Getting My Hopes Up Again

I was minding my own beeswax on Wednesday afternoon, sitting at the kitchen table with HIPPIE, when I got a text from Farmer H. It said: "Do you want this?" It was followed by a picture of...

A PUPPY!

I don't have it loaded on my computer yet. So a picture will have to wait. I was shocked. Of course I want it! I could tell half of its heritage right away. But I had to ask what kind. You know, to make sure it's something we can handle.

"Yes! If you think it won't get too big. Those look like big dog feet."

"The mother is about twice as tall as Jack. I don't think it will be too big."

Anyhoo... I'll get that picture loaded for tomorrow. Farmer H says he can't bring it home yet. But in two weeks. I hope the weather settles down a bit by then. It's not from a rescue, so time is not an issue. I hope Jack is willing to accept a little brother.

Mystery Solved

Monday around 1:40, there was a knock at the door. With temps back up to the upper 20s, I didn't mind speaking through a crack in the door. I found the Steve Zahn tree-trimmer guy on the front porch, with Jack wagging his tail and staring at him.

Trimmer Steve said, "I was here Friday, but nobody answered."

"Well, it takes me a long time to get to the door." Not that I owed him an explanation. It's MY Mansion, and I'll answer the door when I want to.

"We trimmed a bunch around the cedars over by that barn. We have the grinder, but want to know if it's okay to just shove the trimmings back into the brush. It looks like you keep the field mowed."

"Yes, that's fine. We don't care."

"Also, is it okay to cut over there by the road? It looks like some honeysuckle or something growing there."

"I don't know about the honeysuckle. There used to be blackberries over there. They'll grow back, won't they?"

"Yes. But it might take years."

"Well, we don't use them for anything. So you can cut them. My husband thought it might be about his trailer over there being in the way. He can't get in there right now to move it, but said you guys can move it with your equipment. But I know maybe you can't do that because of insurance liability or something."

"I don't know about insurance, but probably can't because our boss will say no. We don't need that trailer out of our way. The electric guys might. I'll pass on that information. Also, this area right here? In front of the house, by those sheds? We can't use our trimmer there because there's too much going on. The limbs might fall on the wires. So we'll be using a man-lift there. So we can hold the limbs as we trim, and drop them out of the way. You might have somebody else knocking on your door."

"I'd rather they not! Whatever you have to do is fine. We drive through the yard all the time. Just don't drive on that white pipe sticking up. See that? It's our well."

"Oh. I see it. I'll tell them it's okay to use the man-lift."

"And watch out, because there's a sinkhole behind those sheds. Not as big as the one out front, but when the snow melts, it's noticeable."

"Okay. I'll tell them about the sinkhole. I'm the one who saw the big sinkhole up by the road, and told them."

"I'm surprised you've been out working in this cold."

"It actually made it easier for our trucks, with the ground frozen. But we got pretty cold. A couple days, they sent us home early. We're not allowed to work below 10 degrees."

"Well, I better let you get back to work. But whatever needs to get done, it's fine. We have to have dependable electricity!"

Trimmer Steve gave Jack a few pats, and left. I really don't want any more knocking. 

No offense to Trimmer Steve.

Two Idiots Don't Make A Non-Idiot

Sometimes, people can't understand the simplest of instructions. Around here, that "people" is Farmer H. And "sometimes" is all the time.

I instructed Farmer H to buy my scratchers. Gave him one of each kind, so he could see what they looked like. Made it clear that I wanted four of the $5 crosswords, and four of the $3 crosswords. I didn't care if they came from one place, or from two places. He could decide that for himself. Maybe that's where I went wrong! Farmer H had to MAKE A DECISION! And that fried his brain.

Anyhoo... here are the sample tickets I gave him to take along. 

A brown one, and a black one. Obviously crosswords.

Here is what Farmer H bought for me:

That's a $5 crossword, and a $3 bingo ticket. I don't understand how he could be mistaken.

They look nothing alike! He had a sample! Even if he didn't notice the size difference in the display case, he should have felt it when the clerk handed him the tickets. And then there's the fact that they're not even close in color, which should have been obvious in the case, and in his hand.

The FIRST time this happened, Farmer H said, "That gal gave me the wrong tickets!"

The SECOND time this happened, Farmer H said, "I asked for the right thing! They must be under the wrong number."

