Like Standing Behind A Jet Engine On The Plains Of Oklahoma

Somebody needs to tell March's lion that it's April now, and he should have gone out like a lamb. The winds were whipping again in Hillmomba on Thursday. Not a good day for Mrs. HM and her lovely lady-mullet while doing the weekly errands.

My near-death experience is discussed on my not-so-secret blog. But I will share the near-maiming with you here.

I stopped for T-Hoe's gas at the Sis-Town Casey's. Every time I do that, I mull over changing the location of my gas-getting. I just don't like the pump situation at the other Casey's stores. Not sure why I like this one, since it's not exactly Mrs. HM-friendly. 

This Casey's is located halfway up a big hill. To the south is the old lead mine. You can't see the actual mine building from the pumps, but you can see the tailings. The acres and acres of dust that resulted from rocks ground up and transported from underground. It's actually a state park. There's a lake way out in there that I used to frequent as a high-schooler. And an 11-mile blacktop trail that I used to walk in the summer. Not every day, of course. Just on special occasions to prove that I could.

Anyhoo... the wind comes whipping across that vast expanse, even on calm days. It usually makes me wish I had worn a jacket. On Thursday, it made me wish I had shaved my head. The Medusa-like tendrils of my lovely lady-mullet snaked around my face, getting in my mouth, in my eyes, whipping the skin of my cheeks and forehead, tangling themselves worse than a knot puzzle on a competitive reality show.

That's not even the worst part. The worst part was opening T-Hoe's door. It was a feat of strength, and a test of ingenuity. Once I forced the door open two notches to start my climb onto the running board, I had to devise a way to keep it from slamming before I had my legs in, perhaps slicing me mid-shin like a very dull guillotine. 

I did this by holding the door open with my left hand, while grasping the frame of the cab with my right hand, to hoist myself onto the running board. Then I used both hands to hold open the door, while sitting my rumpus on the seat. Then I used my left hand and leg to hold the door open while I drug my right leg into the vehicle. Then a quick (for me) yanking in of the left leg, while trying to fend off the wanting-to-slam door with only my left hand. Thank the Gummi Mary for some intermittent gusts.

Let the record show that Mrs. HM still has a complete set of limbs.

Patient Zero Fingers The Culprit

Just when I was positive that Farmer H was the source of my itchy finger-bump... some new information came to light. I hate it when that happens. When Farmer H has a chance to skate scott-free!

Sure, it was a bit of a stretch that Farmer H was still responsible for spreading the liquidy clear stuff from the bump on the side of his hand that he squooshed a week or two prior to my outbreak. Especially after I found those bumps on my stomach. I rarely use my stomach to change channels with the remote, or turn the water faucet on or off. So that kind of eliminated Farmer H.

Late Monday night/early Tuesday morning, I was ensconced on the short couch, happily watching TV, hands in the pockets of my fleece jacket, with The Pony's fleece throw covering me up to my neck as usual. So toasty and warm. But I had to uncover for a trip to the bathroom.

When I returned to the living room, I saw a fluff of sock lint on the back of the couch. It was directly behind the area where my head leans back. You may recall a previous encounter with my socks on the back of the couch. They were a bit... shall we say... aromatic. I went to pick up the sock lint, and saw that IT WAS NOT SOCK LINT AT ALL!

IT WAS A SPIDER!

A small spider, about the size of a pea. It didn't have the four-legs-front, four-legs-back configuration of some spiders. It had all eight legs spread out around its body. Like a tiny dry jellyfish. I grabbed a Puffs With Lotion from the pillow where I keep a small stack, and pinched that spider. I took it to the kitchen, to look at under the light of the counter, and confirmed that it was, indeed, a spider, and not sock lint.

WELP! Looks like that spider is was probably the source of my itchy bumps filled with clear fluid. Perhaps it was on the fleece throw, and then crawled into my jacket pocket while I was covered up with my hands on the outside, playing Wordle. And then it got back on the fleece throw, and attacked me again on subsequent nights. Then emerged to crawl from the throw to the couch-back while I was in the bathroom.

I have not found any new bumps since the squooshing of the spider.

I hope the mystery stays solved.

Patient Zero Searches For A Diagnosis

With two extremely itchy bumps on my right hand fingers, I wracked my brain for what might have caused them. 

Was I allergic to something new? I have a new box of dryer sheets, in a new fragrance. Store brand. I had taken one out using my right hand on Friday.

