FRIG II Undergoes Surgery On The Back Porch

Oh, come on! You don't really think FRIG II went under the knife on the back porch, do you? He actually had one of his organs ripped out, and went under the screwdriver on the back porch.

Here now! Don't panic! Don't bemoan the fact that you never received your pre-ordered handbasket from Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's proposed handbasket factory. It will be okay. The Apopadopalyspe hasn't yet arrived. Not-Heaven has not frozen over.

I was hacking at the two-inch layer of ice that had built up in the bottom of FRIG II's ice tray. Chopping it loose, tossing it into the kitchen sink. I dumped everything left into the sink. Farmer H walked by. Don't act so surprised! You KNOW he's always wherever I am, when we're both in the Mansion.

"Huh. While you have all the ice out, I'll take a look at it."

"Okay. I'm going downstairs now. When you put it back, put the bar down. And there's a cube stuck in the dispenser. It hasn't dumped ice since last night!"

Farmer H stopped gathering up the trash bag on my left, and came around to my right, poking his giant head into the freezer. First thing he did was reach for the metal bar I'd lifted to keep ice from dumping.

"NO! Don't put that down! If it dumps, there's no tray in there! Once you put the tray back, put the bar down."

"Okay."

As I left the kitchen, Farmer H had his pocket knife out. Of course the minute I got to my lair, I heard Farmer H coming down the steps. Gotta be near me! But turns out he was only fetching a screwdriver.

When I came up for supper, Farmer H informed me that he'd repaired my ice maker by REMOVING THE BLADES.

"I didn't FIX it, but I made it work! It wasn't getting the message to go back to cubes. So I took out the blades to stop it from crushing. It should dispense now."

I opened up FRIG II's freezer door, to check in the ice tray and see how much ice had accumulated. The answer was sorely disappointing: NONE!

"Uh. There's no ice here. You didn't take out the piece of a cube stuck in the dispenser! So it hasn't made any ice! There's four hours of ice-making, wasted!"

"What do you mean? I put the bar down."

"It's not down, because that piece of ice is still stuck! That's the whole reason it hasn't been making ice since last night! I told you to get it loose, because I couldn't. I guess I'll just do it myself!"

Farmer H shot out of the La-Z-Boy like a rocket. No woman was going to fix an ice-maker on his watch! He came in and took his pocket knife out again, and actually chipped away that errant piece of cube. The bar lowered itself all the way against the side of the ice maker. It looked good to go.

I sat down on the short couch while cooking Farmer H his hot dogs in biscuits. I heard ice dump into the bin.

"Now you can have your ice!"

"Um. No. I don't think a dozen cubes are gonna last me all night. I'll keep the ones that are still partially frozen in my cup, and look when I go to bed. Just think, it could have been making ice for four hours now, if you'd done what I told you."

"You didn't tell me that!"

"I'm pretty sure I did. You just don't listen, because everything I say is so wrong and chuckle-worthy. But I DID tell you."

"I guess I didn't hear you..."

Anyhoo...at bedtime, ice cubes were accumulating, and they dispensed like they were meant to, right out the hole in the door! A tiny victory for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

The Only Time Mrs. HM Has Ever Wished For A Dowager's Hump

Let the record show that Mrs. HM is not a good passenger for 9.5-hour rides. I have to stop every couple of hours, and loosen up my knees before I can walk to the rest area. I've grown used to the pain of long-distance trips, and the couple days of disability after we return from visiting The Pony. This trip, I had a new complaint.

When I got into A-Cad to start our journey on Wednesday at 6:00 a.m., I told Farmer H that the seat didn't feel right.

"It feels like my head is poking forward."

"That's because you tilted the seat back, because you said you felt like you were on a slide the last time, when we went to the casino for our anniversary."

"I know I tilted the seat back. But wouldn't that mean my head would also feel like it was leaning back?"

"No. You tilted the whole seat. Bottom and back. Not just the back."

"I KNOW that. But still, if the whole seat it tilted back, that wouldn't affect just my neck area. It would feel tilted back as well."

"I don't know how to explain it to you, HM. You can adjust the headrest up and down."

"That won't help me. I don't know who you've had in this car that got my seat all messed up."

"Nobody since my buddy and I went to Vegas."

"Well. It hurts my neck."

"Something is always hurting you."

So I rode 9.5 hours, more uncomfortable than previous trips, but it didn't kill me. Probably much to Farmer H's dismay, I'm pretty sure.

We had a good time with The Pony, who was coming down with a cold. When we started home on Friday, I had a terrible headache. I thought that perhaps I'd caught something from The Pony. My sinuses were quite stuffy. Maybe it was a result of casino smoke. That's happened before.

Anyhoo...I was nauseated and in pain from the headache. Any time I tried to close my eyes and nap, Farmer H had to interject a comment about a lot of cows in a field, or something else totally unnecessary. Plus he was jabbing the brakes. I don't know why he can't squeeze the brakes like a normal person. He's a jabber. A sweaving jabber! Every time he jabbed the brake pedal, my head snapped forward off the headrest. Which it was barely in contact with anyway, what with being pushed ahead of my shoulders.