The THIRD time this happened, Farmer H said, "I told that gal I got the wrong tickets yesterday, and I wanted to make sure I got them right this time. She even checked, and it was what I wanted. That's a crossword, ain't it? No? Well, she said it was a crossword. We both checked it. Their machine must be loaded wrong."

Oh, so many holes in his argument. Farmer H gets my tickets at Casey's. They don't have a machine. He has to look at the display, and ask for the number that corresponds with the ticket he wants. So he must be telling that gal the wrong number. If he said they both checked it, that must mean he asked for the bingo ticket, thinking it was a crossword. And she doubled-checked the number to make sure that's what she gave him. And he looked at it and saw it was what he asked for.

The problem isn't the gal at Casey's.

Even A Bad Decision Is, At Least, A Decision

Must I do everything around here? Yes. I must. Nobody else is capable of making a decision.

Farmer H has been getting scratchers for me during this snowy cold time. I appreciate it. I give him the money, and tell him the tickets. I keep it quite simple. There is another story about that...

Anyhoo... I have been depleting my gambling cash, because except for one of the past 11 days, Farmer H has not brought me any good winners. I have some small winners, like $3 and $5. I can't imagine him being able to cash several of them in, or most definitely not scan them into the lottery machines.

Anyhoo... I gave him a $6 winner to use for buying me two $3 scratchers. I was standing by the kitchen table at 5:00 a.m., looking to see what winners I had. I chose that one. And gave him cash to get the $5 crosswords. I handed them to him around 5:45, as we sat on our respective couches.

As Farmer H was leaving at 6:00, he hollered from the kitchen.

"There's a lottery ticket on the floor!"

"And...?"

"What should I do with it?"

"Just put it on the table."

Seriously. Was my input needed for that? Could he not consider his options? What can you possibly do with a lottery ticket on the floor?

1. Leave it there. Step over it and pretend you didn't see it. Like Farmer H does with anything else that might be in his path on the floor.

2. Pick it up and throw it away. Not worried about that. No way would Farmer H actually pick up something and throw it away.

3. Pick it up and put it on the table. This seems to be common sense. For most people.

This is just ridiculous! What could Farmer H have possibly thought I wanted him to do with that ticket? It's not like he needed to bring it to me in the living room. I was going nowhere. I always have my scratchers at the kitchen table. Easy peasy.

It's just like the previous evening, when I got Farmer H's supper from the oven. It was leftover Domino's Pizza, and foil-wrapped Bread Bites. I let him put the pizza on his plate, and unwrap the Bread Bites. He shook them out of one end of the foil packet I had made for them. Then held the used foil out to me!

"Why are you doing that? Do I want to stand here and hold your used foil?"

"Huh. Well. I'll just leave it here." He said, setting it, still partially folded, on a pizza pan on the back burner.

I seriously don't know how he would survive on his own.

Somebody Might Qualify As An Honorary Member Of Mystery, Inc.

The Mystery of the Door-Knocker remains unsolved. But when Farmer H heard my details, and scoped out the scene on his way home, he had an idea.

"It was probably them tree trimmers."

"Are they working in this cold? With the snow?"

"Yeah, they've been up in here with their tractor thing grinding up the limbs they trimmed."

"Were they in our field?"

"No. There was no tracks in the field. But they was in the driveway."

"Then why are there footprints going from our front sidewalk towards the BARn field?"

"I don't know. But they don't go all the way. They was probably comin' to ask about my trailer. It's under the power lines. They might want to move it."

"You mean they want YOU to move it! As if anything could hurt that trailer any more."

"Not my wrecked trailer. The new one. A line runs over it. And I won't be here when they come back. So I ain't movin' it. But you can tell them THEY can move it. They just have to lift up the tongue. Their tractor can move it. Then put it back when they're done."

"I don't know if they would do that. Liability and stuff. But you don't need to be driving over there in this cold, and get stuck."

"I ain't goin' over there. But they can move it if they ask."

We'll see what happens with that. I'm not sitting around waiting on them to come back. I think I can finally make my escape on Monday, when we'll hit a balmy 40 degrees. I wish I knew where I put my old Hawaiian shirt...

Reading The Clues

Another mystery dropped itself in Mrs. HM's nonexistent lap on Friday at 1:40 p.m. I was sitting at the kitchen table with HIPPIE, watching YouTube videos of Jolly eating food at Dollywood. They're two British guys named Josh and Ollie, who try American foods, and sometimes give them to British schoolboys to get their reaction.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

After I jumped back into my skin, I looked toward the front door. I didn't see anybody trying to peer through the wavy glass to get a distorted view of me. No way was I getting up to hobble to the door. I was not expecting a visitor. Not expecting a package. Jack was not barking. Whoever it was could just go away. It was 18 degrees. I didn't want to leave my heater and stand in a frigid draft.