Was there something in the pocket of my fleece jacket? I pulled the pocket inside out and left it flapping for a day. I rarely take off my fleece jacket. It's so comfortable. It rests on the side of the big triangle tub in the master bathroom while I have my shower and go to town. Then I put it right back on when I get home. At night, I take off the shirt underneath, but put my fleece jacket back on. 

Then I asked Farmer H if he had experienced anything like it.

"A week or two ago, I had one on the side of my hand. I squeezed it open and some clear stuff run out."

Welp! There you go! I had obviously caught something from the secretions of Farmer H!

"Great! Now I've got it. You must have got that stuff on the remote, or on the handle of the water faucets. So I caught it from you!"

"No. No. You didn't get that from me, HM. It's something else."

Nice try. He's always in denial. How else could he explain my malady? Except...

On Monday, I noticed myself scratching my stomach area. The sides of my front-stomach. The area where I sometimes shove up my fleece jacket while under The Pony's fleece throw, and rest my hands there to warm them before putting them back in my jacket pockets.

I took a look before getting in the shower, and saw three little bumps in a line on the right side, and four little bumps in a cluster on the left side. They seemed to have little fluid-filled centers.

Meanwhile, I had put a bandaid with triple antibiotic ointment on my ring finger bump, which stopped most of the itching. The morning after that, my hand did not itch much at all. Not even in the hot water of the shower.

But wait! There's more to this story...

Is Mrs. HM Patient Zero For A New Malady?

Friday night, I snoozed off on the short couch in the wee hours of the morning. I was quite comfy, having my hands in the pockets of my fleece jacket, and covered by the fleece throw The Pony left me from his college days.

When I woke up, my right hand was itching on the ring finger. I don't wear rings, just describing which finger. It was on the last section of finger. The part with the fingernail. The intense itching was on the finger pad. It was hot and red. I daresay my fingerprint would have been so stretched out as to eliminate me from a crime scene.

Dang! It itched so much. I had to scratch. That's not very much space to scratch. Sometimes I just rubbed in on the tweed-like upholstery of the couch cushion. I couldn't see anything wrong with the finger itself. I vaguely remembered it feeling like I had scratched it a couple days previous. Perhaps while getting ice cubes out of the bin in FRIG II, or on the wooden handrail while going down the steps on the side porch.

Through the morning and into the early afternoon, that finger itched like the dickens. It was swollen to three times the size of the ring finger on my left hand. When I got in the shower, it HURT! The hot water running on it made my whole right hand feel like it was on fire. It lit up like a Christmas tree. A Christmas tree in a steel foundry on the surface of the sun, decorated entirely with red lights, just before bursting into flames.

I took a picture in town on Sunday. 

It's only about double the size of the left-hand ring finger in this photo. Doesn't feel like the skin is about to explode. As you might notice, it developed a small bump filled with clear fluid. No, I did not squoosh it open. That's just an observation of what I see when I push at it, and the contents move around under the skin. What in the Not-Heaven? What disease have I contracted?

I showed Farmer H, and he suggested that it might be a spider bite. I don't think so. To make matters worse, and more curious, on Sunday night, another such bump popped up on my right index finger, between the punching knuckle and the frogging knuckle, on the side by my bad finger.

There's more to this story...

This One Has Me Stumped

The power line that was knocked down at Country Mart several days ago still has not been repaired properly. I THINK it's a power line. It could be a phone line for all I know. They both run on big tall poles.

See the jagged top of that broken-off pole? I don't know why it's still there. I haven't looked closely, because when I'm entering or leaving the road, I pay attention to my driving, so as not to KNOCK DOWN A POLE, heh, heh!

Maybe there's still a wire running down that stump, to connect to that metal thingy on the ground. Maybe somebody will get that fixed during the upcoming work week. For now, the wires running across from the other poles are very low. A delivery truck could catch on them if it's very tall. That won't be good for anyone!

I'm not sure what that building is in the background. It's not the rat poison factory. That is to the right, out of frame.

Hope they get this work done in the morning hours, so as not to disrupt my daily scratcher purchase out of the machines!

24 Hours Around The Mansion

Friday night, my little Jack was restless. He was barking on the front porch at 12:30 a.m. Barking. Barking. In kind of a frenzy, though not his STRANGER bark. He kept going down the porch steps and onto the brick sidewalk, or under the dirty-white picket fence and into the front yard. On and off went the solar motion lights Farmer H has planted along the front sidewalk.

