Mrs. HM Is NOT Broke As A Joke

Yesterday I had a bit of good luck. I earned back money that keeps getting away from me at the casino! Of course, it took a scratcher to get it back.

That's a $5 ticket. I won every prize. You have to match both symbols in a row, or get a special symbol in the first one. Like the candy cane. It tells you at the bottom of the ticket. Anyhoo...that $5 ticket won me $100. I had some other winners, too, but none that dramatic. I stashed that cash today for my next casino trip. Money doesn't grow on trees, you know!

While I was in the gas station chicken store cashing this one in, a man came in to pay for gas. The Lady Owner was ringing up his purchase, and said, "Oh, you're a long way from home."

"Yes. We've been on the road for six hours now. We're headed to Little Rock for a funeral."

The Lady Owner offered her condolences, and the customer asked if there was a good restaurant around here. She referred him to the buffet over by Save A Lot, and gave him directions.

As I drove home, while passing in front of that restaurant, the song "Little Rock," by Collin Raye, came on my radio. I haven't heard that song in years.

Funny how The Universe plays these little jokes.

Maybe It's Just The Perception

Sunday, Farmer H and I made a jaunt to the casino after he closed up his storage shed store. It's become one of our regular outings. I used to marvel at one of the retired office gals at Basementia. Seems like she and her husband were always going to the casino. Huh. There's not much else to do around these parts. And with those offers, it's like you're losing money if you DON'T go! Okay. I have been losing money when I DO go. But that's beside the point. It's money that's already earmarked to lose.

Anyhoo...I was sitting at one of the two slot machines that actually let me enjoy a profit, and a lady sat down right next to me. That's no big deal. There were only four machines on that row, and three of us playing them. She didn't crowd me. At first, I thought she was going to be one of those annoying people-persons. You know. The kind who small-talk your ear off. She slid onto the stool and said, "Gosh, it sure is cold here." Yes. The casino must be trying to preserve us old corpses so we don't stink. I have taken to taking a jacket with me, but then it stinks like smoke, and I don't wash my jackets weekly. Sunday was quite warm, 75 degrees, and I didn't even wear a long-sleeved shirt. So I agreed that yes, it certainly was cold in there.

That lady settled down and started playing. She ceased the small talk, and was one of the more pleasant close-players that I have encountered. She didn't pound on the machine, or stroke it suggestively, or yell, "OH, COME ON!" every time she spun. I was hitting some bonuses, and she didn't comment on them, or crane her neck over to see. She minded her own beeswax.

After about 10 minutes, that lady looked at me, and the gal on her left, and asked, "Will it bother either of you if I smoke?"

Hm. Yes. Very much so. But because she was so polite, and I was in a casino, I told her, "No. It's okay." Which was a little white lie, but after all, we were in a casino! It's not like I was laying in intensive care under an oxygen tent, nor tasting exotic dishes on a once in a lifetime vacation. She had asked politely, was minding her Ps and Qs, and who was I to deny her this vice pleasure?

You know, that smoke wasn't all that bad. She even had her ashtray between her machine and mine, but that smoke didn't seem to waft my way. It's not like she was exhaling fine perfume, but it was bearable.

Just before we left, however, I moved across the casino to a machine I'd been waiting to get on since we arrived. Finally! A vacant seat. This was a giant slot, on a circle of six machines. I pulled out the stool and put my feet on the slanted rubber mat part that vibrates when you get a bonus. It's the game that yells "BUFFALOOOOO!" when you get some good-paying buffalo symbols.

Anyhoo...my right foot stubbed something on that mat, and I looked down to see two full ashtrays that I'd just kicked over! WHO DOES THAT? It's not like I go through the casino with my eyes glued to the floor, looking for ashtrays (or even pennies). It might not have even been the smoker(s) who put them there. Sometimes I sit down at a machine, and there's a nasty ashtray sitting on it. I put it down between the machines, on that shelf they sit on. Or move it to another machine if it's one of the big ones and I'm afraid somebody will nab it if I step away. A short time later, one of the workers came by, wearing rubber gloves, carrying a bucket, and picked up those two ashtrays from under my feet. Sorry, but she's paid to do that.

