I TOLD You I Have A SuperPower!

Just in case there was any doubt about Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's superpower being serendipity...I present the following vignette from today's trip to town.

This morning I planned on getting gas station chicken for my lunch. You snooze, you lose, when you wait until actual lunch time to procure your gas station chicken. Last week, they barely had any left when I got there at 11:15. Silly me. I thought they probably put it out at 11:00, but it appears that it's at least 10:30. After all, I spent almost 20 years with my allotted lunch time starting at 10:53. It's only fitting that the chicken is ready early here in Hillmomba.

I knew I wanted to leave home between 10:00 and 10:30. I prepped Farmer H's supper materials so they would only need a-warmin' later. Cleaned a few items out of the refrigerator. I washed dishes. I checked the innernets. Watched a few snippets of Don't Be Tardy, which was apparently a partial marathon today. I took a shower.

By now it was 10:10. I fished around in the side of my purse for the chicken-buyin' money. Found my phone and went out to the garage. I heard Jack raising a ruckus down behind the house. I thought of calling him, but decided against it. I hit the doorbell-like button and opened the garage door. Climbed into T-Hoe and started him up.

The radio came on and--

Let the record show that ever since Farmer H had that metal roof installed, I can't get my SiriusXM stations in the garage. Once T-Hoe is halfway in, the radio goes silent. I can still get the regular AM/FM stations, though. Mostly, I listen to the satellite stations, and end and start my drives in silence. Not today. I'd left it on a regular station, 96.3 KNOU, yesterday when I parked. So, the radio came on, and--

I heard the announcer jabbering the end of something she was promoting, and in the background, the beginnings of my second-favorite song lately that I was hoping to hear,

"Thinking Out Loud." By Ed Sheeran.

Yep. Right from the beginning. The minute I turned on the car. Every little second taken up by my chores had led to this specific moment. Right down to how many swallows of water I took with my medicine, and the number of times I rinsed my mouth after brushing my teeth, and how many times I ran the pick through my lovely lady-mullet.

If I hear my third favorite song in the car tomorrow, I'm gonna be a little creeped out...

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's SuperPower Is SERENDIPITY

Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not one to listen to modern music. And by that, let's pin modern down to post-1980s. Or perhaps post-1990s if we're talking about country. But every now and then, a song catches her ear. Not that she knows the name of it, or the artist, or even the time period. She just hears a song she likes, and it gets in her head.

Last week I heard such a song. I happened upon it by chance. T-Hoe's radio is tuned to 10 stations for music purposes. Okay. Two are not so much for music as for local sports during basketball season, or an occasional local news story. As you might imagine of a radio station in Hillmomba, the names of these stations are "Froggy" and "The Boot." Yes. When music is played, it is country. Hymns on Sunday mornings on one of them.

Most of Mrs. HM's tune-listenin' occurs on Sirius XM, switching among The 60s, The 70s, The 80s (but not much), Prime Country, and Classic Vinyl. Every now and then, like around noon when they might have a commercial-free hour, Mrs. HM goes to St. Louis stations 103.3 KLOU, 96.3 KNOU, and 106.5 The Arch (it's all about the variety, as the dude who plays J. Peterman on Seinfeld voices over).

So...today on the way to shift some money from CDs to savings for easier access for the boys' college expenses for the next year...Mrs. HM had a yearnin' to hear that song. What are the odds, people, of her finding that very song, one of perhaps a jillion songs that are played on the radio, on the only 10 stations she listens to, within 30 seconds, one trip down the stations, in the order: Classic Vinyl, Prime Country, 80s, 70s, 60s, Froggy, The Boot, *The Arch*

WINNER, WINNER, CHICKEN DINNER! Okay. The chicken dinner will be tomorrow, because the gas station chicken store is fowl free on Mondays and Tuesdays. But as soon as I wanted that song, and went ONE PARTIAL TRIP down the stations, I hit it! Just beginning!

I've had this song stuck in my head for days. It had the phrases "some nights" and "don't know what I stand for" and "look into my nephew's eyes." So...Mrs. HM took those phrases to her estranged BFF Google, and came up with the song. Whaddayaknow? It's from 2012. That's MODERN by Mrs. HM's standards. And there's a video! Never saw it until a few minutes ago. But here's the song.

It's "Some Nights." By Fun.

Who knew?

I Refuse To Call A Doctor When The Patient Isn't Sick

Oh, dear. My Windows computer is sick again. You'd think that thing is unhealthier than Ali McGraw near the end of Love Story!

I haven't noticed any wheezing or coughing from either Shiba in the living room, or New Delly in my dark basement lair. Not even any sniffling. It's a good thing a man with a thick accent called last week to let me know they were under-the-weather!

