Someone's In The Kitchen With Pony, Someone's In The Kitchen I Know-O-O-O, Someone's In The Kitchen With Pony, Not-Bringing-Up A Rumpushole!

The Pony was in the kitchen preparing his daily meal when I returned home from town on Saturday. I'd bought some tender little tortillas, the 4.5 inch street taco size. He was stir-frying some frozen fajita chicken.

"Oh, I thought you'd microwave that, so you could cut it into cubes."

"I don't have to. I cut it in the pan."

"That's my non-stick pan!"

"Not with a knife. I just jab it with the side of the metal spatula."

"As if the Teflon knows the difference..."

"I'm mixing up my sauce in one of your ramekins."

"That's what they're for. Am I going to have a respiratory attack again from the chile oil?"

"Maybe?"

"I can really smell it, but my eyes aren't watering this time."

"Mmm...look at my chicken. Doesn't it look good?"

"I don't want that pan under my face! Put it back! It DOES smell good. Here. I might as well wash up YOUR CEREAL BOWL from yesterday morning, that's been living in the sink. Dad says that HE eats his cereal in a disposable bowl, and why can't you?"

"I don't know. I like a real bowl."

"I know that you're in a hurry to go to work, but it would take 15 seconds to rinse out your bowl. That's all it needs. You JUST ate out of it. Rinsing will clean it."

"Well, there was a ring of cinnamon around the edge."

"Again. Hold it under running water, and wipe your finger around the edge. It's CLEAN!"

"Meh."

"As long as I'm washing your dish, and all the silverware you and Dad go through in a day, I might as well do that pan now, too. Instead of you leaving it in the sink."

"I wash my pan."

"Well. Yes. ONLY  your pan. But I'll do it. I've got the water ready. I'll leave it so you can wash your ramekin after you're done eating the sauce."

"Yeah. I'll wipe out what's left, and put it in the water."

"And wash it."

"I said I'll put it in the water!"

"I know. And WASH it."

"Huh."

"YOU'RE the one using it. I AM leaving you the sudsy water. It will take 15 seconds with the sponge."

"Hmm."

Seriously? Am I a maid? I had done everything for The Pony except stand behind him and hold his hands in mine (but not in a Demi Moore/Patrick Swayze inappropriate way like the movie GHOST) and help him wash the ramekin.

He wasn't even being a smart-rumpus about it. He seemed to think he was entitled to my servantdom. The Pony has a little too much of Farmer H in him sometimes.

If There IS Such A Thing As Bad Pizza

Farmer H picked up Casey's pizza on Friday night. They have a special this month: buy one, get one half off. We really like their pizza, but it's kind of pricey. Of course there's a couple pounds of cheese on it, and they don't skimp on toppings, and the crust is tasty. So it's an investment we're willing to make.

 

Usually, we just get a one-topping pizza. But with this special, and The Pony declaring he didn't really want any, we went all out. Farmer H got himself the MEAT version. All meats. He got me the SUPREME. I usually can't have it, because Farmer H doesn't like green peppers. And he can't get the MEAT, because I don't like pepperoni. But he will tell them to leave it off my SUPREME.

 

Anyhoo... Farmer H ordered the pizzas Friday morning, before he went to his Storage Unit Store. He said he'd pick them up at 5:00. But when he got to Casey's, they didn't have our pizzas. The guy who took the order had written them down for pickup at 5:45. Because, you know, it's too much to expect anybody to perform such a task correctly.

 

Anyhoo... Farmer H came home with the pizzas. He hollered down to my lair. I was finishing up losing all my lives at Candy Crush, and then I went upstairs. Farmer H was in his recliner, done eating.

 

"That is the worst pizza I ever got from Casey's!"

 

"Oh, no! What's wrong with it?"

 

"Yours might be okay. But mine was almost raw on the bottom. It's like they didn't cook it long enough. I couldn't even pick it up to eat it. I had to use a fork!"

 

We are NOT floppy-pizza people. None of that New York folding for us! We like a sturdy pizza that holds its shape, to eat with one hand. Not have to support the triangle tip with the other hand.

 

"Well, I hope they left the pepperoni off mine!"

 

"They didn't. But I picked it off."

 

"How did you do THAT? Casey's always puts the meat under the cheese. Next to the crust. That's why I have such a hard time with pepperoni. I can't just pick it off, like on other pizzas."

 

"Well, they put it on top. The rest is under the cheese. I picked it off and ate it."

 

"Great. I'll still have all the greasy pepperoni juice. I hate that. Pepperoni is too spicy."

 

Anyhoo... when I looked at MY pizza, it didn't look too bad. But when The Pony came home and was sniffing around, I offered him a piece."

