay in the shade of the tree by the driveway where the dogs have dug their main mole holes. Jack and Juno sat at my feet, behaving like a proper gentleman and lady, content to be petted and watch the new light put in from afar.

I didn't take a picture while the work was going on, because who really wants random pictures of themselves on the internet for just doing their job. Besides, I was so startled that only ONE HOUR into my 7-10 day wait, the repair truck showed up...that I forgot my phone, and was dressed in pajama pants, my button-front walking shirt, and red Crocs.

After the installation, the Ameren guy walked over to the porch and said, "Tell Farmer H that I said HI. I used to bowl with him. What's he doing over there, building his own town?"

"He'd like nothing better than to show you every single thing in each one of his shacks! They all have a theme. He's retiring in five weeks."

"Well, when he gets retired, I'll give him a call. One thing's for sure...you'll have light tonight!"

Here's the pole after the new light was put on. I noticed a different shape to it, but I don't know much about lights. Only that they're apparently my responsibility to replace when they go wonky.

Hick looked at it when he got home. "Huh. Looks like he gave us an LED light in place of the old kind."

"I hope it doesn't cost more every month."

"It might be because he knows me. I saw him put one in up by HOS's house, and it was the regular kind."

"Well, he said we'd have light tonight."

Now I know what he meant by that. Farmer H sent me a picture after dark.

I sent him back a text. "Looks like you'll need protective eyewear to save your retinas."

For some reason I'm feeling like Julia Louis-Dreyfuss in that scene in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation when Clark finally gets his lights turned on.

(at around 1:40 in this clip)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ar-__ub0rc

Let There Be Light, In 7-10 Business Days

Farmer H often leaves me in the dark. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes I'm sure he just considers it a happy accident. Lately he's had a penchant for inviting folks to swim in Poolio, and not bothering to tell me. Granted, it doesn't really affect me while I'm in my dark basement lair. I'm not using Poolio, and I don't have to entertain with bottle service or set up cabanas. Still, I'd kind of like to know when we have other people on the property. Especially when Farmer H is at work, and the dogs are going crazy, and I hear thumping on the porch, and screams.

Farmer H has also been getting phone calls after 9:00 p.m. I hear his cell phone ring. The ringtone is quite distinctive: the sound of an old dial phone ringing. It helps that Farmer H has the ringer volume turned up to HIGHER THAN A JET ENGINE. And that he puts it on the hard counter of the bathroom sink to charge when he gets home. Last night, I happened to be upstairs and overheard his cryptic answers. I figure it's about the new shed he is planning to spend about $10,000 or more on. To fill with junk, of course, though he says it will be to park cars in and work on them.

Anyhoo...the most pressing in-the-dark issue on my mind right now is that fact that we are actually IN THE DARK. Our dusk-to-dawn light out front on a utility pole has been out for about a week. Do you know how dark it gets in Hillmomba? So dark that when I get up at night for the bathroom, I have to turn on a light! The soft glow of the dusk-to-dawn light doesn't filter through the frosted round window in the master bathroom. I don't like turning on the light. It wakes me up. But we are permanently stuck between dusk and dawn.

For at least 7-10 business days.

I called this morning to report the issue to Ameren Missouri. Farmer H said he would do it last week. During the three days he was working. He makes a lot of calls from work, when he's not busy looking for beer company memorabilia on eBay, and car parts to restore a 1970s pickup truck that he's had since The Pony was born.

When I asked Farmer H last night if he knew when our light was getting fixed, he said he hadn't even reported it yet!!! And furthermore, he was pretty sure that the perfect time to report it was late at night, around 11:30, "...when you're still up on your computer."

Huh. Sounds like the 60-percent working man thinks the little woman should be the one to report a YARD PROBLEM. And that he believes Ameren Missouri has 24-hour-a-day customer service.

It's probably going to take more than 7-10 business days. Sweet Gummi Mary! Even Mrs. Hillbilly Mom wouldn't want her pole light to take precedence over somebody whose ELECTRICITY was broken during this heat wave.

Here's a scary thought that hit me in the middle of writing this. The dusk-to-dawn light quit working the same week as my internet. Wonder what Crazy Dude knows about lights...

Clang, Clang, Clang Went The Air Conditioner

NO! Don't you worry about Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! Her air conditioner is NOT on the fritz again. It's chugging right along on these 100-degree days, keeping the Mansion at a chilly 74 degrees. But that doesn't mean our unit performs its duties in silence.

Sure, there are the usual noises of kicking on and kicking off. The fan blowing. The ductwork popping as it cools and warms. All noises we're used to. It's the one I heard yesterday morning that threw a monkey wrench into my sleep schedule. Sweet Gummi Mary! You'd think it was a monkey wrench rattling around in the air conditioner, from the sound of it!