Perhaps you remember how The Pony was horrified the last time it happened, when I SCREAMED as loud as I could into the receiver of the Mansion cordless phone, and told the guy to stop scamming me. Yes, poor Pony smacked his forehead with his hand. Good thing he doesn't have hooves. Still, I haven't had one call about my sick Windows computer since then. Until last week.

You know what I did this time? I told the guy to EFF OFF! Uh huh. And that I was tired of him trying to scam me. The Pony isn't here now. As I texted the #1 son this afternoon, telling him that and of my latest Windows computer adventure: "I grow bold in my retirement, without The Pony around to be a role model for. At least I didn't scream into the phone this time."

I think the Windows computer guy might have taken offense at being told to EFF OFF. Maybe I should have just screamed again. Because after only one short week, I got home from town today to find a message on my Mansion phone.

"...Microsoft Corporation has stopped the services in your computer. To renew the Windows License Key, please call ZZZ ZZZ-ZZZZ. I will repeat. This is to notify you that your Microsoft Windows License Key has been expired in your computer, so Microsoft Corporation has stopped the services in your computer. To renew your Windows License Key, please call ZZZ ZZZ-ZZZZ."

SWEET GUMMI MARY!

I sure didn't know that the license key has been expired in my computer! Either one of them. They work just fine. I'm really sorry that I missed that call. And doubly sorry that it was a recording.

I have a really good scream that's been building up!

Where Cops Are A-Flockin', Don't Go A-Gawkin'

We had a real type of thing goin' down in Hillmomba, had a criminal element goin' down!

I don't know exactly WHAT was goin' down, but I can't wait to figuratively pick up the local online newspaper tomorrow to see if it is mentioned.

There I was, minding my own business, doing without a 44 oz Diet Coke in the gas station chicken store (somebody needs to pay closer attention to ordering inventory so they don't run out so often), when I heard a siren. I saw a police car go by, headed back toward the Mansion direction. When it's an ambulance, I worry. But Farmer H was home mowing, so I didn't figure he was Public Enemy #1 at this juncture.

I bought a lesser beverage, a 40 oz Diet Pepsi/4 oz Lemonade, and walked out to see flashing lights on the Hardee's parking lot. When I got T-Hoe onto the road and stopped at the light, I saw that there were 5 police cars, local and and county, parked at odd angles on the lot, and another local cop car headed through the light.

The uniformed officers were standing over a single subject. Looked like a big 'un! Legs like tree trunks. Birch. Yeah. Those legs hadn't seen the sunlight in quite a while. Makes me wonder why the suspect was flashing them around in those red athletic shorts and ankle socks. It looked like the police had the situation under control. The suspect appeared to be laying on his back, ankles crossed, like they make them do. I couldn't see face or arms or upper body for all the cop legs in the way.

I don't know if there was a drug deal goin' down, if somebody got chased off the highway in a stolen car, or if a lunch-eater in Hardee's was blinded by the glare of those white, white legs. All I know is that there was quite a flurry of law enforcement surrounding a suspect on the ground. Traffic at the lights was erratic, what with drivers gawking and not watching for their turn to go.

Glad I didn't plan on picking up anything at Hardee's for lunch.

Did You See The SIze Of That Rack?

Heh, heh! That's just the kind of question Farmer H wants Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to ask him. The fact that it was related to the deer antlers that Puppy Jack had dragged out into the front yard was not what he wanted to hear about.

The deer antlers have been here awhile. Since last poaching season. Get it? I crack myself up sometimes. POACHING is hunting out of season! So the last poaching season has been all the time since the last official deer season. Last fall. Okay. So maybe you had to be here, watching that little longfellow dragging antlers across the lawn.

Juno had possession of the rack for most of the year. She kept them in her doghouse on the back porch by the kitchen door. Among a collection of Jack's puppy toys. I'm surprised she could find room in there to sleep. I saw those antlers every time I went in or out the door. To the Mansion, of course. I'm not in the doghouse. I SEND people to the doghouse.

Earlier this week, when the cold snap came, Jack and Juno grew extraordinarily frisky. I saw them in the front yard with a myriad of toys, some that Jack had craftily hidden for himself. They battled over his canvas duck that squeaks, his mini tire on a rope, a golf ball used to make chickens sit, those antlers, and a tree limb about six feet long, two inches in diameter. That was a hoot, seeing Jack trying to prance around with it.

I warned Farmer H that he should look out for the antlers. The grass has taken off since last weekend's mowing, and even when I was walking across the yard, I could barely see the antlers. I was worried that Farmer H might run over them with the new lawnmower (which cost a pretty undiscussed penny, if you remember correctly) and tear up the mower deck. Farmer H was more concerned with puncturing a tire, probably on his Gator. It's like a Devil's Playground beeper cart for him.

