Nothing irks me more than having my hands in the dishwater, and having to go answer the house phone. Okay. There are many things that irk me more. I'm highly irkable. Let's just say my irk level starts at high, and only increases from there.
Anyhoo...there I was this morning, suds on my fingers, being my own dishwasher, when the house phone rang. It has caller ID. I was half expecting it to say, "Call from Farmer H." But it didn't. It announced, "Call from...wireless caller."
You know me. I figure it's probably a scammer, but I can't take that chance. Something might have happened to one of my college boys, and they had to borrow a phone to call me to solve their problem from several hundred miles away.
I rushed to the living room, wiping my sudsiness on my jammie pants.
"Hello?"
"Hello?"
"Hello-ooo!"
"I am calling from the main office about your Windows computer--"
"I DON'T TALK TO SCAMMERS! I DON'T KNOW WHAT KIND OF FOOL YOU TAKE ME FOR, BUT I'M NOT GIVING YOU MY INFORMATION. STOP CALLING HERE OR--"
Can you believe that guy with a foreign accent hung up on me?
I guess call centers have gone wireless now, or else this little guy was freelancing, thus his initial heads-up that he was actually calling from THE MAIN OFFICE.
I wish I'd screamed into the phone again, like that time I embarrassed The Pony.
My skills grow rusty without my couch audience to impress.
Saturday, November 11, 2017
Friday, November 10, 2017
Don't Call Me Surly
A couple days ago I stopped by Orb K for some scratcher tickets. I asked for four different tickets, by number, as shown in their ticket case. The clerk repeated the numbers as she was getting out the tickets, and I said, "That's right." She scanned each one, shoved the tickets across the counter, and took my money. I thanked her, and turned to walk out.
About three steps from the counter, I noticed that I did NOT have four different tickets. I had two of one kind, and was missing one that I'd asked for. I went back and said
"Excuse me. You've given me two of the Big Money, and I'm missing a Money Multiplier that I asked for."
No big deal, right? I had specifically requested certain tickets, and all she had to do was tear off those tickets and give them to me. It's not rocket science. I've worked as a cashier at a convenience store. I know that things get hectic. Sometimes it's repetitive. It's easy to make a mistake getting out a numbered ticket. If I'd made such an error, I would have said to the customer, "Oh, I'm sorry. Let me have that extra one, and I'll trade you the one you asked for." Problem solved. Apology given.
That's not what happened here. It was the clerk with one front tooth. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But she also doesn't wear the uniform shirt, just a crew-neck t-shirt with a saying on the front. And she's kind of surly. It's a wonder she's kept her job, but for all I know, she's the manager or owner.
I had taken the second Big Money ticket, #37 from the roll, and pushed it across the counter, the #36 and the two other kinds of tickets laying in front of me. Surly reached over and grabbed all the tickets and shuffled through them. "Which numbers did you have?" she demanded. Okay. I can understand that she wanted to make sure I kept the first Big Money ticket. Just in case I was some weirdo who didn't get the number on the roll that I wanted, and tried to trick her into taking it back. She picked up the #37 and looked around. Then she got out the ticket I'd asked for in the beginning, the Money Multiplier. She started to SCAN IT to charge me for it!
The other clerk came over and said, "You don't need to do that. You're just trading her. Give her that one, and put the other ticket back in the case." Sure. No need to charge me, because I had already paid for four tickets, and I was going to be leaving with four tickets. At no time had Surly attempted to refund me anything for the wrong ticket that I had given back. I can still understand how she might have been confused. But it's not like she's a new employee. I've seen her working there for a while now.
Here's the deal. Surly acted all put-out with ME! I'm not the one who made the mistake. She'd even asked me for the numbers of the tickets I wanted before tearing them off. She had double-checked, and still gave me the wrong one. Thanks to the other clerk assisting, the issue was resolved. I did NOT appreciate Surly's attitude. A simple "Sorry," or even a neutral tone while she asked for assistance, would have been okay. I didn't need the sighing and the disgust she conveyed with every move.
I might have considered it fate, and walked out with the wrong ticket without causing a stir. But I wanted the tickets I'd asked for. I don't think I was out of line for asking to get what I paid for.
Let the record show that the ticket Surly had forgotten at first won me $5. It's the only winner I had out of those four. Of course, that extra ticket might have been a big winner...
About three steps from the counter, I noticed that I did NOT have four different tickets. I had two of one kind, and was missing one that I'd asked for. I went back and said
"Excuse me. You've given me two of the Big Money, and I'm missing a Money Multiplier that I asked for."
