Technology Thwarts Mrs. HM Once Again

Yesterday morning, I was having a text conversation with Farmer H about why his Trailblazer was parked all willy-nilly cattywompus over by the chicken pen. Seems he'd tried to drive though the muddy front yard at an inopportune time.

Anyhoo...he asked about our phone bill, and if the discount from Genius's work had ever been applied.

"Did that Sprint credit ever show up?"

"Yes, I told you when the bill came. That it was 15 percent off the base charge, not the whole bill. Miser!"

"You didn't tell me that!"

"Yes I did. You were in the recliner, and I was on the couch. I said it didn't quite pay Genius's part, but close enough."

"Hmmm, I don't remember that."

"Shocker."

Okay. So late last night, I checked to see if Farmer H had sent me any messages, and discovered that the line about the phone bill was not there. I'd mistakenly sent it to GENIUS!

"As you might have deduced yesterday...I thought I was texting Dad. He was texting me at the same time yours came in. My apologies for the tone. Indeed, I had NOT told you about the discount. Which I think is around $23.00 or a little less."

Within seconds, I had a return text.

"So am I expected to start contributing to my cell phone bill?"

"No. That discount you got us covers most of it."

"Great, that can go to my car insurance bill that's now $800 for six months!"

"Welcome to OUR life since you turned 16. And be glad you're over 21 now. That made it cheaper."

"It was only $550 before I left your group policy!"

"It used to be as astronomical as The Pony's."

"Well, it certainly isn't cheap anymore."

"At least you are earning more than I ever did per year!"

Yeah. I think Genius will be okay. He won $20 on a scratcher I sent him, too.

I really need to pay more attention to those texts. One of these days, my faux pas is going to bite me in the butt.

Under The Weather And Over The Towel

Farmer H was feeling a little...um...indisposed early last week. You know. When he thought he'd picked up food poisoning from eating bad cheese that he put on his hot dog. Or that I'd brought home and sickened him with from my travels to various convenience stores.

Because of his indisposedness, Farmer H could hardly leave the Mansion two or three times a day to head to town. He was always running back in, straight to the bathroom. He had a doctor's appointment the day before we left on Oklahoma Casino Minipalooza. When he returned, he seemed almost chipper. The doctor told him he had a virus, and to take some Pepto Bismol. I suppose he was just relieved that he wasn't wasting away from that debilitating convenience store death sentence that I, Convenience Store Mary, was spreading throughout Hillmomba.

Anyhoo...in the days between coming down with his indisposedness, and taking the Pepto Bismol, Farmer H attempted to assuage any damage to furniture from...um... leakage...by placing a barrier between himself and said furniture. Did he use something that readily lent itself to being soaked with...um...indisposededness juice? I might as well make that a rhetorical question, because I certainly know the answer, and I'm pretty sure you do, too.

THIS IS WHAT HE USED!

MY NEWEST TOWEL!

Forget the lint in this picture. It's the only photo I had of my NEWEST TOWEL, since I'm not some weirdo who goes around taking pictures of her towels. Well. More than once. I can't even give Farmer H a little bit of credit for using the dark blue one, because I'm pretty sure I gave the teal one to Genius, because he said he liked it. After all, I DID buy two new towels because Genius and The Pony and Genius's Friend were going to stay here on Christmas Eve. Guess who had to use an old towel? Yep. The Pony. Who probably didn't even notice that he drew the short straw in the towel selection sweepstakes.

Anyhoo...I got up one morning to see Farmer H arise from the La-Z-Boy, taking his tighty-whitey-clad butt off MY NEWEST TOWEL.

Let the record show that a catastrophe was avoided, as Farmer H was able to contain himself long enough to make it to the bathroom. However...a couple days later, I saw my NEWEST TOWEL folded on top of the dryer.

And I didn't see any lint on Farmer H's clothes.

All The Maligning...And Then He Does THIS

After dragging Farmer H through the mud lately, he goes and does something nice for me.

That was a Precious Moment. The figurine. Not the actual instant that Farmer H presented the gift to me. I think Precious Moments are like a poor man's Hummel. I'm not a big fan of either, but who's going to refuse a gift that Farmer H found in his storage unit haul? It cost him $1100, you know. Speaking of which, he paid all that money back last week, and has now been pulling in profits for his own pocket.

Anyhoo...I know that Farmer H just found this little figurine today, while cleaning out his storage unit swag. And that he figures only 1/12 of the population might need this February angel with a tiny, painted-on, amethyst necklace. So he thought he could curry favor with ME by gifting me with it, instead of hoping to make a couple of dollars selling it.

Let the record show that his tactics WORKED!

