Is It About To Freeze Over, Or Is The Requested Ice Water Melting?

Monday, I rushed over to The Devil's Playground because I was out of Chicken Bacon Ranch Pinwheels. Actually, The Devil was out on my previous trip, and I'd just run out of two Turkey and Cheese Pinwheels.

Just my luck, I rounded the corner into the deli area, and there was a woman with a full cart, and a teenage girl. I really think she should have been in school! Because then she wouldn't have been able to pick up the last container of Turkey and Cheese Pinwheels, and wheedle her mother's permission to put it in the cart. Leaving only about a dozen Italian Style Pinwheels. Which nobody likes. Nobody. That's why they are always left on the shelf.

I swear, if I was in charge of The Devil's deli, I would stock three times as many Chicken Bacon Ranch Pinwheels, the same Turkey and Cheese as they stock now, and do away with the Italian Style. But that's just me. I don't presume to be The Devil.

Good thing, too! Because when I had pulled up outside, it looked like The Devil had his hands full today.

Is it ironic, perhaps, that I call this place The Devil's Playground, and the service man there helping to resolve the situation is driving a truck with LORD on the side? Heh, heh. That amused me.

I think the source of the flooding was on the wall there, behind those carts. It looked like some kind of spigot. Maybe for washing carts, or for the fire department to hook up to in case of a conflagration.

Not my problem, since I'm not The Devil.

Sometimes, I Wish They Were REAL Crocs

The other night, I was standing in the kitchen making supper for Farmer H, who was kicked back in the La-Z-Boy, watching reruns of MASH. All at once, Farmer H cranked the La-Z-Boy forward and exclaimed,

"I forgot my lottery ticket!"

He buys one every now and then, and sticks it up on the visor of his TrailBlazer. Then when I sit down to discuss my day's winnings (hopefully!) with him, he remembers. This time, I had no winners, and hadn't even mentioned the subject. But Farmer H suddenly remembered his ticket, and had to go outside RIGHT THEN to get it. He was like a cat who can be lazily twitching his tail, chilling on the carpet, and suddenly realizes HE NEEDS TO BE IN ANOTHER ROOM INSTANTANEOUSLY, and tears out of there like a car rounding a corner on two wheels.

Farmer H was delayed momentarily, though. He was just entering the kitchen when he hesitated.

"Huh. I need some shoes."

He went back to the living room, to his collection of three pairs sitting by the fake electric fireplace, just in front of the La-Z-Boy. I don't know what he'd been thinking when he came to the kitchen barefoot, on his way out the door to his Trailblazer parked in gravel. OH YES I DO!

It was not lost on me that Farmer H was right beside the living room bookcase, against the wall where the kitchen starts, when he had that revelation about needing shoes. That's where I park my Crocs. Except I was wearing them on my feet at that moment. Not my old red Crocs, all worn down and misshapen, that I wear all the time around the house. No. My newest Crocs. Which makes them about 6 years old, I think, since I got my mom a pair at the same time, and she's been gone three years now. These Crocs are dark blue. Not even broken in yet!

That's right! Farmer H was planning to wear my newest Crocs out to his car. Which he apparently does all the time, since without even thinking, he bypassed his own shoes, and went straight to the location of mine. Dang it! I don't want Farmer H's stubby bare feet, with the (formerly broken) big toe that doesn't bend, inside my newest Crocs! Call me selfish, but I think some things are personal, my shoes being one.

Uh huh. You know how I hate feet. And here was privileged Farmer H, with $1000 inserts from The Good Feet Store, still wanting to horn in on my $9.99 Crocs that I got off Amazon. When he came back in the Mansion, I let him have it. And I don't mean my newest pair of Crocs!

"You've been wearing my Crocs, haven't you? I KNEW IT! I don't want your feet in there! Your bare feet, all moist and diseasey! Keep your feet out of my shoes!"

Seriously. He has HIS OWN pair of Crocs, which I bought for him, all camouflage and manly, but he's too lazy to walk 10 steps around the short couch to get to them when he goes through the house. Not to mention, they're RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM when he's sitting in the La-Z-Boy.

