Baiting And Switching Mrs. Hillbilly Mom

The Devils Playground is up to its old shenanigans again. First I was baited with tasty Great Value Sugar Free Cherry Limeade. It's great when added to my daily 44 oz Diet Coke. Now that I've been fully hooked, and reeled in, it disappears! Smoother than a near-retirement magician losing a lady out of the audience.

I looked and looked for it on the powdered drink mix aisle. Where it was supposed to be was an empty box. All around it were flavors in plastic tube boxes that LOOKED like my magical elixir additive, but were not. They were other flavors in the same color scheme. Like Strawberry Kiwi.

WAIT A MINUTE!

Just to the left of that empty space was a new kind of plastic tube box. What's this?

It was my old friend, Great Value Sugar Free Cherry Limeade! In a newly-designed package! Mostly white, not red and green like cherries and limes.

Of course I bought it. Even though I still have a few of the old ones at home, because they were becoming harder to find, and I didn't want to go without. Of course I opened the new package when the old one ran out, because I COULD! It's not like my powdered drink mix will go bad and expire after two years! Not even Valentine chocolates do that! I hope.

So...the new Great Value Sugar Free Cherry Limeade has a bit of a different flavor. It tastes more lime-y and less cherry-y. That's my opinion, anyway.

It may have a psychological basis, what with the LIME being more pronounced than the CHERRY on the new package.

Farewell, Old Friend (At Some Point In The Near Future)

It's so hard to say goodbye to one who embraces you when you're down (in your dark basement lair). And accompanies you on your driveway walks, and is there to lend comfort as you sit in your OPC (Old People Chair) after midnight. Especially when you don't WANT to say goodbye. When the goodbye lingers longer than it should.

We've been together for years, my faithful companion and I. Even though some would say I've outgrown my companion, and it's time to move on, I say to them: "Just a cotton-pickin' minute! I'll say goodbye when I'm darn good and ready!"

Farmer H is one of those moving-on sayers. Only last night, he broached the subject. I had just come upstairs to warm up the cauldron pot of chili for supper. The weather has taken a cold turn, with a blustery wind blowing all day, and temperatures in the 40s. Perfect weather for chili. And for my faithful companion.

Of course a bit of misfortune befell us both as I set the chili pot on the stove. Nothing big. No chili was wasted. No one was hurt. But I decided it was time for my companion to wait for me in the living room. On the short couch. With Farmer H. And my companion was still waiting for me today, as I prepared to return to my dark basement lair.

Can you believe Farmer H told me to THROW MY FAITHFUL COMPANION AWAY?

I know, right? He's a hard-hearted son of a gun! As if a few worn spots are enough to revoke my love. AND, Farmer H only saw that one sleeve, the elbow, where the fabric is thin, and several holes have developed. Not the cuff that flaps like a gaping mouth, that had snagged on the auto-clean lever of the oven as I put down the pot of chili.

I love my comfy baby-blue sweatshirt. I know it's time for us to part. I even have a new one waiting in the wings.

Goodbyes are hard for me.

It's A Wonder I Haven't Poisoned Myself Yet

Remember the other day, when I was debating on whether to open up and eat that Valentine heart of presumably-once-delicious Whitman's Assorted Fine Chocolates with the BEST BY date two years past? I haven't done so yet. I'm still working on nightly rations of the cheesecake that I almost broke a tooth on that mysterious shell found inside.

I suppose it comes as no surprise that The Pony once howled for a piece of his chocolate chip granola bar that he squeezed too hard, a piece of which broke off and fell to the garage floor. We were on the way to school at the time. I think he was in kindergarten. Nothing would console him, even my offer to run back in the Mansion and get him another chocolate chip granola bar. No. The only thing that consoled him was me picking up that broken piece and handing it to him to eat while riding to school in his booster seat.

We're of hardy stock, we Hillbilly family members. Cast-iron stomachs. Except for that time Farmer H bought a TV dinner that was Linguine With Clam Sauce, and turned green, and was sick for three days.

Anyhoo...around noon, I made a pot of chili for supper. I've done it many times. I know how to make my chili. I daresay this is the most tasty batch to date, though Farmer H and I haven't eaten supper yet. I sampled it, and it was spectacular.

I was washing up the dishes, and wiping the kitchen counter. I'd already let the suds out of the sink. Tossed the paper towel away. All that stood between me and a clean kitchen was a spot there on the countertop where I'd opened up the cans of chili beans and other assorted beans and the diced tomatoes.

Huh. How did I miss that? It wasn't a very big spot. Smaller than a dime. Not circular. Kind of stretched out, like a chef does with fancy sauces on a huge plate just before serving a thimbleful of a gourmet entree.

I wiped up that little irregular spot with my thumb, and licked it. After all, I was sure it was just some of the liquid from the chili beans.

EEWWW!

