The Pony Gets Charged

The Pony's car battery was dead. Deader than dead. Not merely dead. Really most sincerely dead. It was probably several days that the passenger door had been incompletely closed from when The Pony last carried in groceries.

Farmer H left home in a fit of pique to drive to town and jump the battery. Muttering that he'd have to find some jumper cables. AS IF he doesn't carry them in SilverRedO, as he's carried jumper cables in his vehicle ever since I met him 39 years ago. Of course I warned The Pony of his mood.

When Farmer H wasn't back within 90 minutes, I called The Pony to see if there was an issue.

"Dad left about 10 minutes ago. He was mad when he got here, but just kind of grumpy when he left. We got it jumped, and drove it around for a while. It would have been fine if he'd listened to me. I TOLD him it was all the way dead. But he jumped it, and then said it was okay and I could turn it off. But it was dead again. After he let it go longer, then we drove around for it to charge up. He was trying to say it was the alternator gone bad at first, not the battery. I'm supposed to let it run for a half hour in the driveway. I have a timer so I remember to shut it off."

Farmer H came home and went to bed.

The next morning, Farmer H acted like nothing happened. Like he was not a big ol' meany for NO REASON, and so begrudging to assist his own blood family when a need arises.

"The Pony is going to the pharmacy over in Sis-Town around 9:00 when they open. Then getting gas on the way home, hoping the car will still start after gas."

"If it starts at all this morning. If the battery was all the way dead, I'll have to get a new one. I guess I could do that on my way home tonight. Better not shut it off at the pharmacy! And it's okay to leave the car running when pumping gas."

"WHAT? It won't explode? I was always taught to turn off the engine when getting gas. I'm pretty sure there used to be signs saying so!"

"People used to let their cars idle all the time when they got gas. It'll be fine."

I passed that info on to The Pony during a wake-up call at 7:00. Turns out The Pony decided not to get gas, but went on home after picking up meds at the drive-thru. It seems like the battery is charged now. Thanks to a hateful begrudging Farmer H!

Apparently, The Nice-Guy Do-Gooder Act Is Only For Strangers And Buddies

If you need any favors or rescuing, you are out of luck if you're related to Farmer H. His cheery helpfulness is not available for family members.

Friday evening, I was concluding a call with The Pony about our flip house, when The Pony said, 

"Oh, could Dad come by in the morning and jump my car? The battery is dead. I got in to go pick up prescriptions, and it wouldn't start. I guess it happened when you dropped me off that one day, and I walked by my car and shut the door that hadn't been closed all the way. I haven't been in it since then. I guess the light drained the battery. Can you give me a call when he leaves, so I'll be up and ready to start the car?"

"Yes, if my phone works. But he usually leaves here around 6:00."

I called to Farmer H, who had just carried his own laundry from the dryer to the living room.

"No wonder it's dead. He don't ever drive that car. It's not at all convenient in the morning."

"I'll call back and see."

"NO IT AIN'T ALL ABOUT ME!"

"Why are you yelling at me! That's not even what I said! "I'LL CALL BACK AND SEE."

"DON'T YOU YELL AT ME!"

"I'm yelling because you can't hear me if I don't! You make things up, and then get mad at me for no reason. The Pony was going to pick up medicine. I don't know if it should wait until you have time on Monday."

"I'll go now!"

Farmer H stormed out the door as I was waiting for The Pony to answer the phone.

"Dad just left. He's coming to do it now. He said tomorrow morning is not at all convenient for him."

"Ask if-- oh, you said he already left. I was going to say he could do it on his way home tomorrow, instead of in the morning."

"Well. He's on his way now. And he's not in a good mood. Just so you know."

"Okay. Now I feel bad."

The Pony's not the only one. 

That stupid SUS2.5 and making HIS money seems to be the only thing Farmer H cares about lately.

It's Maddening, I Tell You!

I just can't deal with this guy lately! You know full well the guy I'm talking about! Farmer H! Hoarder of all knowledge! But willing to share, to enlighten the people who cain't understand nothin'!

I hardly know where to begin. Perhaps with his latest treat, a package of strawberry wafer cookies. He opened them Wednesday evening after supper. A couple hours later, I saw them on the cutting block, the end of the wrapper tucked under, wedged up against the unopened package of generic iced oatmeal cookies.

"You're welcome! I closed up your cookies for you. I can't believe you were so lazy that you couldn't take ONE STEP to get a rubber band to close up that pack of cookies!"

"Oh. Thank you."

Then I opened FRIG II, and saw that after getting his slaw for supper, Farmer H had put the giant container on the only empty space, on the bottom shelf, that I had cleared to put his chicken and dumplings that I will make for him tomorrow.

"Can you not put anything back where you got it?"

"What did I not put back?"

"The slaw!"

"I put away the slaw!"