While I was waiting for the late Farmer H, he having texted me that he'd just hit 15 free games (yes, he came out a winner again, that dirty dog), I sat down to play $10 of my cashed out tickets by the ticket-cashing machine. An old lady with a leathery face and sour expression sat down a couple machines away, smoking like a chimney, hacking and coughing, her acrid smoke drifting across my nostrils. I swear, it was like a cartoon of Pepe Le Pew's scent. You could actually SEE those tendrils of smoke snaking their way my way. They also snaked right into my lungs and burned like the dickens.

Farmer H, upon being informed of the different smoker scenarios, said that he thinks it's just the brand of cigarettes. I'm not so sure.

Farmer H's Pecadillo Puts Him In A Bit Of A Pickle

I hate to do this to you, fresh on the heels of Farmer H's butt yesterday. I'll try not to be too graphic. You know how good I am sugar-coating the sordid details.

Farmer H has a George-Costanza-like problem. Not a problem, per se, but a need to know the best toilet facilities anywhere in Hillmomba. Now that he is spending most of the day gathering new old merchandise for his storage shed store, or transporting merchandise that he already has, or selling merchandise when customers arrive...he has a need to use the facilities without driving five miles home and back.

The flea market storage shed place has restrooms down at the far end of the lot. When he's there, Farmer H can get somebody else to watch his shed, and use that one. Sometimes he's carousing around town at the Casey's, prior to locking his keys in his truck, or picking up strange women and dropping them off 12 miles down the road at the treatment center.

Here's the thing. Farmer H says he doesn't like to use the Casey's bathroom unless he buys something. Seriously. Like they care. I doubt the clerks watch him and badmouth him when he leaves if he doesn't make a purchase. Maybe this is just Farmer H's way of justifying all those donuts he eats that are not recommended for his diabetes.

I, myself, prefer the facilities at Hardee's if I must stop before I get home. I can usually hold it for five miles, though. Hardee's has their restroom down a little hall to the right side as you enter the door. You don't even have to get close to the counter or dining area. Nobody sees you, really, unless there's somebody paid to be a Nosy Nancy and chart where customers (or not) go when they enter. Besides, I used to get a chicken bowl at the drive-thru every day, until I discovered the deliciousness of The Devil's Playground deli pinwheels. I feel like I have many days credit built up from NOT using the restroom when I was a paying customer.

I'm still not sure if Farmer H is being truthful. It took him a long time to answer when he told me about a car being almost stolen at Casey's on Thursday morning, and I asked what he was doing in Casey's. After a couple of false starts, he said he was buying a soda. I pointed out that he has plenty of soda here in FRIG II, Diet Mountain Dew in the 20 oz bottles he prefers (no fountain soda for Farmer H), that he could take along to his storage shed store to sip throughout the morning.

I pointedly asked if he was buying donuts, but he denied it. Then told me that he likes to buy something if he goes in to use their restroom. I asked about the one on the storage shed lot, and he said he had to use THAT one, too, a short time later. He thinks he might have gotten food poisoning from eating a hamburger that one of the ladies with a booth was selling. I pointed out that food poison does not work instantly like that. It was more likely the Casey's donuts that he'd bought that morning.

For a minute there, I thought I had outsmarted him. Nope. He said maybe it was his supper from the night before, which was a ham sandwich. I'm more inclined to say that it was the sugar-free candy I buy him, which he eats more of than he should. It can have that result, I hear. Specifically from my sister the ex-mayor's wife, who said somebody gave it out to the kindergarteners one year in treat bags.

Not sure where I was going with this. But I'm pretty sure I'm done.

I'm Not Saying He's Turning Into One, But Evidence Is Not On His Side

Could Farmer H be slowing getting in touch with his feminine side?