Here's a picture from the La-Z-Boy. My newest blue Crocs, awaiting my feet when I stand up, and Farmer H's camouflage Crocs. Plus a pair of his shoes that I think he stole out of The Pony's room.

I really wish he had bigger feet, which would keep him out of my Crocs for sure. And while I'm wishing, I wish that they were REAL Crocs, that could bite him if he sticks his Farmer-H-y feet inside my newest Crocs.

Not to sever his feet, of course. He already sounds like he's walking on ankle-stumps from down in my lair. No, just to bite into his flesh. Maybe make him need a tetanus booster. Or give him a little infection requiring antibiotics and a short period of staying off his feet.

I'm pretty sure he wore them again two nights ago. I gave him the option to confess.

"I'm giving you ONE CHANCE to be honest with me. Have you been wearing my Crocs again?"

"No."

"Because they were messed up. The strap was down."

"Oh. I ran into them the other night. Maybe that did it."

I'm pretty sure he was lying. If they were REAL Crocs, I would see the telltale tooth marks.

These Buggers Are Getting Out Of Hand

I've had enough! People should not be accosted by buggers when trying to enter a business establishment!

I hesitate to call them "beggars," because they obviously are affiliated with a legitimate charity. They wear bright orange vests trimmed with yellow, and have a kind-of label hanging around their neck. It's not that I'm against their cause, which seems to be developmentally-delayed adults. I'm just not in a habit of tossing pocket change into receptacles in front of grocery stores and gas stations. I choose my charities, and donate on a bit of a larger scale, by personal check. So it's not guilt that makes me look unfavorably upon the buggers.

Friday, these people were bugging in front of 4 separate businesses that I entered. I call them "buggers," because they bug me. Even if I WAS a coin-tossing donator, how is the bugger in front of Waterside Mart supposed to know that I contributed money to the bugger in front of Orb K? Uh huh. They DON'T know that. I suppose I could have just said, "I gave at Orb K." But I didn't, because that would be a lie. When directly asked if I would like to donate, I just say, "Not today." Which is most certainly true.

I've got no problem with buggers setting up a table, or even standing off to the side. Perhaps with a sign in larger letters describing their charity. Then a person can walk over and donate at their leisure, without feeling pressured to give. Seeing them standing a couple inches from the entry make me not want to enter that establishment.

It bugs me.

You Can't Take The Teacher Out Of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom

Darn it! Now I'm in office supply mode! You know how some women get baby fever after holding a newborn? Not happenin' here! But mention office supplies, and that gets my heart thumping. Sweet, sweet office supplies! I love them! And blog buddy River mentioned them in her comment Thursday. That's what started me down this path. I'd resisted the urge when writing about Genius's clandestine hoarding tendencies. But reading about assorted supplies triggered me!

You can take Mrs. Hillbilly Mom out of teaching...but you can't take the teacher out of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! How may other people do you know who take a picture of their Swingline stapler...and KEEP IT! This was taken back in February of 2016. The year I retired! I loved that stapler. It was the best stapler ever! It's here somewhere, in my boxed-up supplies. I really need to dig him out.

You might also notice the 4 writing implements on the desk. Of course I needed 4 to get through the day. The red Pilot Rollerball Fine Point for grading papers (you can see it's almost empty). The red pen (not my favorite brand, but you work with what you've got) for writing test scores and absences in the gradebook, because the Pilot seeps through the page. The black pen for writing on official hall passes and other documents, and taking notes on stuff. And the mechanical pencil for writing daily scores in the gradebook. I LOVE the feel of a mechanical pencil's lead against paper!

I never loaned out my mechanical pencils. It was precious hard to find the style I like. This is close. I'm not a big fan of those cushion thingies on the end, but the lead itself, and the eraser, were good.