That was NOT liquid from the chili beans. I have no idea WHAT it was! It tasted like rusty knife juice. Not that I make a habit of imbibing rusty knife juice. I have NO IDEA what I put in my mouth. That counter was clean when I started. It was just the cans, and the big bowl of 7 Layer Salad that I took out of FRIG II to scrape the last from into a bowl for my lunch, to wash the big bowl. And nothing about this rusty knife juice hinted at 7 Layer Salad (not the original from our Thanksgiving, but a new one I made this past weekend).

I think I'll survive until tomorrow. Maybe I need to open up that 2-year-old candy and see if it acts as an antidote.

Two Bones To Pick With The Devil

A while back, I complained about my new favorite lunch, the Chicken Bacon Ranch Pinwheels sold at The Devil's Playground deli department. Lately, their quality has declined. It's like they don't have personnel smart enough to roll up a pinwheel these days. I bemoaned my situation to Farmer H, and while sympathetic to my plight, he said that he guessed I'd just have to make my own. Since then, I've tried that, but mine aren't quite the same. Still, they're better than the latest couple of purchases.

One of the Devil's Handmaidens apparently thinks a pinwheel is a kind of sandwich! Because a most recent batch had very little meat, and very much tortilla. I suppose that's cheaper for The Devil. I think the packages are probably sold by weight. And I'm pretty certain The Devil injects his meat with water, too. That's why I buy my meat at Save A Lot. There is no suspiciously-separating fluid that is released when I cook it. Only juices which later solidify to grease. Not some bubbly suspension that separates.

Anyhoo...back to my pinwheels. I unroll them. Not for inspection purposes, but because sometimes I add a snippet of bacon, since The Devil goes pretty light on that ingredient in the Chicken Bacon Ranch Pinwheel. Then I roll it back, tearing off the segment of tortilla that is redundant, leaving only enough to cover the meat and cheese. I don't waste it! I eat it after the main pinwheel, with a side of an individual bag of BBQ chips.

LOOK at that sadness that passes for a Chicken Bacon Ranch Pinwheel at The Devil's Playground! Don't get me started on that limp scrap of lettuce, and the absent bacon. That pinwheel-builder put the main course right in the middle. NO! It belongs at one end, and is then rolled into a pinwheel configuration. This one was plopped in the middle, and COVERED with another tortilla! Just how much tortilla does a Chicken Bacon Ranch Pinwheel need, anyway? This is a disgrace!

Oh, and TODAY when I looked on the shelf for my Chicken Bacon Ranch Pinwheel (always the eternal optimist, our Mrs. Hillbilly Mom), I saw that there were three of them. Eager to nab them as my own, I reached out to check the date, and noticed that rather than the shelf-labeled price of $2.98, each individual package bore a price of $5.98! That's dirty pool! Bait and switch! False advertising!

Being newly assertive thanks to my blog buddies buoying my confidence, I took one over to the deli counter and waved it under the nose of two Millennials working there.

"Why is your shelf labeling the price of these pinwheels as $2.98, and the package saying they are $5.98?" A logical question, I assumed.

"Huh. Maybe they're just in the wrong place." Said the only one of the two Millennials who deigned to answer.

"They're in the same place they've been for months." I wasn't falling for that tactic. Yet that Millennial gave no further response, but walked off, my question having ruined his repartee with his fellow Millennial, I suppose, who busied himself straightening the hot food rather than make eye contact with Crazy Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

You'd think he might have added that he'd go check on it. Or called a manager over. Or at least walked out to see what I was talking about. I marched right back over to the shelf and put the pinwheel back. No way was I going to buy something they were trying to trick me into!

I also complained to the Devil's Handmaiden at the checkout when she asked me if I found everything.

"No. And I don't even remember what, but there were several things. What's on my mind, though, is the fact that the pinwheels in the deli were on a shelf marked, $2.98, but they were labeled $5.98. So I put them back."

The Devil's Handmaiden pretended to be interested in my answer, but mainly just tut-tutted and continued ringing up my stuff and turning her carousel the wrong way so I couldn't grab them and put them in my cart until after she had already given my total and was awaiting payment.

It this treatment continues, I might just work up courage to ask for a manager. The Devil shall possibly, in time, rue the day that Mrs. HM retired.

I'm Okay With Going Giftless. Really.

Santa needs to get it in gear! Christmas is just around the corner, and his bag is empty.

I have a list in my head. Not so much in my head, as corners of pages folded down in some mail-order catalogs. And an email from Genius with a wish list. That came in about an hour ago. And my catalog browsing was done last night this morning around 2:30 a.m. I had planned on shopping from my old rolly chair in front of New Delly in my dark basement lair this afternoon. But Farmer H has sent me a text from his Storage Container Store asking if I want to head to the casino around 3:30. NOT-HEAVEN YES!

I guess Farmer H is feeling like increasing his newfound junk earnings. He's been making a lot of little profits. He said he bought a bicycle at the auction last night for $5, and sold it this morning at his SCS (Storage Container Store) for $10. I daresay that's better than I will do with my gambling stake at the casino. I DID win $70 yesterday on scratchers, though, for my $25 of winners cashed in. So we're both in pretty good shape to wager.