 

"You can have some of Dad's MEAT pizza. He says it's the worst one he ever got from Casey's. Or you are welcome to have some of mine, but I know you don't like anything but cheese on yours."

"Well. I think I'll just have this piece right here..."

The Pony took the first slice out of my SUPREME. A thin slice. Casey's is not very consistent in their slice sizes. One might be three times the size of another. In picking it up, the bottom crust sagged down, and the toppings (middlings?) slid out. Mostly.

"Ooh. Maybe you should have used two hands."

"No. This is actually better. Here. Give me a spoon."

The Pony flipped the cheese part over, and used the spoon to scrape the sausage, onion, green pepper, and whatever else was there onto the top of the next piece of pizza. The black olives were embedded in the cheese.

"Now I can have my cheese and crust, and you can have double stuff on top!"

Anyhoo... my bottom crust was also kind of undone. The Pony likes a doughy crust, but I prefer mine to be actually baked. Oh, it didn't keep me from eating it! We'll be having pizza for a few days. Here's a picture of Farmer H's MEAT pizza:

 

Can you even SEE a bottom crust? It doesn't look very appetizing on the cardboard box soaked with MEAT juices. But the taste was fine, according to Farmer H.

Here's my SUPREME:

 

A little more crustage is evident. And not so much grease.

Anyhoo... my point (and I do have one) is that once again, you can't trust any employee to do a job RIGHT, much less WELL.

Farmer H needs to lay off the shed-building, and get my proposed handbasket factory up and running. Also, I'm a little bit suspicious of why the pepperoni was on TOP of my pizza that was supposed to be without pepperoni. It wasn't on top of Farmer H's MEAT pizza. I have a theory that Farmer H TOLD them to put the pepperoni on top. Not only does he like pepperoni, but he's a miser. When he'd order our Subway sandwiches, when I wanted NO CHEESE, he'd say, "Put the cheese from that one on MY sandwich." And they did!

Summer Is Coming, The Pony's Losing Fat, Won't You Please Put Some Mittens On Your Danged Old Cat

49 days in. That's how long The Pony has been employed, working out his 90-day probationary period. How time flies when you're working 10-11 hours a day, walking 9-13 miles each and every one. It's not like The Pony had any fat to lose. He wasn't spindly, but he wasn't chunky.

Anyhoo... you may recall that The Pony injured his wrist one Saturday, carrying an awkward heavy package. The wrist seems to be okay now, after a few days of wearing a brace on it. At least The Pony doesn't mention it hurting now. However...

THE PONY SUFFERED HIS 2ND ON-THE-JOB INJURY THURSDAY!

I don't think he reported it to management. But he DID send me a text before starting home:

"Clocked out. I'm gonna go get Steak N Shake. Also, I got scratched by a cat."

Please, everyone. Get out your teeny-tiny violins, and assist me in serenading The Pony at his pity party. He showed me the wound on Friday evening. It was on the fingerprint part of the pinky finger on his right hand. In the middle, about half the length of that finger joint. Starting to scab over.

"You won't believe how much a little cut on the finger can bleed! And how much you use your little finger for! It was dripping a globule of blood for quite a while. I had to be careful. During training, much emphasis was placed on NOT GETTING BLOOD ON THE MAIL!"

As a daily aspirin-taker, and a frequent finger-slicer, I DO believe how much a finger cut can bleed, and I know how much you use a finger. I did NOT know the Blood-Mail Rule.

"How did THAT happen? Did you try to pet a cat?"

"No. It was through a mail slot. I knew there was a white cat in there. But I have to push the mail way in, so it will clear the flap on the slot, to fall down. 

He got me."

I don't want to think about The Pony's first dog encounter...

In His Day, He Was HOT

It's the end of an era. Time to say goodbye to an old friend. His warmth will be sorely missed. Sorely. 

MY UNDER-DESK HEATER IS DEAD!

I can't remember life in my lair without my under-desk heater. He's been with me since all four fluorescent lights were working. Since the tile was not crumbling. Since there was room to walk through here, without old teaching accoutrements boxed up. Since my little tiny Pony sat at the gray desk in the corner, listening to the CD of learning Arabic that he'd requested for Christmas. (Tell me I'm not on a watch list!)

HEATIE had some health problems over the past couple years, but he always pulled through after bouts of choking. Now he cannot be revived. I only get a click when I try to turn him on. Do you know what Farmer H said when he heard the news?

"Good."