Farmer H had left for parts unknown around 6:45 a.m. I decided to sleep in, rather than arise after 3-and-a-half hours sleep for my driveway walk. I'll be glad when this heat wave is over. Evenings work much better for me.

Anyhoo...I rolled over to catch some more ZZZZs. Ah, sweet Morpheus, take me back to my dreams. They've been pleasant lately. I find gold and coins and my mom gives me advice. I probably should start writing down the details. But I'm pretty lazy. As evidenced by the walk-skippage.

CLANG!

What in the Not-Heaven was THAT? If I'd been sleeping on my back, I would have sat bolt upright in bed. Jackknifing bolt sideways just doesn't have the same ring to it. But that's what I did. Startled, I snapped my legs and torso forward like I was competing in the Old Lady Division of the Out-of-Bed Diving Championship, July 17, 2017.

Here's the thing. It was a little after 8:00 a.m. The room was lit by the rising sun coming through the built-in mini blinds of the french doors. But that noise was eerie. Perhaps you've heard that some unexplainable things go in here at the Mansion. Now I had this noise jackknifing me bolt sideways, when I was the only person in the house. Even out of a dead sleep, I knew that sound.

It was the sound of something having to do with the metal floor vents that give us our heat and air conditioning. It was not the sound of the ductwork popping at a certain spot between living room and kitchen when you step just right. Or wrong. It was the sound of the metal grate itself.

WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN WAS IN MY AIR CONDITIONER VENT?

I also pinpointed the location, all without turning over and looking. It was in the master bathroom. Was the air conditioner on the fritz again? Can an air conditioner throw a rod? That's what it sounded like. A metal rod clanging on the metal air vent. The louvered part, where it sits in the dark green ceramic tile of the bathroom floor, right behind the door.

Sometimes I hear things in that bathroom. Not often, because I'm not in that area of the house often. When I go to bed at 3:00, I usually go right to sleep. It's 3:00 in the freakin' morning, by cracky! It's not like I have to count sheep.

My heart was thumping out of my chest, in the way of the newly-startled-awakeds. I knew there was no getting back to sleep for another hour as I am accustomed. I went into the bathroom and looked at the vent as I closed the door. Nothing. As I went across the room to the throne to do my business, I saw it!

Farmer H's toothbrush was laying face down on the floor vent between the toilet and shower. Face down. You know, its bristles poking a little bit down through those vent louvers. Farmer H lays his toothbrush and his own tube of toothpaste on the metal top of the sliding-shower-door enclosure. He brushes his teeth in the shower. I guess he's ready if he ever wants to prepare a meal in there, eat it, and then clean his teeth. I guess something made Farmer H's toothbrush take a dive. He had been gone for over an hour, so I doubt he had anything to do with it. Maybe we had a small earthquake. I didn't consult the U. S. Geological Service to inquire.

It's highly possible that Farmer H's toothbrush might have touched the giant wooden-handled black industrial strength plunger that sits in that area.

To be fair, I DID tell him he might want to get a new toothbrush out of the drawer.

It's A Fact Of Life, I Guess

You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have...my trip to The Devil's Playground on Saturday.

I didn't really NEED to go there. I already go twice a week now. But I had to return that cracked bargain picnic plate set that I got for Farmer H to cook his microwave eggs in. Might as well get it over with, I figured, even though I was using up prime Farmer H is Gone time while he drove to Kansas to visit the #1 Son.

The good part was...I went through that return line like Farmer H's money through a slot machine. So fast that if you blinked, you would have missed it.

I had a couple of things I wanted to pick up that I'd forgotten the day before when I bought the picnic set. Then I got back in line at the regular checkout area. I should have anticipated delays. It was Saturday, by cracky!

Of course I switched over one line when I saw that my checker was a young girl with a big white-and-black sign parked on the end of the conveyor, stating: No Alcohol Sales. Minor. Must Call Supervisor. That made ME no nevermind, because I wasn't buying alcohol. But the line was slow, and the lady up front had a giant load of stuff, and the guy behind her had a full cart. So I moved one line to the left.

Great. This guy also had the Minor Alcohol warning sign. Just what they needed on a Saturday, two novices. I swear this kid was slower than the girl. But when I left the girl, she was calling over a supervisor for some issue that wasn't alcohol.

While I waited, a kid came up behind me. "Excuse me, please. Can I get through here?"

I moved up my cart a little bit and turned sideways to allow passage. What a nice, polite, chubby boy, around 10, in shorts and flip-flops and a crewcut. Not so nice, in that he could have taken two steps and gone around the big square cardboard display of mini snack cookie canisters, and not made me shove over for his passage. He didn't even go to the next aisle to join Mom or Grandma or Older Sister who brought him! He went merrily flip-flopping along that aisle, having saved himself two steps. Kids these days.

