Gifted Beets, Very Pretty

Gifted beets, very pretty, and the thought behind it was sweet
But the stuff that it's made of...well...that'll still taste like a beet
Gifted beets, very pretty, and the thought behind it was sweet
But the stuff that it's made of...well...that'll still taste like a beet.

See there? Mrs. Hillbilly Mom coulda been a songwriter back in the day! Maybe in a trio called Peter, Paul, and The Little Future Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

Farmer H played Santa a couple weekends ago, and the lady in charge gave him a gift. Two gifts, but we'll get to the other one maybe tomorrow. Anyhoo...Farmer H came in with this:

He actually had to go by her house and pick it up. Sounds kind of fishy to me, but then, this is real life, and not some 60s TV sitcom, or a wacky 70s romantic comedy. So I'm sure her motives were pure. Her daughter was one of Santa's visitors. I don't think she needs a new daddy.

Anyhoo...it's a small jar, and quite photogenic. A nice gift. Handmade. It's the thought that counts. It's not Chex Mix, though. Everybody likes Chex Mix. Beets? Not so much. I confess that a beet has never crossed my lips. And I don't plan on it ever happening. Farmer H says that he doesn't like beets. But that he might try one. He's really more interested in the jar. It might surprise you to hear that he COLLECTS Ball jars!

Maybe Genius and his Friend would like to try one at Christmas dinner. I'm pretty sure The Pony won't.

At least I got a Christmassy colorful picture to share with you, if nothing else.

Merry Christmas, from Mrs. HM and Santa and his beets!

Dog Faze Afternoon

As if we don't have enough trouble getting packages delivered to the Mansion...now we have the neighbor dog Copper Jack staked out at the driveway, just begging FedEx to make his day.

Yes. He looks intimidating. And sounds even more so. What do you do with a dog that's not even yours? Can't tie him up. Not that we would feel wrong about it. We can't catch him! He spends all his time over here, yet skitters away if you reach for him, even in a petting mood. Well, except when he decides to snap at you. Which he has done to me TWICE, when I was giving him some cat kibble! I know Copper Jack could rip my arm off if he wanted. So I guess he was just warning me to...um...not give him cat kibble? He sure enjoys dashing over to scarf it up once I take a step back.

Anyhoo...Farmer had caught the FedEx driver (heh, heh, sounds like he set up a wooden box with a stick and pulled it out on a string to trap him, or put salt on his tail) a week or so ago while he was parking the Gator, and told him not to leave packages on the porch or on top of the dumpster, but to put them in the back of the Gator, which would be parked right there beside the garage.

They had quite the discussion, apparently, with the kid (not the man who's afraid of dogs and like to throw out the packages in the yard rather than put them in the garage like we used to request). The kid said, "Oh, so you just don't want them on the ground?" and Farmer H said, "No, the dogs chew them up," and reminded him of the Buffalo skin RFID wallet incident last year when Puppy Jack ate about a third of it and FedEx said it wasn't their fault for leaning a white envelope containing it up against our front door.

"So...I could put it on that barbecue grill you have up on the back porch?" Which is a lot more work and dog-dodging than stepping out of a truck and laying it in the back of a Gator.

"Sure. Just so it's up off the ground."

Anyhoo...we had business down in College Town with Genius last Friday, and we got home shortly after dark. As we waited for the garage door to open, I glanced over at the Gator and said, "Looks like we have a package. I wonder why he balanced it on the corner like that? WAIT! There's another one on the ground!"

"You'd better go check it. Them dogs probably been at it. I guess the wind blew it off."

The box on the ground was not small. It was about the size a toaster-oven. Not very heavy. I picked it up and put it on the bigger box still balanced on the corner of the Gator bed, and Farmer H carried them in. When I went to slice that box open later to wrap the presents inside, I noticed that one corner of the top flap had been eaten. Not just chewed. A section of cardboard was gone, with a ragged edge.

"Huh. Those dogs DID get ahold of this package! I wonder which one."

"Probably Jack!"

"It's kind of big for him. What if Copper Jack knocked it off on purpose? He's tall enough to reach it, but our little Jack isn't."