Another Beginning Of Another End

Yesterday, I headed down to my dark basement lair after a trying trip to The Devil's Playground. I arranged my three beverage cups and lunch just so, pushed the power button on my New Delly, and turned on my underdesk electric heater to take the chill off the lair while I was filling my yellow bubba cup with water from the NASCAR bathroom. I run that heater all the time. The warmth makes my knees feel better.

I had only made it a few steps. Was leaning over the sink, when I heard a THUMP THUMP noise. I figured that maybe Farmer H was working on something. I went over to the basement mini fridge for a bottle of Diet Coke to add to my 44 oz as it weakened. I still heard the THUMP THUMP. The noise grew louder as I returned to my lair.

It was my underdesk heater!

There was also a burny kind of smell. Like when you turn on your furnace for the first time each winter. Only this was NOT the first time I'd turned on my underdesk heater. I used it every day. I quickly turned off the power. Turned it back on.

The THUMP THUMP started again!

I adjusted the heat. The speed of the blower from low to high. Nothing stopped that THUMP THUMP. Until...I moved the heater out from under the desk a little bit. Carefully fiddled with both knobs again. And got it running smoothly.

I don't know what went wrong, but my underdesk heater is working like normal today. Please excuse the dust and stuff all over him. He lives under my desk. I barely dust things out in the open. This heater has been in use under my desk for at least 15 years. Never had a problem.

Let the record show that I NEVER, EVER leave it running if I'm not in my office. The only exception being for a trip to the bathroom or the mini fridge. I turn it off if I go upstairs, or if I go to watch TV in my OPC (Old People Chair). I've heard of the horrors of space heaters. They're nothing to be trifled with.

I am going to mention this malfunction to Farmer H soon. But every time I think of it, I'm planning to spend some quality time alone in front of New Delly. So I don't want Farmer H down here poking around. I'm pretty sure it's something with the fan, because that's when the noise started up. Or was it the thermostat? Well. Short of this problem happening again, I'm not going to be very good at helping Farmer H diagnose the problem. I THINK it was the knob on the right that caused the noise. But maybe not...

One thing is for sure. RIVAL the Underdesk Heater is not going to be left running unattended. Even for a trip to the NASCAR bathroom.

The Beginning Of The End

I'm getting closer. Closer to saying goodbye to my favorite old baby blue sweatshirt. I know that I said I was getting rid of it a couple months ago. That Farmer H had taken it and put it in a bag with HIS OLD SOCKS! But he took pity on me when I was sick, and needed the comfort of my soft old baby blue sweatshirt, and fished it out of that foot-horror grave. Since then, I have been reluctant to relinquish it.

It's obvious that my old friend and I must part. He's holding me back. Literally. So many times now, his left sleeve gets caught. Caught on the drawer pull, caught on by thumb, caught on my pinky finger, caught on the end of the TV remote, caught on the sink faucet, caught on the liquid soap spout.

I CUT HIM!

Sliced the bejeebers out of my favorite old baby blue sweatshirt's left cuff. No. There's not enough shape or material left to make a fashionable (1981) sweatband from that excised cuff.

It could possibly make a gently-used headband for someone with a giant Charlie Brown head.

And Enough Material For That Series To Be Renewed

Fresh on the heels of yesterday's tale of Farmer H's foibles...another food faux pas came to light this evening shortly after sunset. I really hate to go back-to-back with complaints about Farmer H.

HA HA HA HA HA!

Like I'd ever regret THAT! No, I have no qualms about sharing the latest outrageous pronouncement of Farmer H concerning the foodstuffs found in FRIG II.

I had just served Farmer H his supper. That means I had prepared it, and he went to the kitchen and put it on a plate and carried it to his La-Z-Boy. I knew he was going to do that. I'm not complaining about that part. It's the routine now. I made his asked-for hot dogs rolled in biscuits. I went to sit on the short couch, to have dinner conversation with him.

As Farmer H's dinner was consumed, and conversation waned, I said that I was going to make my own dinner, which would be ham on the biscuits that weren't used for hot dog rolling.

"Oh. That's what I'll make myself for supper tomorrow when I'm ready. You won't have to. I'll use that ham steak you have in there, and some eggs."

"I don't have a ham steak."

"Yeah. In the refrigerator. In that black wrapper."

"That's not a ham steak. It's sliced ham."

"Okay. It looks like a thick piece of ham. I'll have that."

"No. It's just slices, in a pack. From WAY BACK, when you were making yourself a ham sandwich for lunch every day. Probably before Christmas."

"No. It's a thick piece of ham. I'll have that."

"You can't eat that! It's too old! I was just looking at it this morning. It's on the shelf by the cheese. I know what you're talking about. I'm giving it to the dogs, but I didn't want to lay it out on the counter. Don't eat it! I can buy you a ham steak when I go to the store."

