Sometimes Mrs. HM Is An Unintentional Tom Sawyer

Saturday evening, Farmer H went to the auction. He's thrilled that auctions are happening again. He warmed up his own supper, leftover pizza that I had put in baggies to keep it from turning to cardboard.

The Pony didn't eat lunch. Unless you count numerous snacks, which he does not. I had a late lunch, and was not interested in rushing upstairs to make supper. Around 6:00, I thought of The Pony, and sent him a text to ask if he was going to make his own, or wait in me to come do it around 6:30. He said he would let me do it. So considerate, that Pony, always thinking of others...

I went upstairs and set down my lunch tray on the kitchen counter. In doing so, I hurt my back! Sweet Gummi Mary! Old people are so fragile! Anyhoo... I called to The Pony, to see if he wanted his pizza warmed in the oven. He did. He came in to rifle through the box of kitchenstuffs he had brought from his Oklahoma apartment.

"I usually drizzle on some olive oil when I reheat my pizza."

"Oh. Well. Too bad we don't have any of that here, since you threw away the bottle that expired in 2011."

"I have some here. Let's see... I'll use the SPECIAL olive oil, with garlic in it."

"Okay. Get your pizza out. Man! My back is killing me. I need to lean here for a minute."

The Pony put his pizza on the foiled pan sitting atop the stove. He drizzled on the olive oil.

"Turn on the oven. About 350, I think. Now, for the breadsticks I had left... do you want them in foil to warm up?"

"Yeah. If you want to. I think last time, you put a little butter in with them."

"Okay. Oh. I need to open a new box of foil. I can't get it. Here. Pry that flap loose."

"Got it."

"Get the breadsticks out of my pizza box. And that sauce. You can have it, too."

"Here. I'll get the butter for you. I'll set this sauce on the stove by the burner."

"There. Set the breadstick packet on the pan with your pizza, and put them in the oven."

"It's not quite warm yet, but I'll put it in."

"Whew! This back! I'm going to sit on the couch. After about 5 minutes, you can check on your pizza."

"I'll set a timer on my phone."

When the timer went off, The Pony put his pizza and breadsticks on a plate with the sauce, and brought it to the La-Z-Boy.

"I'm glad I came up to get your supper for you! Even though you kind of did it all yourself."

"Yes. I noticed that."

Baby steps, people. Baby Pony steps.

Too Many Goofs Spoil The Path

If Piccadilly Circus and the Arc de Triomphe Roundabout had a baby, it would be the Hillmomba Creach Landing. You know, the gravel road creek beach area down by Mailbox Row, with a bus-waiting shack and red NO PARKING sign.

I'm pretty sure that every person in the world will eventually pass by there. Each day I'm more amazed at what I find on this PRIVATE section of road.

Friday, as The Pony and I came back from an evening pizza run, we saw TWO RIDERS ON HORSEBACK. They came toward us on the blacktop road, and turned into Hillmomba Creach Landing. Without even signaling!

The Pony jumped out to make sure we didn't have any late mail in EmBee. He's not worldly in the equine community, but even HE said, "I wonder how many hands those horses are?" They were gigantic! Not in a draft horse kind of way, but in TALL. A couple of our neighbors have horses, but they're normal size. These were leggy, well-proportioned, thoroughbred-looking nags.

They were skittish, too. I really didn't want to come up on them. Wanted to give them a wide berth, even if it meant driving on the wrong side of the road. HEY! It's MY gravel road, so there is no WRONG side of it to ME!

The man rider had his horse well-collected, on a short rein, while it stamped and tried to whirl, ears back. The two horsemen of the eventual Apopadopalyspe were kind of trapped, in the parking area not used by those creek-floating girls' abandoned cars a couple days ago.

In front of them, preventing their progress up into our private compound, was a sidways side-by-side. I have no idea what that driver was doing, but he was sideways across the middle of the road, preventing an oncoming neon green subcompact (which I've never seen out here before) from coming out. Behind the riders was T-Hoe, waiting for the side-by-side to move, the green subcompact to come out, and the horsemen to stay off to the side so we could get by to drive to our HOME.

Never a dull moment at the Hillmomba Creach Landing.

I'm Thinking Of Starting A ComePayUs Page To Help House The Pony

Remember when I said that Farmer H and I have discovered that three people cannot live as cheaply as two, now that The Pony has come home to roost? When The Pony is one of the people, three can't live as cheaply as The Mormon Tabernacle Choir on a ski holiday with The Vienna Boys Choir, renting a whole town of Swiss chalets for a month!