"Well, one of them did. It's a good thing we got home when we did."

Yeah. On Wednesday, I was getting ready to unload stuff from T-Hoe, with the garage door up, and UPS came down the driveway. I went out to meet them, and wait for them to hand me the packages. We don't have the lady driver who threw dog biscuits any more. Our dogs LOVED her! She'd carry the boxes up on the back porch, give two knocks on the kitchen door, and then set them on top of Juno's dog house. While tossing dog biscuits to each dog on her way there and back. I guess she retired. Now we have some guy, and he had a young gal helping him. I took the boxes and told them the Gator-drop-off plan, and they acted like they understood.

I also apologized for Copper Jack, who was barking his fool head off. "That's not even our dog. I'm not sure what to do about him, but he's here all the time." Just so...you know...if he rips a leg off, they can't sue our insurance company for their blood transfusion and prosthesis costs.

I think maybe they should invest in some dog biscuits. Surely that would be tax deductible.

Not Exactly A Symbol Of The End

Well. Funny I should lead with a picture of a misbegotten Oreo yesterday. Today I have another picture of an Oreo. Or NOT!

I made another Oreo cake today, for personal use at Christmas dinner. I can only make so many things at once in my oven, you know. Once I was done, having constructed the *saddest Oreo cake ever, I had three Oreo halves left. They were on a paper plate that I put beside the sink, on top of the aluminum cake pans that I would wash later. I draw the line at three sinks of dishes a day. I thought maybe The Pony or even Farmer H might want the cookie halves. I am not an Oreo fan.

After straightening up, and making a run to town for YOU KNOW WHAT, I came home to find more problems to deal with. Finally, I had time to sit down to my lunch at 4:00. I came upstairs at 6:15 to get supper for The Pony and Farmer H. Imagine my surprise to see this:

Farmer H was out in the garage, bringing in some cheapo gifts that we pass around at my sister the ex-mayor's wife at her Christmas Eve party. When he came in, I began my interrogation.

"What's this?"

"I don't know."

"Wasn't there something on there?"

"Oh. Two cookies. I ate them."

"Didn't it occur to you that maybe you should throw away the empty plate?"

"No."

Exactly. He can't even feel guilty, because the thought never occurred to him.

Not exactly a sign of the impending apopadopalyspe. More like status quo around the Mansion.
___________________________________________________________________

*It baked with a hump in the middle of one layer, then cracked when cooling. I had to invert it so the crack was on the bottom, and the hump on top. Then when I put the other layer on top, it didn't fit flush, but at least I'd planned on that, and put extra icing around the edges between the layers. Then when I put the icing around the sides of the cake, it looked all skewed and tilty. I'm sure it will taste just as good as always, though. For those who eat it.

Circle The Handbaskets, The End Is Nigh

I really must renew efforts to surge forward with construction of my proposed handbasket factory. I'm hoping I can tear Farmer H away from his Freight Container Garage to supervise my own project.

Signs are evident that THE END of Hillmomban civilization as we know it is on the horizon.

See that? It's a sign! A sign, I tell you, of the impending Hillmomba apopadopalyspe!

I discovered this sign yesterday, as I was making two Oreo cakes. I give them to HOS and The Veteran for Christmas every year. One minute I was cutting Oreos in half, to use around the base of the cake, and as decoration on top...and the next, my bleak future slapped me in the face.

Can we not even churn out proper Oreos any more?

He Rode Through The Alley With A Mom With No Name

Sometimes, I admit that your very own Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is as clueless as Farmer H. That in fact, on occasion, she puts the very "I" in IMBECILE. The first "I" not the second one. She's not a two-"I"ed imbecile.

Wednesday, The Pony and I went to our bank branch to set a password for his credit card account. In building credit, I figure me might as well get used to online banking. It's all the rage with those hep cats in college, I hear, when they're not stuffing themselves into phone booths and swallowing goldfish. Right now, we are having his statement mailed home, to make sure it gets paid on time, and actually build credit, not destroy it. I had to be on the account as well as him, in order to get him his first credit card. Anyhoo...that's neither (heh, heh, I first typed neighther, get it, for The PONY) here nor there, because his bill will be paid on time, but he still needs to be able to check on it online.

