The Devil Is Out

Sweet Gummi Mary! The Devil's Playground was especially devilish today, and it's not even a Friday on the first weekend of the month.

My saga started when I stopped by Waterside Mart for a scratcher. I was about 1/3 done with my errands, having already been to the bank, and on the way to get gas in T-Hoe, pick up more Chex Mix supplies at The Devil's Playground, and make a final stop for my 44 oz Diet Coke at the gas station chicken store. I figured that I would simply buy my ticket and go on about my business, it being too soon to use Waterside Mart's facilities. I'd just go in The Devil's Playground before checking out. That would be about 2/3 done with my journey.

Off I went a-shoppin'. The Devil wasn't too busy today. I saw a flock of birds feasting on the parking lot. I think their entree was in a McDonald's bag. When I parked, there must have been 15 birdies swarming that bag. Traffic out of the parking lot kept scattering them, though. So my picture was less than impressive.

One brave birdie returned.

He called for a lookout.

Kept seeking sustenance when the lookout flew the coop.

And finally ventured INSIDE the bag.

Good thing a car didn't drive over the main course right then, what with Birdie having no lookout.

Anyhoo...back inside, I had finished up my grocery segment, loaded up on toilet paper and paper towels (the boys are coming home for the holidays, you know), and was headed for the pharmacy area for some soap. I'd planned my progress to take me by the back of the store, where the restrooms are. I parked my full cart and turned the corner by the lay-a-way desk, and saw an old gal in a Devil's smock LOCKING THE DOOR TO THE WOMEN'S ROOM! A young gal in a Devil's smock had just exited. The door had a laminated sign saying OUT OF SERVICE on it.

As I stood there, inwardly screaming "NO!" I heard the Old Gal speak into a little clip-on shoulder thingy like cops wear on TV. "I'm going to need Maintenance at the women's room in the back of the store. There's been a issue. We have a mess to clean up."

Great. Now I had to walk to the front set of restrooms. I changed course and made a beeline to the register area, cutting through little girl clothing in racks too close together, and then through women's clothing, same spacing. I parked my cart in front of a rack of ugly stretch pants in medium blue, and a cross between coral and harvest orange. I figured nobody would want to look at that merchandise while I was away from my loaded cart/walker.

I cut through closed checkout #6, started for the restrooms, and saw OUT OF SERVICE on the door to the women's room. Ding dang dong it! No peeing for me! I went back to my cart, which was being shoved aside by a young mom with a babbling toddler in tow. That's how it goes. I went on to get my soap, then found a line with only two customers in it.

You know how that goes. Stuff was piled at the end of the register. Like a 24 pack of Tic-Tacs. Just stuff you knew nobody was buying, probably set there by the Devil's Handmaiden trying to stock shelves when not busy. I couldn't get my stuff out of my cart and on the conveyor without getting in front of the cart. It was awkward. As I had switched back to the push-bar end of my cart, taking things out of the child seat, the Devil's Handmaiden ran around and up the aisle, saying "I'll scan your soda."

Seriously. It's YOUR fault that I am still here trying to put out my stuff on your blocked conveyor. Otherwise I would have pushed that cart around the bag carousel so all you had to do was reach your scan gun over. Sheesh! Talk about over-eager.

You know what she did, right? That Handmaiden bagged my groceries out of the order I had set them on the conveyor. Separated my cold stuff so that it went in separate bags. Not together as I'd planned, so I could set it down in my Cardinals soft-side cooler in the back of T-Hoe. She did not bag my 5 boxes of Chex and Cheerios together. Only two boxes made it into the same bag. The other boxes each had an odd companion. One got a bag of rolls beside it. One got a bag of shredded Sharp Cheddar Cheese. One got a bag of brown sugar. You know. Just odd stuff that would tip the bag over, since the cereal wouldn't balance it.

THEN the Handmaiden decided she didn't like the looks of the leftover bagging choices, and rather than put a box of L'Oreal in with a bag that still had room, she walked around the bagging carousel and fished around in bags I'd already put in my cart as she spun the carousel, and dumped it in with a 12-pack of Irish Spring. Which I'd had it sitting next to on the conveyor.