"What's so hard about putting something back where you got it??? Sitting right on top of the butter. For two nights in a row. But tonight you had to take up the space I cleared out on the shelf below it."

"I don't know what you want from me! I put it up!"

Then there was the discussion of our ongoing neverending sale of Bargain House, and the info we got from our Realtor Guy that came from The Buyer's realtor guy. Farmer H kept referring to the "buyer's agent."

"Who is that? What are you talking about. You keep saying AGENT! Does he have somebody else representing him?"

"The guy who's handling the sale. Who showed him the house. Like our guy."

"Why do you call him an AGENT? That's confusing me."

"What am I supposed to call him?"

"Realtor? Like ours? A person who buys and sells houses for a client."

"They ARE agents, HM. That's their name: Realtor State Agents."

SWEET GUMMI MARY! I could picture The Pony pounding a hoof against his forelock when I related this tale over the phone.

"Um. That's NOT what they're called!"

"I know! I guess maybe he was getting at Real Estate Agent?"

"You better HOPE that's what he meant. Because that's just... no."

THEN Farmer H told me that he was leaving early on Thursday morning because he had things to do before his two doctor appointments.

"I'm stopping by the motel."

"MOTEL? What in the Not-Heaven are you doing at a motel?"

"I mean hotel... you know... the apartments."

"Apartments are a lot different than a motel! I don't know what you've been up to lately!"

"Oh, HM. The apartment building used to be the National Hotel."

"I thought that was up the street, in the next block. It was the National Hotel, then the Y Apartments, and now it has that coffee shop downstairs."

"No. You're wrong. It was always where my apartments are."

Well. Who am I to question anything Farmer H decrees as true, anyway?

Farmer H makes my brain hurt. 

Which Nobody Can Deny (Except This One Guy)

Did you ever know somebody who is so stubborn they will NEVER admit to the obvious? That's kind of a rhetorical question. Of course you do. He lives right here at the Mansion!

Tuesday evening, Farmer H had fired up GassyG Jr to grill some sausages. He came in to wash his hands. Whoopsie! Didn't mean to make you faint. He was actually washing off his BBQ tongs that hang on the grill. Not that they're any use for turning sausage patties, but he was washing them just the same. Said his spatula "wasn't dirty." Despite hanging on the side of the grill all this time with the tongs.

Anyhoo... it was quite a production. Rather than running some water in the sink, or just squirting dish detergent on those tongs to wash them... Farmer H used my Bath and Body Works soap that sits on the kitchen sink. Not the FREE detergent that he brought home a case of a couple years ago. He might as well have been a surgeon scrubbing up for surgery. He lathered up his forearms, hands, and the tongs. Then rinsed them under the stream of water he'd left running. Then shook them over the sink, and reached for a paper towel from the holder on the cutting block.

Farmer H walked to FRIG II to get out the sausage patties.

SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK

"Well. Now you've got water on the floor, tracking it across the kitchen. So dirty spots will start to show up as you traipse around."

"I didn't get no water on the floor."

"Those squeaks say different."

Farmer H came back to the sink. SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK. He ran his hands around the edge. 

"See? There ain't no water. I didn't splash nothin'."

"Then why do your shoes make that noise every time you take a step?"

"I don't know. Maybe my shoes just squeak."

Let the record show that Farmer H made no move to look at the floor, or drop a paper towel down to wipe up the water. Which you KNOW was there. He took the sausages outside, not looking back.

Who you gonna believe, Farmer H, or your lyin' ears?

The Helper Is Sometimes Not So Helpful

Farmer H has been better about carrying in groceries lately. Or maybe he's just informed me of his absenteeism better. A few times, I've known he wouldn't be home, and thus left some nonperishable items in T-Hoe for later, and only carried in what was necessary. After that shot of Kenalog in my right knee, it has not been as painful. That's not to say I'm ready to dance Swan Lake. But it's easier to walk on a flat surface without thinking that knee might collapse on any step.

Sometimes Farmer H carries things in, and sets all the bags on the cutting block, then disappears to his recliner. Other times, he will put some items away. Oh, not where they really go, of course. And usually it just makes more work for me. But I've seen it as a goodwill effort. I think that it's not what I assumed.

Farmer H is FORAGING! Looking for treats in those bags or boxes of groceries! I often bring him treats. Last week, he was taking his little pies with him to his SUS2.5 for lunches! He even took the last Party Cake pie, of which I had asked for a single bite when he opened it. Also, he took a bag of cookies that I'd just bought a couple days previous.

Friday, he was standing at the cutting block, setting groceries on it, and digging back into the bags.

"Huh. I thought you might be putting away those mini drumsticks. They've got to get into the freezer. I couldn't find your kind. Two stores were out. I didn't get you anything today."

With that, Farmer H took the mini drums to the mini freezer in the laundry room. Then he went to his recliner!

"Oh. I guess you're done putting stuff away!"