Problem is, the online banking won't let him in. He has also forgotten the PIN for his regular bank account, which he never uses, instead operating out of a credit union account at his college. So we had two problems on two accounts. A PIN and a password. Silly me. I thought we could just waltz in there (wouldn't THAT be a festive sight to see) and take care of it toot sweet.

The teller tried to help us, but couldn't. She called someone else, who said we would have to sit down and wait for a desk discussion. It didn't take long. That Gal was having trouble as well. She asked for The Pony's debit card on his regular account, and said how much she liked that style of card, but that it was discontinued. She also mentioned that her first name was the same as mine, and spelled the same way.

THEN, after trying five minutes to get into his account to reset the PIN, discovered that the account had been made inactive, due to...um...inactivity. True. We don't deposit or withdraw from it. But a fee comes out each month for a paper statement. Apparently that is fine, but doesn't make the account active. It's good enough for the bank to TAKE money from, but not good enough to leave open so The Pony can use it in an emergency. Sweet Gummi Mary! That's kind of like the rental car people TAKING a reservation, but not HOLDING a reservation.

Anyhoo...after about 20 minutes of fiddling, That Gal discovered that The Pony couldn't set up his online banking for the credit card because the credit card was linked to his regular account...which was inactive! The solution? Make a withdrawal or deposit, as little as $1, to reactivate the account, and then come back tomorrow and ask for That Gal.

"What was your name again?"

"Oh. Here. I'll give you my card."

I gave her some cash to deposit, we thanked her, and left. As I was headed out the back alley behind the bank, to get to a more left-turn-friendly exit, I told The Pony

"I'm glad she gave us her card. I would have had no idea who to ask for, and we might have got stuck trying to explain all that again."

"Uh. Her first name is exactly the same as yours. She told you that."

"NOOOO! Now I look like the biggest idiot ever! I asked her for her name again. WHICH IS THE SAME AS MINE! I'm so stupid!"

"Shall we never speak of this again, Mother?"

"We shall not! I'll never live it down! No wonder she looked at me like that. DUH! I can't believe I did that."

"You don't have to explain it to me. I'm pickin' up what you're layin' down. And to your credit, I think they actually called her something else when they went to get her. Like Katie. Not your actual name."

"Well. There's that."

Oops! It Happened Again

Apparently, Mrs. HM's luck is like an unsecured WiFi network. Anybody can just log on to it and have their way with winning.

I present to you the latest evidence of this phenomenon:

Today on our errands, I made the first stop to buy some scratchers as Christmas presents. I want to get them on different days, you know, and at different places. This was the Casey's out by the bank, which I've only been back to once since that crazy donut man flipped out.

I came out with five assorted tickets. The Pony had asked if I would get him one before I went in, and he did not specify a certain game. As with yesterday, I told him he could pick one. Yesterday, he had a loser, a Black and Gold with the second chance on the back. Today, he picked this one right away.

"Oh. It's the kind you like. Would you rather have it?"

"No. I'm only taking two of the five-dollar tickets. I'll pick later, after I cash in my winners from yesterday, and buy some bigger tickets. I'll look at what I get today, and their numbers, and buy two of them back from my winnings." Gotta keep the Christmas money separate from my gambling fund, of course. Not because I'm that altruistic, but because it might affect my luck!

The Pony started scratching right away. "Oh! I have a winner. Looks like just one number matched. Let's see what I've got."

Before I could stop him, The Pony had revealed the 20X multiplier. I like to scratch the amount first, and then the multiplier. Not that it matters.

"Huh! I've got 20 times something!" And he revealed the $5.00 prize area. "A HUNDRED DOLLARS! I just won A HUNDRED DOLLARS!" He immediately took a picture to send his Oklahoma friends.

Yes. I was excited for The Pony. Even though it's the second $100 winner to slip through my fingers this week. At least we're keeping it in the family.