I also happen to have another picture I took of some new office supplies! This one was taken in March of 2017. About a year after retirement. I'm thinking that I needed a mechanical pencil and a cheap calculator for fiddling with taxes, since they are due by April 15th.

Of course Mrs. HM can't buy JUST ONE mechanical pencil. Or cheap calculator. Nope. I couldn't resist that pack of mechanical pencils. When am I going to need 50 pencils? Not even when I was teaching would I need that many pencils! That's two per year for 25 years!!! I have had mechanical pencils that lasted two years or more! At work!

Anyhoo...even though I had my fantastic Swingline stapler, and a couple lesser staplers around the Mansion...I really wanted this cute little PaperPro stapler. It was in my former school colors, too! And those little boxes...well...I don't know what I'll use them for. But they're sitting right here on my desk by New Delly.

My name is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, and I'm an officesupplyholic.

That Darn Jack!

You know I love my little mutt, (formerly known as Puppy) Jack. He's so energetic and happy that he lifts my spirits every time I see him. He's a furry tube of fun, my little half-dachshund half-heeler.

Yesterday, Jack went a little too far. He loves to put his front feet up on my shoulders, while I'm standing on the sidewalk by the side porch, on the way to the garage. I think he remembers his puppy days, when I'd pick him up and he'd climb on my shoulder like a red-spotted white fur stole, and burrow his head up under my lovely lady-mullet.

Well. We'd had heavy rains overnight. As I came around the porch corner, I saw Jack and Juno and Copper Jack frolicking in the front yard. They all stopped, looked at me, and took off at a run. Jack is the quickest. He rushed up on the side porch, hopeful for a petting before jealous Juno could shoulder him away from me.

I was on my way to town, in a solid-color pastel purple shirt. I stepped back from the edge, saying, "Jack! NO!" But it was too late. His muddy paws were already in motion as he reared up on his hind legs, looking for a shoulder-snuggle. I didn't want him to topple three feet down onto the concrete. So I didn't jump all the way back. I leaned back and swiveled at the waist.

Jack's paws caught my right shoulder (instead of the usual left) and boob area. Mostly the boob area. I had a black muddy swipe right over the boob area. That's not an attractive look. It was already after 1:00, and I didn't want to go back in and change. The muddy mark was maybe a an inch long, and as thick as a big fat pencil lead, like used by kindergarteners.

I gave the dogs their anticipated cat kibble, and left for town. I figured that if anybody asked, they wouldn't believe that my half-dachshund half-heeler had really jumped up on me and left a muddy paw swipe on my boob area.

Seriously. They don't hang low enough for that.

I'm Sure It Will Be Found Next To A Stash Of Scissors And Rulers

Like ships and planes in the Bermuda Triangle, scissors and rulers disappear in the Mansion. In fact, I can't think of a single ruler's location, other than my special 20-something-year-old MSTA ruler that I got for free, probably my first year of teaching. The only scissors I can find are in the kitchen silverware drawer.

Before you think that maybe Mrs. HM has simply misplaced a couple of office supplies over the course of her lifetime, let the record show that the Mansion was home to Genius and The Pony. Public school students who were bought school supplies each August. Those supplies always included a ruler and a pair of scissors. That's two boys. 12 grades of school. Which means 24 rulers and 24 scissors have simply disappeared into thin Mansion air. I always accused Genius of hiding them in a hollow under the floorboards. He loves office supplies as much as I do. In fact, his original dream career was "working at Office Max."

Anyhoo...this is the first week of October. The Pony's college money is split between a regular account, from which I draw out money each month for his expenses, and use to pay his rent and what fees his scholarship doesn't cover...and a CD. That CD comes due every year at this time, and I put a new supply of accessible funds into his regular account, and leave the rest to start a new CD. They give me a certificate for that, you know. It IS called a Certificate of Deposit.

Farmer H is in charge of the family jewels (heh, heh) and important paperwork. Not TAX important. I mean UPON DEATH important. Official papers that need to be stored in (one of) the safes.