I hope Juno learns to keep her rack to herself in the future.

Maybe We Can Set Up A Psychic's Shed In Shackytown

There's an invisible bond between mothers and their children. At least around this ol' Mansion.

Every Monday, I mail a letter to the #1 son, and a letter to The Pony. #1 gets his on Wednesday. The Pony's usually comes on Thursday. The best I can tell. The Pony is not exactly one to rush to the mailbox and look for it. Sometimes he remembers. Sometimes I have to ask him if he got it. (Shh...don't tell anyone, but I tuck some money in there for his beloved Papa John's Pizza.) The Pony is a placid critter, and ambles through life getting around to things when he gets around to them.

#1 is a go-getter. He goes and gets the mail when he gets to his rented house full of computer brainiacs. Their mailbox is out on the curb at the end of their short driveway on the end of the cul-de-sac. If one of his roomies beats him to it, he finds it on the kitchen table. #1 might be more concerned with the mail because the house and utilities are in his name, and he's trying to build a good credit score. The fact that I put two lottery tickets and six dollars into his envelope might also have something to do with it.

Wednesday evening, in a short texting session with The Pony, I reminded him that he should have a letter the next day. I didn't bother him then, but today, two days later, I thought I would check. Just in case he forgot.

I left my lair and took a dog-bopped walk up the driveway twice. Then I went over by the BARn. Then came back and sat on the front porch pew. I didn't have my glasses, so I held my phone out at the end of my arm and sent a simple sentence:

"Did you get your letter?"

I had no sooner laid the phone down on the porch pew to pull my sweatpants legs up to my knees to keep Juno's burrs off of them than my phone chimed and vibrated. Meaning an incoming text. That was pretty quick for The Pony. He sometimes takes five or ten minutes to answer. And not because the text comes a long way from Oklahoma!

I picked up the phone and saw,

*hugs*
I read the letter!
I'm thinking of applying for the Honors at Oxford session this summer.

That was funny. It came in above the line I had just sent. Wait a minute! I hadn't hit the send arrow! My sentence was still sitting there waiting for more, or to be sent. WTNH? (What The Not Heaven?) I typed more, and hit the send arrow:

"Did you get your letter? do a bunch of people go? With a sponsor?
"Seriously. Did you answer about my letter before I sent it, or did it go through?"

And The Pony sent back, "I just read the letter!"

Got a little bit of psychic in us, it seems.

A Cluster-Fraught Day Of Pure Even-Stevenness

I knew it would catch up to me. I DID! Even Steven never just drops $155 worth of winning scratch-off tickets in your lap the week before you're taking your 21-year-old son to the casino. There's a price to be paid for unearned income. A price levied in a day fraught with obstacles.

Today I whipped up a treat for the #1 son to take back to his college house on Saturday. Nothing elaborate, but it DID involve the oven for 22-25 minutes, and a sink of dishes. I picked up a bit of the Farmer H hoard in the kitchen. Surely you don't think Mrs. Hillbilly Mom would be a part of the clutter, do you? Just because the kitchen is HER domain doesn't make her responsible for every item that lingers there.

Like that Christmas gift bag that loitered under the right (as in direction, not as in a choice) window of the three big curved windows of the section that sticks out where the kitchen table resides. I know it's September. Twenty-ninth. But it wasn't MY gift. Under the red, green, and white tissue paper, I found treats meant for The Pony. I think he got this at school, from his secret pal right before Christmas. Inside was an 8-pack of tiny cans of Sprite. Little thin ones, not the squatty kind you might get on a hospital tray. One was missing. There were two bags of Haribo gummi bears, still squishy, which I set aside for a future care package. A bag of Cheetos (crunchy) that expired in February, which I threw away (don't need the chickens laying orange eggs), along with a can of regular Pringles (didn't bother to check the date).

Not that I got all the mess undone. That's just to show you why I was considerably late for my 44 oz Diet Coke today. In fact, it was after 1:00 when I left for town. I hoped to be back by 2:00 to enjoy my magical elixir alongside my lunch, which was only a TV dinner, but fast at 6:00 minutes. You know what? If Mrs. HM had hoped in one hand, and...well...you don't need to know what with the other hand...I guaran-darn-tee you that her HOPE hand would NOT have filled up first today.