I was not happy to realize that once in the parking lot, I'd have to sort through those bags for my cold stuff, and make up a new bag just for them. I STILL had to use the locked up bathrooms. I figured I'd just go back to Waterside Mart. They always have a clean facility, and I AM a regular customer. I was hoping I didn't get the jimmy-leg trying to hold it in.

Of course Riverside Mart had no parking spaces available except the ones way down at the opposite end from where I usually park, past the drive-thru exit and past the garbage dumpster and past the FREE water and FREE air hose.

Let the record show that I made it in time. No thanks to The Devil and his Playground shenanigans.

I Hate You For Bombing My Begging In Front Of Waterside Mart

Remember when Mrs. HM was complaining about those surly bell-ringers she's encountered this year? I know, I know...it's hard to remember, what with everything Mrs. HM writes being a complaint about something. But this was just a few days ago.

On Friday, there was a new surly bell-ringer at Waterside Mart. The weather was really brisk that day. I didn't even want to pull the trash dumpster back down the driveway, much less do my walk in the evening. This bell-ringer was perhaps in her mid-50s. She stood outside the door, clanking her bell intermittently, wrapped in a piece of cloth I can only describe as looking like the old purple fabric remnant that my former colleague, ParkingSpaceStealer, had used as a makeshift sling to stabilize The Pony's arm at Lower Basementia, the second time he fell at school and broke an elbow.

Surly Bell Ringer stared at me as I sat in T-Hoe in the last parking spot. I was not giving her anything. Not because of her demeanor, but because I can't donate every day at every store I go to. Besides, I needed small bills to pay for my imminent Terrible Cut, and I was NOT giving her a twenty.

A twenty counts the same as a dollar, you know. Because you have to fold a bill up to stuff it in the cauldron. And short of stretching it out and saying, "Here, I'm donating THIS," a dollar looks the same as a twenty. You won't get credit for a twenty. It would be like paying for a big salad, but then some Humpty Dumpty with a Melon Head hands it to the salad-orderer and gets credit for it instead of you. I know that the goodness comes from giving, not from getting credit, but that's how I am with bell-ringers.

Ding dang dong it! As I was paying $10 with a twenty for two scratchers, I turned to see that Surly Bell Ringer was now INSIDE the store! Standing by the door. Looking my way. I was afraid she was like that internet cat. If I looked away, and then back, would she be closer?

I put that ten from my change in my shirt pocket and turned to leave, and saw Surly Bell Ringer back outside by her cauldron. I walked past, not meeting her eye. When I got in T-Hoe, I wanted to take my money out and sort it, to have correct bills ready for my Terrible Cut and tip, and the other bills folded neatly in half to put back in my purse to give Farmer H to pay off HOS (his oldest son) for work on the Freight Container Garage this week.

That darn Surly Bell Ringer was looking right at me, her head all wrapped in a headscarf like a cat I once saw on mycathatesyou.com, with the caption, "I hate you for bombing my village in Croatia." (This link, thumbnail number 6)

Thank the Gummi Mary, a big white work pickup truck pulled in beside me and blocked most of my torso from Surly Bell Ringer's view.

Bell ringers. Not one of my favorite harbingers of Christmas.

I'm Older, And I Have More Phone Apps

On Thursday, what with my impending afternoon casino trip imminent...I decided that I was due for a haircut. Oh, I've been due for a haircut for a few weeks now. I just hate to get my hair cut. Not as bad as I hate getting my teeth inspected and/or worked on. But close.

Since I was pretty sure I was going to win a big jackpot and have my picture taken for the casino website, I figured this day was as good as any for that dreaded haircut. However, all my gallivanting about town looking for a dollar calculator had taken its toll on my time restrictions, and now I needed to forget the haircut or find a bathroom. Morning errands are not the first choice of old ladies taking blood pressure meds.