Then I worried if it could be somebody bearing bad news. Surely they would knock again. I know they could hear the TV sounds. No further knocking.

First I called Farmer H. You know, to make sure he was still kickin'. And then to see if he had told somebody they could come out for hunting or junking. He answered.

"I'm still alive. No, I don't know of anybody who would be out there. Unless it was them tree guys again."

"The tree guys already got permission from me to work over in the BARn field and the other field."

"Unless it's a different guy this time."

"Well. They can do what they want. I don't want to open the door to talk to them. I guess I'll call Pony and make sure everything's okay."

"I just talked to Pony a few minutes ago."

"Oh. Then I won't bother."

That set my mind at ease, with both of them being okay. For the next hour, the mystery was still on my mind. Farmer H said our neighbor Tommy had called him last week to take him to work! He left a message that Farmer H heard later. He's not a taxi. He doesn't always hear his phone. In fact, it rang Thursday night at 9:10 and 10:15,while Farmer H was snoozing. Didn't say who it was from, but he thought it might have been the buddy he put the sewer pipe in for, and wrecked his trailer. Farmer H thought he might have been calling to see if he'd be at his SUS2.5 on Friday.

Anyhoo... when I got up for a bathroom break an hour later, I decided to look out front. Just in case there was a package or a note. Nope.

Little Jack was sitting in the sun. I gave him a piece of grease bread. I saw footprints along the front brick sidewalk. Could have been from Farmer H going out to SilverRedO to get something, since he does use the front door sometimes. 

Then I saw footprints going the other way. Off the sidewalk, towards ShackyTown Boulevard. I don't think Farmer H has been over there since the snow. He usually drives SilverRedO over to the BARn in this kind of weather. So the best I can guess, it WAS one of the tree guys. Or a junker buddy of Farmer H. 

I'll tell Farmer H about the footprints. Just in case he wants to slow down and look in the BARn field on his way home.

A Fresh Pot Of Rage Has Been Set Upon The Stove

This new pot of rage has been simmering overnight. It's not boiling yet. Perhaps it's more suited for a slow-cooker. A crockpot rage, if you will.

Wednesday evening, Farmer H flung open the kitchen door. I hate it when he does that. It's startling. With all the snow and cold, my little Jack is not lying in the hole he dug that is under SilverRedO under the carport. So I don't hear him bark as he trots out of the hole to serenade Farmer H down the driveway. Farmer H knows I haven't gone to town in the snow, so he doesn't even try his key in the doorknob. He knows the door is unlocked.

This fresh rage is not about being startled out of my skin by a barging Farmer H. He stepped in after swinging the door wide open. Stomped around on the inside doormat. Then pulled the door closed, raking in maximum arctic cold. I was shivering, even with my under-table electric heater. But that's not the main ingredient of my fresh pot of rage, either.

Farmer H clumped across the kitchen floor, boot soles squeaking, tracking clumps of snow. Dirty gray snow, as if he'd been stomping a snowdrift beside the road gathering car exhaust.

"Hey! You're leaving dirty snow. I hope I don't slip and fall in your puddles."

"I've gotta go to the bathroom."

Of course he must announce all bodily functions. Except the gaseous emissions, which are definitely not silent, but considerably deadly, which he saves until he comes to the kitchen.

"Great. Now you're tracking it on the carpet, too."

No answer. He came back through the house, headed for his recliner.

"So you're just gonna leave it there?"

"I don't know what you expect me to do, HM! I wiped my feet on the rug. TWICE!"

"That doesn't mean you got out all the snow. It's all over the floor."

Farmer H started back to kitchen. No doubt with the intent of proving my lyin' eyes wrong.

"Hear that? Your boots are still melting snow and getting it on the floor."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"What am I supposed to do? Let it melt, and maybe slip on it? Or clean up YOUR mess?"

"Fine! I'll get a paper towel!"

Which he did. One. A single select-a-size. And dabbed at the biggest puddle, closest to me. Not getting all of it, leaving a gray streak like a rivulet from a polluted glacier. Which I cleaned up later, before walking over it to lock the kitchen door for the night.