Thursday afternoon, I had returned from my weekly errand trip over to Sis-Town. The Pony had elected not to ride along, preferring to sit outside by Poolio, working on this week's chapter of his book. He was back inside by the time I arrived. The Pony left the La-Z-Boy to help me part with one of my precious scratchers. LOSER! But all mine were too, I discovered later. Which was too bad, because we are going to need some extra money...

The Pony went back to the living room. I heard a CLANK.

"Um. That did not sound good..."

"Was that the recliner? Did you mess up the recliner?"

"Maybe?????"

"I can't deal with this right now!"

"To be fair, all I did was sit down. And it made that clank."

"Will it still recline?"

"Yes????? But it feels not right."

"That's what happens when you don't sit in it right!"

"All I did was sit down!"

"I've seen you every day, reclined, laying sideways, with your head on the arm, and your feet on the wall!"

"I wasn't doing that now!"

"We can't afford a new recliner!"

"Isn't this one really old anyway?"

"Yes. But that would have lasted Dad and me the rest of our lives. We don't have all that long!"

"I just looked under it. Looks like there's a spring (?) loose. In the middle. Not the leg part."

"Well. Maybe your dad can fix it. You're going to tell him."

Turns out that Farmer H could NOT fix the La-Z-Boy. That part snapped. Now there's a big depression in the seat. Or as I finally got him to admit, it's like sitting on a toilet. We'll be shopping for a new La-Z-Boy on Saturday, as soon as Farmer H can tear himself away from making $1-per-item profits at his Storage Unit Store.

I just have to remember not to sit there. Farmer H tried it out. A spring poked his butt as he was getting up.

Will Shackytown Themed Sheds Become The New Milk Cartons?

This is a tale of two busy-s. Two busybodies. Me. And Farmer H. It's frightening to think that we're so much alike in our concerns over two cars parked down by The Creach. The creekside beach.

When I left for town on Wednesday, I saw two small cars parked near the NO PARKING sign down by the bus-waiting shack at the mailboxes. I was going to give the trespassers a searing stinkeye, but nobody was around. I figured they were probably walking around in the creek. It was already 87 degrees. The cars were still there when I came back. So I took a picture.

They barely got off the road! Dang squatters. Anyhoo... I thought maybe they had parked there, and met up with someone else to go somewhere, since there were no signs of people in the creek.

I forgot all about it until Farmer H mentioned it at suppertime.

"I'm wondering if I should call the police about them cars down at the creek. I saw three girls get out of them when I went to town. They was gonna float the creek, I guess. Two of them was carrying their floaty things, and the third one was getting out of the white car with hers. She was wearing shorts and a bikini top."

"That creek isn't deep enough to float! They wouldn't get far."

"If they carried it past our bridge, it gets deeper."

"Waist deep. And they'd have to get out and climb over the next low water bridge."

"Them cars was still there around 5:00. I don't want something to have happened to them."

"It goes out to the river. It would take a long time to walk back if they floated very far. If they didn't go home, their family would call the police and report it."

"I guess."

"I'd be more worried that they just gave a story about going floating, but were meeting up with somebody. Maybe got abducted, or ran away."

"Yeah, you never know these days."

I guess Farmer H could paint their pictures on his themed sheds over in Shackytown...

Don't Ask Me If I Can Spare A Square

Tuesday, I made a rare trip to The Devil's Playground. I've been staying out of there lately, because I don't like the Devil telling me which way I can walk down the aisles. Country Mart and Save A Lot let me roam free. But sometimes I want things that can't be found there. Like SLAW!

Anyhoo... we are down to five rolls of toilet paper at the Mansion. We have three bathrooms. Normally, I buy the 9-roll pack of Charmin. I've been unable to find that for several months now. Not that I've been actively looking with the intent of buying. I'd just bought some when the Stay-At-Home-Down started, and then I bought two four-packs for Farmer H at Country Mart.

Anyhoo... the shelves were pretty bare. Then again, it was the second day of the month, and people getting their money have likely been out shopping. I saw a couple of giant packs of Charmin on the bottom shelf. GIANT! Like, it would have taken up my whole cart/walker. I think it was probably 24 rolls. I didn't need that much!

I wheeled down to take a look at some boxes on an eye-level shelf. The first five of them were empty. I moved them out of the way, and saw six-packs of toilet paper in the boxes behind! I pried one out and put it in my cart/walker. Then I figured I'd take another. Off I went to the front of the store. Which was not an easy journey, because almost everyone in there had three or four children tagging along. Maybe it was a field trip for their home education...

Once up front, I piled my stuff on the conveyor. SLAW, and deli pizza, and romaine lettuce, soda, chicken patties, snacks for Farmer H, snacks for The Pony, snacks for me, Puffs with Lotion, and my toilet paper. I was putting bags in my cart/walker when the checker said,

"Uh. I'm sorry. But you are only allowed ONE pack of toilet paper."