That's not very nice. Farmer H has always had a problem with HEATIE. Going so far as to say how much HEATIE must cost us on the electric bill! When Farmer H builds themed sheds, Freight Container Garages, and spends hundreds of dollars trying to purify POOLIO's Squirrel Carcass Gumbo water every summer, only to take maybe 5 swims in him!

I am missing HEATIE every day. My knees miss him more.

It's A MINE Field Around Here

Perhaps I've mentioned how Farmer H thinks everything belongs to him. And some things belong SOLELY to him. The Pony and I, however, cannot lay claim to personal items. They are community property. Like the milk The Pony bought for his morning cereal, a kind Farmer H doesn't like, but took offense to being "appreciated" in advance for not using it. But Farmer H has the blog off today.

"Pony. Every morning, I find a smudge on my glasses that I've left on the counter. Do you pick them up when you get your lottery ticket?"

"No. I don't have to touch the glasses, although you put my ticket on their case."

"It wouldn't surprise me if Dad is putting on my glasses to look at something! He's always over here using my counter."

"Technically, it's not YOUR counter."

"Yes it is! It's the place I always use, and then I find crumbs and grease spots on it."

"We don't really have ANOTHER counter."

"Yes we do. By the sink. And there's the whole cutting block. I don't know why Dad... AND you, feel the need to use my specific area."

"Meh. It's just convenient."

"And then I let you use my pen, I've told you where to find it, I don't MIND you using it, but you put it back all closed up!"

"Oh. You want me to leave it clicked out? I thought that was only the purple pen in the side of your purse, and not the black pen from your checkbook."

"I want them BOTH left clicked out. I hate grabbing my pen to write something, and it won't right because it's clicked in."

"Okay. I'll leave it clicked out."

"Just leave it the way you find it."

Simple, right? Simple instructions to understand. You may recall that The Pony needed to use New Delly on Tuesday night. He fell asleep, but came down Wednesday morning. I don't mind him using New Delly. I had made the copies he needed (two sets, 9 pages per set), and left them on my desk beside the mouse, with my ink pen in case he wanted to fill them out there while waiting for his typed-in document to print.

It's not a special ink pen. I've had it for at least five years, maybe ten. I used it for addressing Genius's envelope for his weekly letter, and to write on the back of my scratchers how much they won.

 

Yet when I entered my lair later that afternoon, my pen (I'd call him PENNY, but that seems wrong) did not look like he does in his posed picture.

THE CAP WAS ON MY PEN!

I don't mean to go all Nancy Kerrigan, but WHYYYYYYY? Why does Not-Penny need the cap on to rest on the edge of a stack of past years' tax folders? When I want a pen, I don't want to use two hands to make it write-ready. I want to pick it up and write with it. What could go wrong by leaving the cap off? Is Not-Penny going to skate around marking up my desk and papers while left alone, uncapped? I don't think so.

Isn't it common courtesy to leave things as you found them? And not foist your peccadilloes on someone else's rightful possessions?

Farmer H Serves Up A Poop-Poop Platter For Breakfast

I wish I had something good to report. But sadly, I fall into the same category as THE NEWS, and there's nothing pleasant here. This has been one of my worst days since I started retirement! Which, in the grand scheme of things, isn't all that bad. Farmer H, decree-er of all opinions of every person everywhere, said it WASN'T my worst day. Because apparently, he determines what I feel.

The morning started at 12:30 p.m., when Farmer H barged through the kitchen door with a handful of papers for me to deal with. Not only to fill out "because you like to do it in your neat handwriting," but also to use to find links on HIPPIE to print out stuff and file stuff. I think Farmer H does not understand that a link printed on a piece of paper can't be followed. Especially when the link looks like this Certificate of Something, without an URL.

I spent 45 minutes searching, and filling in info online, only to have Farmer H to say, "Hold off on that. I may not want to do it." And furthermore instructed me to print out that certificate for him later, when I found the website. But when I did, at 10:15 p.m., it turns out Farmer H can't get such a certificate until he fills out the stuff he told me to delete this morning at 12:55 p.m.

 

I tried to call the hospital about a message that only said, "Please call us." No name or reason. I was put on hold with bad music, so hung up after two minutes, because that's a long distance call accruing charges! I tried on my cell phone, and got put on hold twice more, but my cell phone cut the connection, because everybody knows Mrs. HM can't make a call from her own home.

The house phone rang with a message for Farmer H to call HIS doctor to schedule a test. I hit the SPEAKER button to hear what it was about, but apparently that shuts off the recording of a message. Good thing I wrote down the number as she said it. I texted Farmer H about it, and he CAME BACK IN THE MANSION to make his call, even though he did it on his cell phone, which allowed him to keep a connection. Probably just out of spite to ME, sitting there at the kitchen table where he plopped down.