By the time we got about 2 hours out of Norman, I could barely stand it. I came out of the gas station restroom before Farmer H, and was struggling to move the headrest when he got to A-Cad. I was almost in tears.

"I've already taken a tylenol, and it hasn't helped a bit. My head hurts SO bad! I've been trying to move this headrest down. It can't get any worse. But now it won't move at all! I've felt all over the place for a button or lever, and can't find one. And THEN I grabbed the headrest, and it

MOVED TWO MORE NOTCHES FORWARD!!!

You told me it only moved up and down!"

"There's a button that moves it, HM."

Sighed Farmer H, settling into the driver's seat, while I stood outside the car, leaning in the back door, trying to wrench the headrest back into its previous position.

"Then you could at least fix it for me! Not just sit there, all smug, telling me something that I've been trying to find."

Farmer H got out and walked around. He reached in and pushed the button on the side of the headrest, the ONE PLACE that I couldn't see, and hadn't touched. The button that was in plain sight from his position in the driver's seat all the way down there and a fourth of the way back!

"There."

"You told me it didn't  move forward and back! This is JUST WHAT I NEEDED! I suffered all that way for nothing."

I did not experience an instant recovery, but when we stopped for lunch two hours later, I gradually lost a bit of the headache over the rest of the way home. My neck felt much better. I'm pretty sure the smug sweaving jabber was disappointed.

Before You Judge Mrs. HM, Ride 19 Hours On Her Rumpus

Having spent two days plus overtime in a car with Farmer H, you can bet that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has heard just about enough from him. Our trip to visit The Pony at college was 9.5 hours each way. Let the record show that there is no such thing as a silent Farmer H.

THE most annoying habit of his (let's narrow that down to SPEAKING habit, so my brain doesn't spark a fire trying to decide on his most annoying habit overall) is his way of chuckling condescendingly at the beginning of a reply to me. Even for statements that need no reply.

I can't pull up a list of all his comments this trip. I'm not some cyborg with a scan feature. The most annoying was the most recent, only 60 miles from home, after having endured SO MANY other such comments over three days.

Farmer H had pulled over near a state park. We'd seen two deer grazing near the road, which he excitedly pointed out. And then ten more deer across the entry drive. But that's not why Farmer H pulled A-Cad off on the shoulder. Nope. He had to wee-wee. I opened up my door to give him privacy from oncoming traffic, but he opened the rear passenger door as well. Oh, he didn't stand in between the doors. So I guess traffic that came up behind us got a glimpse of the goods.

Anyhoo...with my door open, a mosquito flew in. I hate mosquitoes. Especially one trapped in a car with me for 60 miles. I saw it clearly, silhouetted against the front windshield, its pointy proboscis, and crooked legs. I tried to smack it between my hands, but it skittered away, and I THINK I crushed it against the windshield with my knuckle. There was a slight smudge that could have been it, though hard to see in the misty 46 degree weather on the other side of the glass.

Farmer H climbed back into the driver's seat, and I said

"There MIGHT be a mosquito in here. One flew in, and I think I smashed it, but it might have gotten away."

"Ha ha ha. A MOSQUITO? I doubt that. There aren't any this time of year."

"Are you saying I'm too stupid to know what a mosquito is?"

"Well, I sure haven't seen any around lately."

"I didn't think I'd see a ladybug on the kitchen doorknob this time of year, either. But I did."

"Whatever. I doubt that was a mosquito."

I hope Farmer H wakes up with itchy welts all over his face.

That Darn DISH

Poop! They've done it again. They've messed with my remittance. Got lost in the mail...

The struggle continues. I got my DISH bill last Saturday. The mail gets here after noon. I immediately wrote out my check, sitting in T-Hoe near the bus-waiting shack, and took it INSIDE the dead mouse smelling post office while I was in town. I knew it wouldn't go out until Monday. The pick-up time there is 11:00 a.m.

You would think that a bill with a bar code for scanning could make it from Missouri to Illinois in five days. Wouldn't you? I could probably hobble that far in five days. Actually, the post office had longer than that to get it there. I received that bill in EmBee on November 16, and it had a due date of November 25. Yet when I checked the website on November 25, my payment had not been credited.

You know what happened next, right? I did an automatic payment so as not to be delinquent. Oh, I'd like to be A delinquent, and trash the post office and the DISH payment department! I'm pretty sure this is a conspiracy to make people sign up for automatic payments. NO! I REFUSE!

Seriously. How fair is it to send out a bill, and give you no chance to remit payment in a timely manner? By which I mean THE DUE DATE!

Anyhoo...the bill is paid, and I imagine on November 26 my check magically appeared. So I'll be a month ahead, and DISH will have the use of my money for interest-drawing purposes for 30 days. Sure, they're not getting rich off of ME. But multiply that by a million or more subscribers, and they've got quite a racket going.

I Really Don't Think Farmer H Has Caught On That I Might Be Trying To Kill Him

Farmer H and I had our 30th wedding anniversary on Sunday. We didn't do anything special. He gave me a card, and I gave him a card. I asked if he wanted anything special on my way to Country Mart. He said he did not. That he would have a pulled pork sandwich with sliced pickles for supper.