Lucky for me, Waterside Mart has a nice clean bathroom available to the public. Of course I bought two scratchers while I was there. It's not polite just to go into a business for the restroom, and not buy anything. Unlike the previous day, I did not find any free pennies on the floor, nor win anything on my scratchers. But the facilities were a good enough perk, even though there was a dodgy bell-ringer out front who needed dodging.

Once back to T-Hoe, I decided to use my check-in app with Terrible Cuts. My much-needed but much-abhorred haircut had been up in the air until I decided to make use of Waterside Mart's facilities. Now Terrible Cuts was only a couple miles down the road. Less than five minutes. I usually check in from home, and it takes me 20 minutes to get there. Anyhoo...I did the check-in and started on my way.

There were NO cars in the parking lot. That was great. Because even though the app told me the wait time was 0 MINUTES, sometimes customers are already being shorn when I arrive, and I become the next victim customer. I pulled up the steep rise of the blacktop parking lot by their door, and backed T-Hoe down into a space on the lower side, where it's more level, and easier to get T-Hoe's giant door open. As I was backing, a little gray pickup truck buzzed across in front of me, and parked by the door. Of course I grabbed my phone and hopped out. So did the old man in the truck.

I say he was an old man, but he was probably 5-10 years younger than me. Spryer. I had farther to walk. He stepped up on the sidewalk and beat me inside. As I entered, the Cutter was telling him she would be with him in a moment. I saw three names on the screen in front of the register. One was something like Vijay, then Hillbilly Mom, then Jim.

"Are you Hillbilly Mom? Did you check in?"

"Yes. That's me. I just checked in."

"Jim, it will be a few minutes. Two people are ahead of you. They checked in online."

Heh, heh. Take THAT, Jim, for thinking you could beat me in a footrace into the store. I was on the parking lot first. Even though you won the footrace, I won the battle.

Vijay must have checked in from home.

Mrs. HM Is A Cold, Calculating Digressor

Thursday I got an earlier start on my errands. I was out of bed by the crack of 8:10, and out of the house by 9:30. That's because I had places to go and things to do. Namely the casino, and gambling. Not at 9:30 in the morning, of course, though that IS a good time, because it's easier to get on the popular slots.

No, the casino was Farmer H's plan for later in the afternoon. He was trying to finish putting the metal roof on his new Freight Container Garage, with the help of HOS, his oldest son. When I left, he had HOS up on the roof already. The temperature was 27 degrees, and the wind blustery. I did not envy HOS his freelance work. Especially not with Farmer H being his boss. Farmer H was going to pay HOS for working with him this week, so I needed to withdraw some cash. Of course we pay HOS off the books, because we're not book people, and he's a relative who might just have done that work for free. That wouldn't have been right, though, for his three days of effort on top of a garage.

I also made two stops before I got to the bank, looking for a calculator. Nothing fancy. Just something to make sure I'm accurate when tallying up the grand total of our tax bills before sending the checks. Farmer H used to fancy himself a future land baron, and bought up delinquent properties on the courthouse steps. So we might owe $5.93 here, and $12.47 there, assorted amounts that I don't think warrant a separate check, when I can just cut one check for the real estate tax total. Sure, I COULD use my computer's calculator. But it gets clunky trying to carry New Delly around with me, and Shiba has no mouse, only that touch pad thingy, which I find cumbersome. Technology is not my friend. Don't be surprised if you see me enter the bank one day with an abacus strapped to my back.

Anyhoo...Dollar Tree did not have one calculator in the whole store. I'm pretty sure I looked at every item in there. I went on to the bank, then stopped by The Dollar Store. They're not the same, you know. I found one in The Dollar Store. It cost TWO DOLLARS! Another case of bait and switch, methinks! Oh, and I used to have a calculator JUST LIKE IT that was my favorite! I used it for years (and years [and years]) while I was teaching. When I retired, it somehow got misplaced. I know I didn't leave it at Newmentia! It's here somewhere. But spending two dollars was easier than looking for it.

Ain't he a beauty? Seems like when I bought the original...it only cost a dollar.

Well, now that I stopped to smell the flowers took a hike down that pig trail had to brag about my purchase told you of my new calculator...I don't have enough time to get to the original point.

Funny how that happens...

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.