No big deal, right? I had specifically requested certain tickets, and all she had to do was tear off those tickets and give them to me. It's not rocket science. I've worked as a cashier at a convenience store. I know that things get hectic. Sometimes it's repetitive. It's easy to make a mistake getting out a numbered ticket. If I'd made such an error, I would have said to the customer, "Oh, I'm sorry. Let me have that extra one, and I'll trade you the one you asked for." Problem solved. Apology given.
That's not what happened here. It was the clerk with one front tooth. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But she also doesn't wear the uniform shirt, just a crew-neck t-shirt with a saying on the front. And she's kind of surly. It's a wonder she's kept her job, but for all I know, she's the manager or owner.
I had taken the second Big Money ticket, #37 from the roll, and pushed it across the counter, the #36 and the two other kinds of tickets laying in front of me. Surly reached over and grabbed all the tickets and shuffled through them. "Which numbers did you have?" she demanded. Okay. I can understand that she wanted to make sure I kept the first Big Money ticket. Just in case I was some weirdo who didn't get the number on the roll that I wanted, and tried to trick her into taking it back. She picked up the #37 and looked around. Then she got out the ticket I'd asked for in the beginning, the Money Multiplier. She started to SCAN IT to charge me for it!
The other clerk came over and said, "You don't need to do that. You're just trading her. Give her that one, and put the other ticket back in the case." Sure. No need to charge me, because I had already paid for four tickets, and I was going to be leaving with four tickets. At no time had Surly attempted to refund me anything for the wrong ticket that I had given back. I can still understand how she might have been confused. But it's not like she's a new employee. I've seen her working there for a while now.
Here's the deal. Surly acted all put-out with ME! I'm not the one who made the mistake. She'd even asked me for the numbers of the tickets I wanted before tearing them off. She had double-checked, and still gave me the wrong one. Thanks to the other clerk assisting, the issue was resolved. I did NOT appreciate Surly's attitude. A simple "Sorry," or even a neutral tone while she asked for assistance, would have been okay. I didn't need the sighing and the disgust she conveyed with every move.
I might have considered it fate, and walked out with the wrong ticket without causing a stir. But I wanted the tickets I'd asked for. I don't think I was out of line for asking to get what I paid for.
Let the record show that the ticket Surly had forgotten at first won me $5. It's the only winner I had out of those four. Of course, that extra ticket might have been a big winner...
Thursday, November 9, 2017
My Big Little Guy Is Somewhat Frustrating
Hey! Have you heard? Farmer H is completely retired now, and he's home A LOT!
Taking care of my aged toddler, the not-so-wee Farmer H, is sometimes frustrating. There's a reason why old people don't have babies. Your patience is all used up.
Talking to Farmer H is like explaining things to a toddler. They kind of hear WAH WAH WAH like Charlie Brown listening to his teacher. Or hear a bunch of lakelrkj lksodi ljlkjl; aerddaa THEN ONE WORD THEY RECOGNIZE sadkjhoj wererou slkj wererl, like a dog tilting its head at you then becoming excited when he hears TREAT or RIDE.
Sometimes it's like trying to explain English idioms to an immigrant who doesn't have time to go to ESL classes due to working three jobs to survive.
Tuesday evening, for instance, I was making some garlic toast to go with a pot of vegetable beef soup. Pretty simple, that garlic toast. I just buy it at Save A Lot in the freezer section, and pop it into the oven for five or six minutes. Turning once. Oh, I can make a mean garlic cheese bread, but it doesn't go with the soup as well as the frozen stuff.
Anyhoo...I leave the bread in the oven an extra minute or two. I like the edges to get crusty. The Pony did not, he liked the whole slice soft, so when he was here, I had to eat it his way, or put mine back in for extra time. News flash: The Pony doesn't live here any more. When I called Farmer H to the kitchen to dish up his towering bowl of vegetable beef soup, I told him
"You're getting it with crust, because that's how I like it."
"You want me to cut off the crusts?"
"No...do you not want your crust?"
"I want it, but I thought you said you wanted it."
"No. I like it that way. The Pony didn't. I didn't warm it that long for him."
"So I can eat my crust?"
"Yes, you can eat your crust."
"Are you having some?"
"Um. Yes. There are three pieces. You said you wanted two. So I'm having one."
"Oh. Okay. Because I noticed there was three."