Of course I wanted to do something special for my Sweet Baboo. Heh, heh! But something special that wouldn't require any effort, and little money. A treat, perhaps. Like I give Jack and Juno and even Copper Jack each day when I return from town. Only not in the form of scraps or past-date food.

My decision was easy. As I pushed my cart/walker down the deli aisle, I saw some prepared desserts.

I got Farmer H a slice of cake. And one for myself, too, of course! I didn't want to buy a whole cake, How many days would we celebrate, really?

That's half of my piece. Not a very flattering photo, but it sure was tasty! The cake, not the photo.

I had originally contemplated buying Farmer H a piece of carrot cake. He likes it. My mom used to make it for him. Country Mart had it in the clear plastic containers, too. Big squares, with a little carrot on the icing. I went with the chocolate, though. Because I like chocolate, and I didn't want Farmer H saying he'd rather have MY piece. So I got them both the same. Farmer H said later that he preferred the chocolate to a carrot cake.

Yes, I know that Farmer H should not be eating sweets. How did I know he would eat THE WHOLE SLICE in one sitting? I DIDN'T know. Just like I didn't know he'd bought himself a Cookies n Cream candy bar at The Devil's Playground the next day, until I saw it on the receipt with the dog food and cat food.

Mrs. HM Will NOT Be Shamed!

Saturday, Farmer H and I went to the casino and ate at the Burger Brothers inside. The restaurant was quite messy. Like nobody had cleaned up after the lunch rush, although it was now 4:00. The trash cans were overflowing, and the napkin dispenser on the wall was empty. They used to have dispensers on each table, but I guess that was too much trouble. Or too convenient for the customers!

Each table has a metal circular holder for mustard, ketchup, salt, pepper. Our ketchup was almost empty. I asked Farmer H, who was facing the rest of the room, while I sat with a view of the playing floor through the glass, to go trade it with the ketchup from another table.

"I can't, HM. There are people sitting at every table."

Fair enough. That would probably be frowned upon. I squeezed out just enough ketchup for my fries. Good thing Farmer H didn't want any.

As I was getting ready to bite my burger, I asked Farmer H to pass the salt. I like it on the burger, it brings out the flavor. I don't salt the fries. Or pepper them, either! I don't know who started that disgusting habit, but it ruins fries in case you want to offer them to someone else if you don't eat them all. Farmer H, Genius, and The Pony all put pepper on their fries! I guess maybe they're sending me a message...

Anyhoo...Farmer H held out a shaker.

"Here's the salt."

"That's not salt! That's PEPPER! You can tell by the brown container."

Sweet Gummi Mary! How has Farmer H lived this long, being so...um...uninformed!

"That's the only shaker here."

Farmer H looked at the table next to us. They'd already been seated when we arrived.

"Excuse me. Ma'am? Could we please borrow your salt? We don't have any."

"Sure. WE don't USE salt!"

Of course they didn't. Even though it was sitting on the table between her and a man, and not in the metal holder. Don't get me started! Oops! Too late! I'm already rolling. She said it in that haughty manner of city people, who know what's best for everyone, what with being superior, never watching TV, not even PBS, probably not even having one in their house. We probably could have gotten their ketchup, too, which they would pronounce CATSUP, which they would also never use, probably having smuggled in their very own GREY POUPON in a hammered-copper container, sheathed in a bamboo shoulder holster, with a special pocket for dry ice to keep it cool.

"Oh, I don't use it either, but SHE does!"

Smugly said the diabetic, who three hours later I would catch eating two pieces of cheesecake with a side of individual ice cream cup.

I refuse to be salt-shamed by the likes of a toilet-seat-pooping sugar-eater!

A Shaming Trilogy, Part 3: I've Got My Eye On You

We had no sooner left the casino on Saturday than I spied, with my little eye, Farmer H rubbing the side of his face next to A-Cad's window.

"Tell me you didn't just RUB YOUR EYE, after touching those slot machines for two hours!"

"Yes. I did."

"So now you'll get sick, and I'll catch it!"

"You are always blaming ME! I think YOU'RE the one bringing sickness home to ME! You were the one around all those kids. And now you don't even get a flu shot!"

"I don't get a flu shot because I'm NOT around all those germ-harboring kids anymore. I'm not around anyone. When I go out, I know not to touch my face until I wash my hands. I know to get away from people who are coughing. You've ALWAYS tried to turn everything around to the other person. You won't accept responsibility for anything!"

"I bet my friend got the flu from her grandkids."

"I bet so too. Especially if they had the nasal mist instead of the shot. They give kids the actual flu, you know. A mild case, to make antibodies. The kids get the attenuated virus. But when the kids come down with their mild case, they're shedding REAL FLU VIRUS. That's why kids who live in homes with people who are immunocompromised can't have the mist."

"Still, you could have brought it home to ME."

"I don't think so. YOU are the one who had the flu one year, in MAY. They did the blood test, and you had it! And then gave it to ME, even though I'd had the flu shot back in October."

"Well. That part is true..."

Baby steps, people. Admitting that he has a problem is the first step.