"I put the bananas in the bowl. And them drumsticks."

"You quit because you found out there's nothing here for you! I thought about bringing you something, but there wasn't a display of anything, and I didn't go to the cookie aisle."

"I need treats, too!"

I put away the sour cream that Farmer H couldn't turn to set in FRIG II. And the four cans of white meat chicken, two cans of chicken broth, and two cans of cream of chicken soup that I had bought to make him chicken and dumplings later. Then the bread. I saw that Farmer H had left the 12-pack of toilet paper on a kitchen chair.

I'm used to putting things away. I don't have to have Farmer H's help. It's just that I had mistaken his previous behavior as contributing to household chores, not digging for culinary treasures!

I still can't find the box of tall kitchen trash bags that I KNOW I bought that day...

A Surprise Feast

I was planning to have some chicken chunks and BBQ slaw for my supper on Sunday. Farmer H was going to have bacon sandwiches with the bacon left that I didn't use for the 7 layer salad at Easter. But Farmer H is a tricky one. He brought home some pulled pork and smoked brisket from a dinner at our credit union on Saturday night. So he had some of that, and I used some to make myself...

SUPER NACHOS

I didn't want just a pulled pork sandwich, with BBQ sauce added. I wanted to use it for something I haven't had in a while.

Isn't that beautiful? It was even better to eat than it was to look at. You can't see all my ingredients. They were laid down in this order:

12 tortilla chips

half a bag of shredded lettuce

1 oz of shredded cheddar cheese

a small handful of pulled pork (I don't know how else to describe the measurement!)

seven tablespoons of salsa

one diced Vidalia onion

six tablespoons of sour cream

half a mini can of sliced black olives

It's not a diet meal, heh, heh! I estimate it at 800 calories. Not a big deal to me, since I only had a banana and oatmeal for my other meal of the day.

I plan on having it again Monday night. This time, I will add some Franks Original Red Hot Sauce in the layer between the pulled pork and salsa. It needs a little kick.

I Whined Because I Had No Feet, And Then I Met A Man Who Tried To Kill Me With New Feet

One day last week, I was grousing about my seat at the kitchen table. You know, because I'm a grouser by nature. When something displeases me, it is known! I do it all the time, whether Farmer H is here or not. It usually concerns something he has done (shocking, I know).

Anyhoo... our kitchen table is my mom's old kitchen table. It's wood, with wooden chairs. The chairs have metal feet, which can leave marks on the linoleum with repeated use. Farmer H had put pads on the metal feet. Which work fine, except that they don't STAY on the metal feet. Well. All but one of them do. 

For months, there's been the right front foot on my chair that comes loose. So every time I get up and move the chair out of the walking area, that foot pad is off. When I come back to the table, I have to pick up the chair and set it back down on the foot pad, then maneuver it carefully into the position where I want to sit. This becomes tedious after doing it many times a day, week after week, month after month.

"I am SO tired of lifting this chair to put it back on its foot!"

Nothing I haven't said before. Farmer H was in his recliner in the living room. I didn't expect that he heard me. Not that it would matter. I've told him to his face at least five times, as he walks in the kitchen door, that his chair feet pads are not working for me.

Imagine my surprise when he came in the next week saying,

"I've got feet for your chair whenever you get up off it."

Ah, the language of love. Such a wonderful way to say he's thinking of me. I went on about my business later that afternoon. Had my 20 minute nap, showered, went to town. After fixing Farmer H's supper, I went back to the table with my scratchers. I pulled the chair out, expecting to have to search for that wayward foot pad. But the chair slid easily!

TOO EASILY!

My kitchen chair (as well as Farmer H's, I saw) now had white plastic foot pads. They slid like a puck across a hockey rink! I was afraid to sit down! Because, you know, chairs like to slide out from under me, and I don't have a fast reaction time to recover. In fact, The Pony stands behind the chair to brace it when I sit down at the grill in the casino, or on a wheely chair at a property closing. It's because my knees barely bend to 90 degrees. I get mostly into sitting position, but then I have to plop the rest of the way down.

I suspect this might be another of Farmer H's attempts to kill me! Who would ever suspect such a plot? It was merely a husband upgrading his wife's chair feet...

I positioned the chair just right. Put my left hand on the chair back, and my right hand on the kitchen table. I tried to be ready to abort the mission at the last minute, should I sense a slide before my rumpus reached the seat. Thankfully, there was minimum slide-age. But then I realized I had to get up!

The getting up was actually scarier than the sitting down. Because that chair could scoot backwards as I had my left hand on the back, and throw me off balance before I was standing. I sat there about five minutes, dreading, planning. I made it! At least the chair seems more stable when getting up than sitting down.

Of course I discussed my concerns with Farmer H. Who replied: "Huh." Not sure if that was his typical response for not giving a fat rat's patootie, or an expression of disappointment for his failed plot.