Then Farmer H moved to the plate where I'd sliced 12 pieces of Oberle cheese to go along with the soup. You might not have heard of Oberle cheese, it being a local product around Hillmomba. It's a long tube-shaped piece of garlic cheese. When you slice it, you have pieces about the size of a 50-cent coin, a quarter-to-half-inch thick. Farmer H had said he wanted "three or four" pieces of cheese."
"So...I'll just take this...wait. Did you want some cheese?"
"Surely you weren't going to pick up that whole plate and take it! That's half the roll! Twelve pieces of cheese!"
"No, no. What did I say I was having? I'll just take four."
"Good. Because I'm having some, and I already set out a container for the rest."
Really. You'd think Farmer H was practicing to go on the competitive eating circuit. I couldn't even look when he piled up his towering bowl of soup.
Taking care of my aged toddler, the not-so-wee Farmer H, is sometimes frustrating. There's a reason why old people don't have babies. Your patience is all used up.
Talking to Farmer H is like explaining things to a toddler. They kind of hear WAH WAH WAH like Charlie Brown listening to his teacher. Or hear a bunch of lakelrkj lksodi ljlkjl; aerddaa THEN ONE WORD THEY RECOGNIZE sadkjhoj wererou slkj wererl, like a dog tilting its head at you then becoming excited when he hears TREAT or RIDE.
Sometimes it's like trying to explain English idioms to an immigrant who doesn't have time to go to ESL classes due to working three jobs to survive.
Tuesday evening, for instance, I was making some garlic toast to go with a pot of vegetable beef soup. Pretty simple, that garlic toast. I just buy it at Save A Lot in the freezer section, and pop it into the oven for five or six minutes. Turning once. Oh, I can make a mean garlic cheese bread, but it doesn't go with the soup as well as the frozen stuff.
Anyhoo...I leave the bread in the oven an extra minute or two. I like the edges to get crusty. The Pony did not, he liked the whole slice soft, so when he was here, I had to eat it his way, or put mine back in for extra time. News flash: The Pony doesn't live here any more. When I called Farmer H to the kitchen to dish up his towering bowl of vegetable beef soup, I told him
"You're getting it with crust, because that's how I like it."
"You want me to cut off the crusts?"
"No...do you not want your crust?"
"I want it, but I thought you said you wanted it."
"No. I like it that way. The Pony didn't. I didn't warm it that long for him."
"So I can eat my crust?"
"Yes, you can eat your crust."
"Are you having some?"
"Um. Yes. There are three pieces. You said you wanted two. So I'm having one."
"Oh. Okay. Because I noticed there was three."
Then Farmer H moved to the plate where I'd sliced 12 pieces of Oberle cheese to go along with the soup. You might not have heard of Oberle cheese, it being a local product around Hillmomba. It's a long tube-shaped piece of garlic cheese. When you slice it, you have pieces about the size of a 50-cent coin, a quarter-to-half-inch thick. Farmer H had said he wanted "three or four" pieces of cheese."
"So...I'll just take this...wait. Did you want some cheese?"
"Surely you weren't going to pick up that whole plate and take it! That's half the roll! Twelve pieces of cheese!"
"No, no. What did I say I was having? I'll just take four."
"Good. Because I'm having some, and I already set out a container for the rest."
Really. You'd think Farmer H was practicing to go on the competitive eating circuit. I couldn't even look when he piled up his towering bowl of soup.
Wednesday, November 8, 2017
Lay It, Don't Spray It
Most of you know that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom enjoys a good Diet Coke every now and then. In fact, she enjoys a 44 oz Diet Coke fountain soda every day, along with a 20 oz bottle* of the hard stuff. At night, I pour the bottled Diet Coke into the remains of the day's 44 oz fountain Diet Coke, to make it extra DietCokeier.
Monday night, around 11:30, I left my dark basement lair and entered the dark basement. I have two lamps over by my OPC (Old People Chair). I walked over to the other side of the stairs, where the lamp light barely reaches, and wrestled two 20 oz bottles of Diet Coke from that plastic six-pack thingy, to put in the basement mini fridge. I try to keep three cold ones in there, lest I forget to replace them as I used them. Usually, a good twist or two in opposite directions from each other will free the bottles from the holder.
I was having a little trouble, that new six-pack I'd bought only that day at The Devil's Playground seeming exceedingly tight. I had the pack laid on its end, on Genius's old desk, twisting the top two bottles. Then I heard a weird noise.