You know how...um...pardon me for being indelicate again...so unladylike of me...but... well...remember that time Farmer H had a hemorrhoid? He still has it. In fact, just like his doctor nurse practitioner told him, it resolved itself on its own. Kind of. I don't think it's actually resolved yet. Anyhoo...after a week or so of hearing him moan and groan and limp and sit gingerly upon his rumpus, you recall, Farmer H summoned me to the shower one evening to "take a look at it." Which I declined.

Have you ever seen the movie Carrie? From the Stephen King book? The original Carrie, with Sissy Spacek and Piper Laurie? Do you remember how it starts? With that locker room scene, all foggy and these-days-inappropriate, with Carrie herself in the shower, discovering her menses? I swear, that is what this reminded me of! Farmer H thought he was bleeding to death! From a hemorrhoid!

Sweet Gummi Mary! This is why men don't have babies. They truly are the weaker sex. They can't handle a little blood loss. Farmer H put a towel on the cushion of his La-Z-Boy. He strapped up with stick-on feminine hygiene products that he rummaged around under the bathroom sink for. Not that I need them anymore, of course. Good thing for him I was prepared for those little surprises that sometimes happen, or he'd have been plugging up with something more invasive.

Anyhoo...Farmer H continued to complain that he was bleeding to death. He didn't go anywhere without his "diaper" as he called it, and he spread a towel down on the mattress at bedtime. I reminded him that he takes a daily aspirin, and that makes the blood clot slower. Also, every time he said he was going in the bathroom to "try to poop," I had to remind him that he should probably drink more fluids and eat more fiber, because sitting there on the toilet trying to make the magic happen was not helping his hemorrhoid heal.

I think maybe things in the rumpus department are on the mend, because I don't hear daily anymore about how Farmer H is bleeding to death. He doesn't curtail his activities, and the towel has been washed and folded and he doesn't haul it around like Linus's blanket. He spends all day getting stuff set out in his storage container store. So I don't think I'll need to order a tombstone any time soon.

Farmer H mentioned that he needs something to keep his money in at the flea market. He has to get small bills for change, and he doesn't need his wallet to explode like George Costanza's when he put that tear-off strip for free guitar lessons in there. I looked for a money bag at The Devil's Playground the last two trips. Apparently, The Devil doesn't want us to accumulate money. There was nary a one in either of the two stores.

Wednesday, I found Farmer H the next best thing to a money bag. It's a makeup bag! I resisted the urge to get the pink-and-silver glitzy one. I brought him basic black. You can still tell that it's a makeup bag, not a money bag. But it'll get the job done.

I don't know if I should tell Farmer H about the pink-and-silver bag. He might've preferred it.

Sweets For The Sweet

Remember the issues I've had with my new favorite treat, Gourmet Lollipops? How I bought a bag of 7, only to find out that 3 of them were Watermelon? Then I bought another bag, which had a lollipop masquerading as Cotton Candy, but was a MYSTERY. I still don't know what flavor that one was, but I ate every crumb, and licked my lips like a cat after a bowl of milk.

You know I can't quit them, right? And I ashamedly have not asserted myself with a letter to the Gourmet Lollipop people about not including the GOOD flavors in those multi-packs. Or ever 7 different flavors. So I'm pretty much in the same boat, still. Rowing upstream without a paddle, or even a crew of Vikings, in my search for delicious Gourmet Lollipops.

Last week, at The Devil's Playground over in Bill-Paying Town (I haven't seen the bags at the local Devil's Playground), there was only ONE bag left. I peeped through the little window on the front of the bag, and was disappointed to see 3 Watermelon, 2 Wild Cherry, and 2 Blue Raspberry. None of which I am crazy about. There's a reason that bag was the only one left on the shelf.