"One? I thought the limit was two."

I just threw that out there, because Farmer H had said that it was a limit of two when he went there and the shelves were empty. I didn't even read the signs this time.

"No. The limit is one."

"Okay. I guess I should have bought the ONE pack that had 24 in it, instead of six..."

"I really hate taking away people's stuff."

"Not a problem. It's not your fault. It just doesn't make sense to me. I can't have 12 rolls, but I can have 24."

It will be a hot day in Hillmomba before I return to the Devil's Playground...

Figurative And Literal Bacon

Farmer H and The Pony have been bringing home the bacon. Mrs. HM... not so much. Monday, after Friday and Saturday with no mail, EmBee was stuffed to the gills. One envelope was from the University of Oklahoma. I got excited when I saw it had a see-through window on the front. I dutifully took it home for The Pony to open.

It was a refund check for $318! The Pony said he had been expecting it, as a refund of the meal plan money that he couldn't eat up, once the OU Stay-Off-Campus-Down went into effect.

Friday, Farmer H drove SilverRedO over to Back-Creek Neighbor Bev's house, because she had something for him. He's prefer to drive the Gator, but the dogs follow him in that, and Bev has chickens. Anyhoo, he returned to the Mansion with a big box containing a bag of potatoes, a bag of carrots, a bag of oranges, and a bag of apples.

According to Farmer H, Bev's husband Nick took a donation to a local charity, and they insisted that he take this box of produce. I've seen notices in the local online newpaper about these produce handouts at assorted locations. No qualifying conditions. First come, first serve. Free to anybody. According to Farmer H, Bev and Nick are on some new diet where they can't eat this stuff. Huh! What a diet, where fresh produce is forbidden!

Anyhoo... Farmer H and I would never go pick up a box such as this, because we don't need it. Other people do, and that would be less for them. But I guess since Nick made the donation, the people there wanted him to have the box, and he took it for goodwill purposes. Since Nick and Bev didn't want to waste it, Farmer H brought it home.

So now The Pony and Farmer H have brought home the figurative bacon, and I have not contributed. I'm sure they don't consider the sweat of my brow to be of any worth, making their meals and cleaning up their mess(es).

I showed THEM! I brought home the LITERAL bacon, and laid it atop a roaster pan of potatoes, carrots, and onions, for a delicious side dish for three suppers. With a little brow sweat as seasoning, while peeling and chopping the "vinchtables," as my little Pony used to call them.

Mrs. HM Is Flexing Her Atrophied Teacher Muscles

Sunday, I had to take my retired teacher muscles down off the shelf, give them a good dusting, inject them with a shot of adrenaline, slap them until they roused from unconsciousness, and kick them in their withered rumpuses so I could correct The Pony.

I don't take joy in correcting The Pony. He is a sweet soul, who would never hurt anyone ON PURPOSE. Through obliviousness, yes. But not on purpose.

As I walked from the kitchen to the living room, I saw a used bandaid laying face-up on the carpet. Let the record show that I had sliced my finger scarcely an hour previous, but that bandaid was wrapped around my left hand bad-finger. NOT MY BANDAID.

Let the record also show that The Pony had applied a bandaid to the back of his right hand after his triangle-tub soak the night before. He had a rug-burn-looking raw spot from (he said) hitting it on the roof of his car while reaching back for something while out to lunch. The Pony had been going back and forth to his room getting ready for a dip in Poolio. He had walked across that area at least 6 times in the past 30 minutes.

I let lost used bandaids lie. When I got back from town, it was still there. The Pony was in the La-Z-Boy.

"Uh, there's a used bandaid on the floor."

"I know. I saw it."

"Don't you think you should pick it up?"

"Not mine."

"Well, it's not MINE!"

"How do you know?"

"Mine is right here on my finger, where I put it."

"Well, I know it's not MINE, because mine is on the floor of my bedroom."

"Show me."

(((SIGH))) "All right..."

Off The Pony strolled to his bedroom.

"Um. You may be right. I don't see mine."

"That's my point. It couldn't belong to anyone else. Your Dad isn't home from the Storage Unit Store yet, and the bandaid wasn't there earlier this morning."

"Huh. I guess I'll pick it up."

"That's kind of what I expected."

Sweet Gummi Mary! I hope everything isn't a federal case around here. I'll be exhausted from my duties as judge, jury, and executioner, presiding over Pony cases in addition to Farmer H cases! However, I know better than to let a single alleged incident slide.

I didn't survive 28 years of teaching by being a pushover.