While I waited for my checker guy to slowly inspect every item on his conveyor like it was an ancient artifact, four minutes passed. The only movement had been my ample rumpus out of the way of a spry child. Directly in front of me was a dude around 18-20, with his mom or grandma and a medium-filled cart. Dude wanted an energy drink, but it was not in our checkout cooler. He looked over to the next one, and spotted the beverage of his desire. I prepared to move and let him out. It's not like HE had another route. He went around the end and asked the guy waiting with a full cart to please open the cooler and hand him a white can of energy drink. Mission accomplished, he came back.

I was leaning on my cart/walker by now, over the child seat with my set of plastic picnic dishes, two jars of olives, two Chicken Bacon Ranch Pinwheels, and a pint of slaw. Oh, and a bag of Mini Reeses that I ration myself for an evening treat. As I was daydreaming about night-snacking, I felt something on my butt! I swear somebody was resting their future purchases on my ample rumpus!

I turned around to give the stinkeye. This is just not acceptable! Even in Hillmomba.

A little old lady noticed my discombobulation, and said, "Oh, I'm sorry." She needed to go back to school for remedial Personal Space lessons.

"I wondered what was going on back there. I think we're going to be here for a while." I hope she didn't think I was letting her go ahead of me. Not my fault she didn't nab a cart/walker to lean on. I only had 7 items. Just because she had 4 was not good enough for me to feel all generous and do-goody.

Just then, the guy in my original line, with the full cart, who had handed over the energy drink, started backing up. "I didn't see the sign! I have alcohol. I don't want to make everyone wait." He went on down the way of the lazy two-stepper. A man coming up behind him with an emptier cart took his place in line. Rumpus Bumper darted over there. And I followed.

Okay. So I DIDN'T beat the full-cart lady who took my place in line. But I got done at the same time. So technically, I didn't LOSE any time by switching back.

The underage guy checker gave me the stinkeye, though.

Copper Done Me Wrong

Remember Copper? The neighbor dog who thinks he lives here, whose name we don't know? He stopped barking at me for walking in my own driveway several months ago. So I stopped carrying a rock in my pocket to chuck at him when he charged me.

Our truce has been in effect for a while now. Copper has crept ever-closer when I unload groceries at the side porch. He even stopped jumping back when I turned to look at him. During the evening snacks with Jack and Juno on the front porch, Copper kept his distance, laying on the brick sidewalk over by the carport, panting heavily in the heat.

So well-behaved was Copper, never begging, never bothering the other two dogs WHO ACTUALLY LIVE HERE when I gave them their snack, or their cat kibble treat...I started bringing a little tidbit for Copper in the evenings. Nothing as grand as what my OWN dogs get, mind you. No old hot dogs or bread dipped in meat grease or outdated tortilla chips. Nope. But I had taken to tossing Copper a stale roll or slice of plain Wonder bread. He would come over and pick it up and take it back to his laying area. Or under the fence to his house.

Copper never looked like he was starving. He looked well-kept. Had a collar. Was sleek and coppery-colored. Not too thin, not too fat. No ribs showing. I felt guilty not giving him a little something while Jack and Juno feasted in front of him. Juno lording it over him, and Jack glancing nervously in the way of small dogs towards larger ones, making sure his snack wasn't going to be usurped.

Last week, while I was walking, on two separate days, Copper ran up behind me and touched his nose to my hand, then skittered away. I have sensed for some weeks now that he was coming up behind me. But not in the aggressive manner with which he used to charge and stop and bark at me within my field of vision. Farmer H also mentioned that the other night, when he was feeding the goat and mini-pony, that Copper came up and licked his hand, but then ran off when Farmer H tried to pet him.

Saturday morning, after Farmer H left on his trip to Kansas, I heard Juno barking frantically on the front corner of the porch by the animal pens. She's jumpy sometimes. She really does not like Copper, and never ceases to bay at him when she's on the porch and sees him out back by the fake fish pond, drinking, or wandering around Poolio. I headed to the front door to tell Juno to knock it off.

The minute I opened the door, I saw Copper running across the front yard, from the chicken house to his fence-line, with a roundish black object the size of a volleyball in his mouth. That was no volleyball. I'm pretty sure it was a chicken. Our chicken. Only a few moments before our LIVE chicken.

I called Farmer H to ask if we HAD a black chicken. I'm pretty sure it was the one who lays the eggs and hatches the chicks. Farmer H said that yes, we did have a black chicken.

Not any more.

Copper is in the doghouse. No more treats for him.