Wednesday, I accidentally found some Gourmet Lollipops while standing in line at the local Devil's Playground! You can bet I picked the very best sucker fruit off that wooden tree holder. Here's my harvest:

I hit the almost-jackpot! I got 2 Cotton Candy (that's all they had), 2 Banana Split, 1 Strawberry Banana, and 1 Bubble Gum. They were 50 cents apiece. I'd have taken 7, but I only saw 6 that I liked. Or thought I'd like. You'll notice that there is not a Watermelon in the bunch! I don't remember the price on the bag of 7, but this assortment might have even been more of a bargain. So far, I've had a Banana Split and a Strawberry Banana. They were delectable.

I'm hoping I can find that checkout line again, and that the wooden tree holder is bearing new fruit.

Paint My Palette Pink And Purple And Blue And Gray

I have been delayed tonight because my internet was flooded. There was a downpour that seemed to take forever to pass over the Mansion. I had a feeling something was on the horizon.

I went out to walk, and saw that the sun was just ready to dip below the horizon, so dashed back inside to grab my phone. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not dash at a high rate of speed. Plus, I had to maneuver myself across uneven gravel, into the unevener front yard full of mole tunnels, while sidestepping frolicking dogs...so the sun kind of got away from me.

Anyhoo...you can see that a storm was moving in. As I sat on the front porch pew while the dogs enjoyed their stale bread drenched with bacon drippings, old frozen pepperoni slices removed from around cheese sticks about 6 months ago, and expired potato chips...I saw lightning and heard thunder. Juno isn't one to tolerate a storm. She ate her snack and waited for a pat, then gave a loud burp and skittered away to her house on the back porch to ride out the storm

As I was getting supper ready, I stepped out back to toss some onion skins off the porch, and heard the sound of sprinkles in the trees. I didn't feel anything, even though I was out from under the porch overhang. I came back in and heard the deluge pelting the porch and roof. I guess I was just in time, getting back inside after hearing the rain on its way across the woods.

I didn't mind my internet outage too much this time. I busied myself writing the boys' weekly letter. Good think I had my other blog already done, or I'd really be burning the midnight oil right now at 10:48 p.m.

I'll Be Looking Out For Bunnies On Easter

Yesterday was Halloween, you know. But I bet you don't know what I saw on the way home. Or maybe you do. Maybe some of you are freaky psychics who should get their own show on TLC.

I was driving along the wide street of stately homes over by the lake. Past the nursing home that Farmer H said I should go into (if I ever have knee surgery, he tried to clarify while backtracking at a record pace), the nursing home that used to be a hospital, the hospital where I was born. Of course this street of stately homes looked quite festive, with most people decorating their yards and porches for Halloween.

A lot of people take their kids there trick-or-treating. Maybe because of the yard decorations. Maybe because they think the people are rich and hand out good candy. I can vouch that this is not a correct assumption. The candy is the same you get on any street. Nothing special. I know, because we used to drive the boys to trick-or-treat on that street.

Now don't get me wrong. I didn't take them there seeking gourmet sweets in mass quantities. I took there there because we live out of town, and being driven to Grandma's house and Aunt Sis's house and the daycare lady's house isn't all that Halloween is cracked up to be. This street is by the library, and nice and wide so we could park and walk up, and then back down the other side.

Anyhoo...there I was, tooling along in T-Hoe, looking at porch ghouls, talking to Farmer H on the cell phone, when a BLACK CAT RAN OUT IN FRONT OF ME!

What are the odds, really, of that happening on Halloween?

I gasped, and told Farmer H what was going on, and that cat looked at T-Hoe's grill, turned around, and scampered back onto the sidewalk. Oh...I slowed down, too. Let the record show that! So I don't know if I'm going to have bad luck or not, since the black cat did not completely cross my path.

Perhaps my bad luck with a couple of crazier-than-normal weirdos at Casey's was a case of the cart being put before the horse. Maybe Even Steven switched things up, and gave me the bad luck before the cat.

Truth. Stranger (though sometimes less interesting) than fiction.