"Well, that one's in there. It'll be fine."

"I'm done! There's no talking to you."

I went to the kitchen and poked my arm into the depths of FRIG II, and pulled out that package of 4 ham slices with an expiration date of JAN 23, 2018. I took it into the living room and waved it under Farmer H's nose.

"HERE! I was trying to tell you! Why can't you ever listen to me? Go ahead and eat it. I'm putting it back in."

"No. I don't think I should eat that."

EXACTLY!

But he would have.

Pretty Sure I Have Enough Material For A Series

I realize Farmer H has been sick lately. And he might be feeling a bit out of sorts. So I'm cutting him a break on his buttholey behavior this week.

HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Excuse me. My ribs are hurting, and my liver-spotted, paper-thin old lady skin has picked up assorted crumbs of Chex, crispy Gas Station Chicken batter, and mud from the floor as I rolled around belly-laughing. Whew! Let me peel this used Bounce dryer sheet off my back. There.

You know that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not one to hold back her feelings where Farmer H is concerned. No siree, Bob! Mrs. HM is not one to let resentment smolder like sneaky coals waiting to re-ignite a house fire after the firemen have departed. Not one to bury her resentment like a bandit concealing his ill-gotten fortune for later retrieval by his cronies. Not one to hide her resentment like an ostrich sticking its head in the sand. Mrs. HM lets her resentment flag fly!

That's right. I'm kind of like Dr. Pimple Popper, except I don't have my own TV show. But if I did, I'd call it Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, Resentment Releaser. Because I prod and squeeze and let my resentment burst into the light of day with sometimes explosive results.

Farmer H is getting on my last nerve.

Let's start with his sickness. I know I mentioned it here or there, but facts are, Farmer H got sick on Saturday afternoon with vomiting and diarrhea. He had been touching buttons in the casino on Thursday afternoon, and made a visit to his doctor's office for a shot on Friday afternoon. I suggested that he'd picked up a virus at one of those places. The timing was right, and I know Farmer H doesn't wash his hands regularly. Yet Farmer H insisted that he'd gotten food poisoning from BAD CHEESE that was in FRIG II. Shredded cheddar, with an expiration date in April, that I had been eating for several days with no digestive problems.

NOW, Farmer H dares to accuse ME of making him sick. "You go out to all kinds of convenience stores! How do I know YOU didn't bring something home and breathe it on me while I sleep? And all this (Farmer H mocked me clearing my throat, in a much-exaggerated manner). How many times have YOU made me sick?"

Um. None that I recall. I sleep on my left side, back to Farmer H, my breath going AWAY from him. And it probably wouldn't work its way down under the quilt over his head, or inside the breather mask over his gaping maw and snout, either. Besides...I'm not even sick.

Farmer H never takes responsibility for ANYTHING! Not even making himself sick with questionable hygiene practices. Sweet Gummi Mary! You'd think I tracked down a vial of prime diarrhea/nausea virus, and injected it into Farmer H's veins while he slept.

Also, I went to wash a load of laundry, and upon checking the dryer lint trap, which I do each time, I found a sheet of fluff that was thicker than a comforter! I peeled it loose, and took it to show Farmer H, laying on the lint trap screen. The fluff. Not Farmer H. He was sitting on the long couch with his boots full of mud propped on the coffee table.

"You do know how these things work, right?"

"Yes. I know how they work."

"I guess you just don't bother to empty it, then. Look at all that!"

"I empty it every time."

See? He thinks that by SAYING something is so...that MAKES it so.

THEN he had to bring up the cheese. Different cheese than the shredded cheddar that allegedly poisoned HIM, but not me.

"Just the other day, I would have thought the pepper jack was good if I hadn't looked at it! I got it out for my sandwich, and there was MOLD!"

Said accusingly. AS IF I should do a daily inventory of FRIG II. Take out the pepper jack that only Farmer H eats, and look it over with a magnifying glass to see if mold is starting to grow. As if you can tell, anyway, with all the peppers in that cheese. Besides, cheese is MADE by growing mold, right? And how about the EATER of the cheese be the one to determine its suitability for eating? Huh? How about THAT? Because that's kind of what adults do, right? Look at their food as they are preparing it. To see if it's okay.

Cheese doesn't come with an alarm to alert you the second it goes bad, so you can throw it out. Seriously. He acted like I bought some moldy cheese in a back alley, and prepared a sandwich for him on purpose, and then he happened to check it, and discovered that it was moldy! How in the world is it MY fault that cheese only he eats will grow mold if he leaves it there long enough without telling me it's time for new cheese?

That now concludes this episode of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, Resentment Releaser. Tune in next week, or be on the lookout for a breaking news bulletin.