I opened the front door to take a look, and caught Jack sitting at the top of the steps. He wriggled his way over to the door, front paws in, asking permission to enter. Nope. That's not allowed, per the decree of Farmer H. I bent down to pet Jack. Talked calmly to him. And saw Copper Jack skulking around in the side yard between the Mansion and the Shackytown Boulevard area.

"Jack. It's okay. I don't know why you bark at that dog. He's your buddy! He's here ALL DAY LONG. But at night you want to pretend he's a threat to us. It's okay. Calm down. I'm not mad. You're a good dog. My good boy."

Of course Jack only heard "Jack." And maybe "good dog."

He backed up as I closed the door. And was quiet. I don't want to get in the habit of petting him when he barks. That's the wrong message. But I guess he was just stressed, feeling like the whole job of guarding the Mansion now rests upon his low freckled shoulders.

Saturday evening, around 6:00, a big storm rolled through. I was not expecting it. I'd only seen a forecast for a chance of rain overnight. Farmer H was gone over to Outer Sis-Town for the annual credit union dinner. 

The sky turned black as night, where usually it's light until after 8:00 p.m. The wind was whipping the trees in a leaf-stripping circular motion. Rain started to pelt the metal roof of the Mansion. I went to check on the weather on the city TV stations. The satellite went off. Then my internet went off. The Pony sent me a text:

"Tornado sirens going off here in town."

I gave him my weather situation.

"Rain only really hit here 20 minutes ago. Sirens just stopped. Not that dark here. Still a bit of thunder and lightning, but rain isn't even all that heavy right now. Just to the point it gets tough to deliver in."

"Go to your hall bathroom if you need to. Or to the hall by your laundry room."

"Sirens going off again now. Keeping an eye out the window, ready to move if I need to. Rain looks to have mostly stopped. App gives about 20 minutes for the warnings to be past."

When I informed Farmer H, he replied: "Thunder here."

When Farmer H got home at 8:00, it was full dark, but the wind had stopped. Just a little rain. Farmer H said he never knew about the wind or the warnings.

Farmer H also reported that when he came in the kitchen door, little Jack was in Juno's house. Good. He's safe there. I hope he makes a habit of it.

The Uncelebrated Jumping Balm Of Hillmomba Mansion

Farmer H was in for a talking-to during Friday's "This Is the Time of Day We Talk About the Most Recent Thing You've Done Wrong." Of course he denied any knowledge of doing wrong...

Farmer H has been putting Arthritis-Strength Hempvana on his aching hips every night.  It comes in a small white jar, about the size of a peach, with a screw-top lid. For his convenience, Farmer H keeps that little jar in the master bathroom, to apply after a shower. 

I know you won't believe this, but Farmer H once again has found a way to inconvenience Mrs. HM! He sets the Hempvana jar on the edge of the big triangle tub, right where I lay my folded pants before my shower. That is MY territory! 

The first time, I cut Farmer H some slack. Perhaps he didn't know that spot is reserved for my town pants. So I said nothing. I just moved the Hempvana jar six inches sideways, and on top of a plastic box of baby wipes that hasn't been used in years, with contents most likely as dry as tissue paper. Sure, they could probably be revived with a bit of water sprinkled inside. I don't remember why we had them in the first place. Perhaps some former affliction of Farmer H that left him unable to shower for a couple days. Anyhoo... no need to congratulate us. We are not having a baby...

That was a perfect solution. With the Hempvana jar on top of the baby wipes box on the corner of the tub, there was space once again for my pre-shower town pants. Who wouldn't notice the relocation, and realize that the Hempvana had a new resting place?

FARMER H, THAT'S WHO!

For a week now, I move the Hempvana up on the baby wipes, and for a week now, I find it back in my way on the edge of the tub when I go in to shower.

When I asked Farmer H why he keeps returning the Hempvana to MY RIGHTFUL PANTS SPACE, he replied,

"Oh. I didn't notice."

"What do you mean, you didn't notice? Do you think that Hempvana jumps up on the baby wipes box every night while you're asleep?"

"I didn't notice that it's moved. I just put it back where I always put it."

Yes. In an open space that I use for my needs. Same as with every open space in this Mansion, from FRIG II's shelves, to the kitchen counter, to the table between recliner and short couch, to the kitchen table, to the laundry room shelves and freezer top!!!

It's like an unhidden talent that nobody in the world would celebrate. Except maybe another space-stealer.