I stopped for the mail, which was only an insurance statement from Farmer H's most recent shot (THIS WAS NOT A BILL). No weirdo hanging around, but another strange sight that I didn't get a picture of today, so cloudy, but will try tomorrow. As I started T-Hoe to pull out on the blacktop county road at EmBee, a Lowe's delivery panel truck tried to squeeze in before I was out. Not a good omen. How often does Lowe's come out here, anyway? Rarely, unless somebody is getting a new Frig that they will dent the door of and somebody's husband will take a small discount rather than make them bring a new door.

You remember how Mrs. HM plays her hunches? Her Hunch-O-Meter was working overtime today. The whole way to town, I was debating on where to get my 44 oz Diet Coke. The fountain at the gas station chicken store has been dispensing delicious elixir this week. But surely it's ready to weaken. And parking is sometimes hard to find there. But it is at Orb K too! Except this was not lunch time, but 1:15. Something kept pulling me to Orb K. "It's only 83 cents there," the something said. "And you probably don't have your correct change for the gas station chicken store."

Huh. It was like in Animal House, when Pinto had the devil on one shoulder, and an angel on the other, both telling him how to handle his passed-out date. "But Orb K was out of Diet Coke that one time! It ran CLEAR! You don't want that." The other shoulder's occupant argued, "But Orb K is closer. You can cut five minutes at least off your trip if you don't go through the stoplights."

I had pretty much decided that Orb K it would be. It's not like anything was riding on this choice other than time and convenience. No lottery today. Not until after the casino trip. As I rolled past the prison, I decided that if parking was good at Orb K, that was a sign I should go there. Coasting down the hill right before my left turn onto their lot, I saw that Orb K did INDEED have plenty of parking spaces. Even my favorite, right by their sidewalk slanty part for the handicapped, so my knees wouldn't have to step up or down. BUT I KEPT GOING!

"I really have been enjoying the crisp taste of the gas station chicken store's Diet Coke. It was good yesterday. I'll just go there, and be sure." I went through the light. Under the overpass. Through the next light. Waited for my left turn signal at the third. "Oh. There's a red car in my favorite spot. But the driver's door is open! They must be leaving." My light turned and so did I, onto the lot. The red car was still sitting. AND there were two cars next to it, even though I don't park on that hill. AND there was a red pickup hitched to one of those plain white closed-in trailers like you can haul race cars in. Or work equipment. It was at one of the pumps, sticking back into the area where I usually park by the moat that separates the GSCS (gas station chicken store) from Farmer H's pharmacy. AND, as I got over there, I saw that another such rig, identical down to the color of the truck and trailer, was parked along the side by the diesel pump near the air hose and dumpster.

As you can imagine, I was kicking myself (figuratively, because my knees won't bend like that) for ignoring my hunch for Orb K. I had actually pulled into my parking spot. But then I thought how crowded it would be inside with all those people. So I backed up and went out the back exit and back to the light and back under the overpass to Orb K. As two cars turned in there ahead of me, and another oncoming car signaled and sat waiting on me. I knew I would never beat all three of them to the soda fountain. But here I was. Time was a-wastin'. And my favorite parking spot was still open!

Inside, the other patrons had gone to grab other conveniences. I bellied up to the soda fountain and pulled my 44 oz cup. A bit of crushed ice. I pushed it against the lever for Diet Coke, and

IT RAN CLEAR!!!

Sweet Gummi Mary! I didn't have time for this. No way was I going to show that layabout clerk that the Diet Coke was out. Not after last time, when it took so long, and then he offered to go switch it out, and then said, "Don't you want another kind?" No siree, Bob! I poured that clear liquid into the soda fountain trough and trashed the cup. Out the door I went. Let them come after me if they thought I just came in to sip-and-run!

Back through the lights and under the overpass. Back to the GSCS. The red car was still there. But a girl was standing in the open driver's door! Maybe she was just leaving. I drove past the lot and onto the side street to come in the back way. I'll be ding-dang-donged if those two trailered pickups were STILL there! I parked at my moat spot again. Shook my change container and came up with exact. Looked back over my shoulder at the red car, and saw that the hood was up, and a man was looking under it with the girl. So much for that plan. I wound my way around the end of that trailer at the pump, and went inside.

Nobody else was there! I pulled a cup, clanked in some ice, pushed the lever, and out came sweet, sweet Diet Coke! I sipped a bit so it wouldn't overflow the lid when I squeezed it to carry it, and it was tasty. Paid my money. Off to the Mansion and lunch.

The pump trailered pickup had turned around and was blocking T-Hoe with its trailer. Rassen frassen trucker! I muttered uncomplimentary assumptions about his lineage as I went around and climbed in T-Hoe. It was all kinds of tricky, but I maneuvered my way between moat and trailer and got out of there. Lunch was served at 2:30.

From the depths of my (lighted) basement lair, I think I heard Even Steven chuckle.