Glommers Gonna Glom

Seems like only yesterday (that's 'cause it WAS) that Mrs. HM was bragging about sharing her good luck streak with the Blogosphere.

Uh huh. Nobody enjoys streaking more than Mrs. HM. Now don't go all gutter-minded retro, picturing the streaking fad so popular back when The Future Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was in high school. No siree, Bob! It wasn't TFMHM (The Future Mrs. Hillbilly Mom) who had her picture in the yearbook, caught in the main hallway on the first floor, right outside the principal's office, with no clothes and only a large industrial gray plastic trash can to cover her privates! Nope! That was BMOC Fred J. Who may or may not have had on a skimpy pair of those running shorts with the colored piping.

No. We're talking about a streak of winning $100 lottery tickets. The ones which I used to send a picture of to my sister the ex-mayor's wife, until she sent me a text asking why I kept sending her pictures of my $100 winners. And not just in a curious way. So I stopped. Okay. So the reason might have been that I had quit winning $100 on my scratcher tickets. Almost as if Sis had put the kibosh on my lucky streak.

Last week, Sis asked me on the phone why she never got those winning pictures any more. After a short discussion, in which I told her that she was bad ju-ju for my lucky streak, Sis laughed and said she hadn't meant anything by that comment, and that she didn't care if I sent the pictures. Well! As luck (MY GOOD LUCK STREAK) would have it, the very next day is when I hit that $100 winner that I showed yesterday, and the two subsequent $100 winners that same week. It was as if The Curse of the Ex-Mayor's Wife had been lifted! You can bet I sent her pictures of my winners. It's her own fault. She's a regular Sister Frankenstein, creating this winner-texting monster.

Anyhoo...you might also recall that Farmer H had a good win on tickets I got him on our trip to Genius's graduation. I accused him of stealing my luck.

FORESHADOWING ALERT!!!

Since Monday was Farmer H's birthday, I took one of the scratcher tickets I'd bought that day, and tucked it into his birthday card. He got other presents. Not even a $3 pink change purse and a box of Sno-Caps. Collectible presents like an old beer bottle and a unique can that even still has the beer in it, and some wood chips from a Jim Beam whiskey barrel. Stuff he likes. Stuff he already has themed sheds or a BARn dedicated for.

Anyhoo...The Pony and I were running around, renewing his driver's license, visiting the bank, looking for Christmas Eve party prizes, picking up Chinese for lunch, and stopping at various convenience stores to amass some of the scratchers that I include as gifts for HOS and The Veteran and Sis's families. You don't want to get them all at the same place off the same roll on the same day. No. You need a variety.

Of course I had several tickets coming my own way, having cashed in some ongoing winners. I took the stack of tickets, pulled out a few that caught my fancy, and put the others in a envelope to apportion on Friday when I get the gifts ready. I looked at my tickets, and thought, "I should give one of these to Farmer H for his birthday. Hmm...which one? Which kind does he ask for when I buy him one? Okay. I have two of those. OH LOOK! That ticket number is 18. That's his birthdate! I'm giving that one to Farmer H."

You know what happened, right?

Uh huh. Farmer H was scratching his ticket, bemoaning that fact that he never wins, when he said, "What's that? I have a winnell." The Pony and I, sitting side by side on the short couch, gave each other the side-eye.

"You got a WHAT?"

"What do you need to win on this?"

"Match the symbols, or get a candy cane, or a snowman." The Pony has only scratched one of these, and even he remembers.

"Oh. I thought it was a Santa head."

"No. Not on this one."

"I think maybe I got a snowman."

"Probably a gingerbread man. They do that so you think you win."

"Yeah. And it doesn't have an amount under it. It just says winnell."

"What in the world is--YOU HAVE A WIN ALL!"

"Huh?"

"You won all the prizes, Dad."

"I did?"

"Here. I'll help. Scratch them off."

Yes. I had that ticket right in my hand. My good luck streak still going strong. Had that ticket right in my stack of personal tickets, ready to scratch, when I decided to give it to Farmer H.

I don't really begrudge him a $100 win on his birthday. Just so long as he realizes he has glommed onto my luck, and is now winning like nobody's business.