Let the record show that for the past three years, I have not been able to take that certificate into the office to cash out that CD! Lucky for me (and The Pony, of course) that the credit union keeps a copy, and pulls it out for me to sign, and business goes on as usual. The point is...

HOW CAN FARMER H LOSE THAT CERTIFICATE EVERY SINGLE YEAR?

Oh, he found the original CDs for the boys, from way back in 2009. But that's not what I needed. Those are no good now. Genius is educated, his money used. And The Pony's decreases each year. Right now, the new certificate that I got on Tuesday is laying on the kitchen counter. I pointed it out to Farmer H.

"Here's the certificate for The Pony's new CD. You need to put it up. Where you can find it next October! I'm tired of going in there asking for their copy."

"I know. I'll put it somewhere safe."

Uh huh.

All Signs Point To Mischief

You know how your eye is drawn to something different? You have no conscious thought of a change, but your brain elbows you in the ribs, and says, "Looky there!" That's what happened when I returned home from a 45-minute trip to town on Sunday for my 44 oz Diet Coke.

As I drove along our property on the gravel road, I noticed that Farmer H's campaign signs were missing. Oh, don't worry. The world is safe. Farmer H himself is not running for office. But he'd allowed two candidates for local races to place their signs out front. It's not like we get a lot of traffic by here. But I guess you never know when somebody taking a headless body up past the Mansion to dump in the septic tank of a vacant house might see them. Or the procession of law enforcement and coroner vehicles that follow...

Anyhoo...I just KNEW those signs had been there when I left. I was certain. Pretty sure. Thought they were. Because I'd looked down into the BARn field, to see if perhaps Farmer H had returned early from the Storage Unit Store, and might be puttering around over there. I'd left about 12:30, and it was now nearing 1:00. If business isn't booming, he leaves at noon. Surely, if those signs had been gone, I would have noticed as I passed by the first time. And I didn't.

Once I parked T-Hoe in the garage, I called Farmer H.

"Did you take down your signs? Your campaign signs? They're laying in the yard."

"No. Why would I do that?"

"I don't know. At first, I thought they were gone. Like maybe the candidates came and took them back. But then I saw them laying flat in the grass."

"No. I didn't touch them. They were there when I came to my store at 8:00."

"I'm pretty sure they were there when I left for town, too. Now they're down."

"Huh. I'll look when I get back."

I asked for pictures before he set them back up. Farmer H said he was going to put something on Facebook about it, on the page that our enclave uses to communicate things like power outages and strange vehicles and INSULTS ABOUT FARMER H's ROADWORK!

I don't know why somebody would take down the signs. I don't even know what political party these candidates represent. Farmer H and I don't have a political affiliation. We vote for the candidate. One of these is a distant relative of Farmer H, running for county clerk. The other is a judge up for re-election, a guy whose brother was in my high school class, and who Farmer H went to fireman training with.

[Maybe Juno was on the case! Looks like she was sniffing something when Farmer H took the photo after he got home. If only she could talk!]

A few minutes later, Farmer H said he put the info on Facebook, and that he let people know he was not happy!

"Oh, great. Now you're going to start a war. It might have been your buddy, Buddy, playing a prank on you. Or maybe it was somebody mad about your bumpy roads!"

"Hah. They would have done it before now."

"Maybe it was kids."

"I think kids would have kicked them down, and they'd be bent."

"I think adults would have taken them! Not just laid them down."

About a half hour late, Farmer H said our neighbor next door put out some info. She'd seen kids walking down the road about an hour previous.

"See? I think it was kids."

"She didn't put out publicly who it looked like, but she told me. And I know that lady was having a birthday party for her teenage daughter today."

AHA! I'm pretty sure we have solved the mystery. Better yet, that lady is also on the Facebook page. So she knows darn good and well if those kids went for a walk. Not that she'll own up to anything. But it's enough that she knows kids were sighted in the area.

I would hope they at least get a good talking-to! A prank's a prank, but you don't go messing with stuff in the country. No siree, Bob! Farmer H is not a person concerned with revenge. But others might be.