I'm kind of jumpy in the basement late at night in the semi-darkness. I tried to tell myself that it was just the rustling of the plastic Devil's Playground bags kind of strewn around the desk. I'm a slob. And a chicken. What if it was a critter walking around under the plastic bags? Maybe a millipede! I hate those things, and we've found three of them in the basement over the years. Or what about a mouse? We've had two of those. They're not as scary. Surely it wasn't a snake!
I stopped what I was doing to listen. To see if the noise continued. Maybe I was just hitting those bags with the edge of the bottles. Nope. The noise kept on. Kind of a hiss. Then I felt it! Wetness! On my left hand! What in the Not-Heaven? What was--
OH!
One of the 20 oz bottles had sprung a leak! I thought the lid was not on right. That it was coming loose, and the shaking of the bottle as I twisted had made it foam. I wrenched that left bottle free, and rushed to the NASCAR bathroom. Of course my elbow would not flip the light switch on. A NASCAR basement in the interior of a dark basement lair with no windows is black as night at 11:30 p.m.
I finally dropped the bottle in the sink, and got the light on by using my forearm. Sweet Gummi Mary! The lid on that bottle was fine. But there was a pinhole near the top that was spraying my precious magical elixir. I tried to recreate the sight for you.
Of course, this was the next morning, on a dreary day, on the back porch instead of the NASCAR bathroom, using water instead of Diet Coke. The slightest pressure sent the water squirting out that pinhole. And this was sink water from our well, not even carbonated!
I'd cleaned up the Diet Cokey mess the night before, and the only thing slightly damaged was two sheets of Genius's special resume paper. I don't think he's going to be needing it, since he has signed a contract and starts a real job on January 8. The worst damage was to my tender psyche, seeing my precious magical elixir swirling down the drain.
I cry shenanigans! I think somebody must have sabotaged my soda! I've never had a bottle develop a pinhole like that.
The Universe sure is a practical jokester.
________________________________________________________________________
*Looks like you only get 16.9 ounces in a 20 oz bottle these days!
________________________________________________________________________
Monday night, around 11:30, I left my dark basement lair and entered the dark basement. I have two lamps over by my OPC (Old People Chair). I walked over to the other side of the stairs, where the lamp light barely reaches, and wrestled two 20 oz bottles of Diet Coke from that plastic six-pack thingy, to put in the basement mini fridge. I try to keep three cold ones in there, lest I forget to replace them as I used them. Usually, a good twist or two in opposite directions from each other will free the bottles from the holder.
I was having a little trouble, that new six-pack I'd bought only that day at The Devil's Playground seeming exceedingly tight. I had the pack laid on its end, on Genius's old desk, twisting the top two bottles. Then I heard a weird noise.
I'm kind of jumpy in the basement late at night in the semi-darkness. I tried to tell myself that it was just the rustling of the plastic Devil's Playground bags kind of strewn around the desk. I'm a slob. And a chicken. What if it was a critter walking around under the plastic bags? Maybe a millipede! I hate those things, and we've found three of them in the basement over the years. Or what about a mouse? We've had two of those. They're not as scary. Surely it wasn't a snake!
I stopped what I was doing to listen. To see if the noise continued. Maybe I was just hitting those bags with the edge of the bottles. Nope. The noise kept on. Kind of a hiss. Then I felt it! Wetness! On my left hand! What in the Not-Heaven? What was--
OH!
One of the 20 oz bottles had sprung a leak! I thought the lid was not on right. That it was coming loose, and the shaking of the bottle as I twisted had made it foam. I wrenched that left bottle free, and rushed to the NASCAR bathroom. Of course my elbow would not flip the light switch on. A NASCAR basement in the interior of a dark basement lair with no windows is black as night at 11:30 p.m.
I finally dropped the bottle in the sink, and got the light on by using my forearm. Sweet Gummi Mary! The lid on that bottle was fine. But there was a pinhole near the top that was spraying my precious magical elixir. I tried to recreate the sight for you.
I'd cleaned up the Diet Cokey mess the night before, and the only thing slightly damaged was two sheets of Genius's special resume paper. I don't think he's going to be needing it, since he has signed a contract and starts a real job on January 8. The worst damage was to my tender psyche, seeing my precious magical elixir swirling down the drain.
I cry shenanigans! I think somebody must have sabotaged my soda! I've never had a bottle develop a pinhole like that.
The Universe sure is a practical jokester.
________________________________________________________________________
*Looks like you only get 16.9 ounces in a 20 oz bottle these days!
________________________________________________________________________
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
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.
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.
Monday, November 6, 2017
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 thisvice 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.
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
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.
Sunday, November 5, 2017
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.
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.
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