OH, NO! I just saw a commercial for a Sock Slider! SWEET GUMMI MARY! Please don't let Farmer H and the boys get me this for Christmas! I'll gladly take another $3 change purse and two boxes of Sno-Caps if they'll not gift me with this contraption!

I was disappointed when they gave me the Old People Chair. That this would be the beginning of the end. I must say, I'm still kickin', and I DO enjoy a heated nap in my OPC every evening. But I must draw the line at this Sock Slider.

Shh...don't tell them it exists.

These Beggars Are Really Ringing My Bell

'Tis the season of donating to the less fortunate.

Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not mind donating. She DOES mind being coerced or shamed into donating. She prefers to donate in her own manner, in her own sweet time, whether it be through the workplace collection as in pre-retirement years past, or funding Farmer H's Santa sack so it can magically fill with toys, or helping neighbors who can't make ends meet, or wiping the payments for the $1000 Caravan right off the imaginary books for Farmer H's co-worker who bought it from us several years back. Giving does not have to be confined to the holiday season.

I know that bell-ringers are donating their time to do a charitable task. That THEY are not the ones who benefit from donations. Let them set up their cauldron out front of businesses, and ring that bell to their heart's content. Ring it 'til the cows come home. But when those cows arrive, at least make way for them to enter the home.

Today I entered four businesses. Two of them required me to run hobble a gauntlet to reach the door. I don't know when people started bringing their children to ring the bell with them. I suppose maybe they can take up more room that way, to keep you from the door. Or necessitate you asking permission to skootch by, thus initiating a dialog and eye contact, making you riper for the begging. Perhaps some of the more thin-skinned customers feel shame when one of the children huffs, or gives the stinkeye, or flat out makes a comment about not-giving. Not this ol' gal! I am not a child-hater, but I don't think I would feel any guilt if a bell-ringer child stumbled under my feet and was trod upon by the waffle-soled hiking boots that I used to wear in the snow.

Today's bell-ringers act put-out to be bell ringing. They should not have volunteered, then. Do THEY always donate when they encounter other bell-ringers ringing their bells? It's not like you get a Buddy Poppy to twirl in the face of future Buddy Poppy sellers like my mom used to do, because she felt guilty about not donating to every person who asked.

Just sayin'. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not a curmudgeonly miser who pinches her pennies until they squeal. Okay. She IS a curmudgeon. And she DOES keep her pennies. But she does her fair share of donating in her own oddball manner.

Give her passage to the door.

I'm Pretty Sure Goldilocks Could Give Me Some Good Advice

You know how I was going to straighten up my dark basement lair last night? Okay, not so much straighten up, as throw away those three Valentine candy boxes that were sitting on the slide-out shelf of my old gray office desk? You're not going to believe this...

Here they are. The three boxes. I wonder what Goldilocks would have to say, if she broke into the Mansion and started snooping around my dark basement lair?

"Look! Valentine candy boxes! This one is TOO PLAIN!"

"This one is TOO FANCY!"

"But this one is...OOHHH EEMMM GGEEE! THIS ONE IS FULL OF CANDY!"

That's right. I picked up the boxes to throw them away, and the top one was suspiciously heavy! Further investigation revealed that the box was unopened! It was full of candy! I'd been sitting in my office with a FULL BOX OF CANDY behind me! Sweet Gummi Mary! What is the world coming too? Here I was, making wise choices, and I didn't even eat my Valentine candy!

For two years. Look at the BEST BY date on this box:

Can you believe it? I'm pretty sure that box was from 2015. Otherwise the date wouldn't have been so close to that year's Valentine's Day. That's the year I started making wise choices at the beginning of February. And that's the year my mom died, in early February, and things were kind of in flux for a while. So it's easy to see how stuff like Valentine candy could fall by the wayside. Or at least be set on the pull-out shelf of my old gray office desk and overlooked.

FOR TWO YEARS!

Is that not a bigger dark basement lair faux pas than having a critter roaming around in the clutter, or having a tower of that clutter topple over unexplainedly? To leave CANDY, brand-name, Whitman's Sampler, fine CHOCOLATE candy UNEATEN for TWO YEARS?

I am not an expert on chocolate. I do know that when Farmer H and I, and the boys, used to take a vacation to Branson every year with my mom and dad, we would stop in Lebanon (Missouri!) at the Russell Stover candy outlet. And when we bought candy, it was always past the BEST BY date. That's what a candy outlet does, you know. Sells candy for cheap because it's past the date. I think they even had signs saying that the candy was perfectly edible, but that chocolate sometimes turns a whitish color when it's past the BEST BY date. Thought it's still perfectly edible! I don't even remember seeing a discoloration on the treats we bought.

Do you think it's safe to eat? You know, one piece every now and then? Once the Thanksgiving replacement cheesecake is gone?

Not gonna lie. I'm thinking about it. I don't think I'll die if I eat it. And I don't think I'll die if I don't. After all...I've been able to leave it untouched for two years...