Anyhoo... I wrote out checks for medical bills for The Pony and Farmer H, and went to the main post office to mail them, stopping on the way at Orb K for scratchers. Except Orb K had orange cones and orange caution tape roping off their whole front sidewalk and part of the parking area. Other cars had parked by them, sticking out into the drive, and I could have, too, but I didn't see a way to get in the door! The whole sidewalk was blocked off, with a guy in an orange vest standing by it, I suppose to tackle people who tried, or perhaps just taking a smoke break.

I left Orb K in a fit of pique, deciding to stop by the School-Turn Casey's. On the lake road there, I got behind a white pickup truck going 15 mph. The speed limit there is 45. There was something in small print on the tailgate near the bumper. I guess it was telling me why the truck went slow, but it was too small for me to read without tailgating. Too bad the car that flew up behind me wasn't behind that truck, because HE could have read it for me. He must have been going 90 when he came up on me. So close that I couldn't see the whole hood of his car, just the windshield, in my rearview mirror. I don't know where he thought I was going, with a truck in front of me. I know he saw it, because he whipped out twice like he was going to pass, but didn't.

 

Speedy veered off once we hit School-Turn Town. But the weekly semi truck of supplies was parked across all the parking spaces in front of the Casey's, with their metal rolly-bar conveyor thingy blocking the doors. So I went on to the post office, then to the Sis Town Casey's. Where a construction company truck had backed into my preferred parking spot next to the ramp, and another car beside it, with the two drivers shooting the bull and not customerizing. So I had to park at the end, and actually STEP UP and DOWN to get to the sidewalk. Oh, the horror!

 

I picked up Burger King and a chocolate shake to drown my sorrows. Aside from a long wait, that interaction was fairly benign.

On the way home, I had to wait at the low-water bridge, because a 4-wheeler was parked on it talking to a car that was parked on it, next to a guy and gal fishing off the side. Since obviously that bridge was built as a recreation area and not a meant of traversing a waterway.

 

I saw Farmer H on his Gator at the BARn as I passed. But by the time I was on the porch giving the dogs their French bread treat, he was under the porch in the act of getting out the lawnmower. Because he can't spend a freakin' second not being WHERE I AM. 

I finally sat down in my lair with my first food of the day at 4:45 p.m. (not counting the chocolate shake at 4:00). Only to realize that I'd forgotten my ketchup for the fries! Good thing I had three packets laying there from a time they had tossed them in my bag before the great condiment shortage of '21. I also had a little black plastic ramekin (4, actually) from when the Dairy Queen incompetents have two stuck together when handing out the queso cheese sauce with pretzels. So I squeezed the ketchup in there for dipping.

I guess that's the good news. How dare I feel like I had a bad day.

But wait. Right after I ate, The Pony texted that he was leaving work, and he'd be emailing me some forms he needed printed, and also that he'd need to walk me through another site on New Delly, because it required filling in info before printing.

It's 10:41 p.m. as I type this, and he hasn't come down to my lair yet...

Let's Add A Washboard To That World's Smallest Violin

The pity party rages on! The world's smallest violin will now be accompanied by a concert washboardist. Like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song... Mrs. HM finds another meal gone wrong.

I asked The Pony to pick me up a sandwich at the Devil's Playground on his Sunday shopping trip. He sent a text that they were out of my favorite, Roast Beef and Cheddar, and my second favorite, Ham and Cheese. But he could get the last Chicken Bacon Ranch. I concurred.

It was a realllllly LOOOOOOOONG sandwich! A normal person might have cut it into 4 servings. I had every intention of making it 3. But when I picked up my Pioneer Woman ceramic knife, my hand chopped that sammich in 2 pieces!

I never just eat the sandwich as-is. I take it apart and redistribute the meat and cheese. I don't want one side of my sandwich to have a thick layer of meat, while the other is mostly bread. I am not a bread fan. I'm an anti-breadite. Not some weirdo who would eat a Whopper served between lettuce leaves, rather than on a bun. But I DO peel out most of the bread. I save it for the next day's dog treats. That sandwich is virtually HEALTH FOOD by the time I'm done with it! ;)

Anyhoo... it's a good thing I'm so persnickety about my sandwich composition. When I was pulling the meat apart to put half on each side of the sandwich, I found an unwanted surprise!

 

THERE WAS A PAPER DIVIDER BETWEEN CHICKEN SLICES!

I've not seen these dividers in meat before, only in cheeses. Those chicken slices were folded together as if they came right out of a package. I had to peel them apart. 

I'm glad I DID!

I'm pretty sure The Devil is trying to kill me...