No Place For Everything, And Nothing In Its Place

You know how, when company is coming, and you have frittered away your time building a storage container garage, or reading conspiracy sites on the innernets? Okay. Pretend you know how that goes. Like when Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was in college, not yet a Mrs., not yet a mom, but still a Hillbilly. She and her two roommates threw a party every Saturday night. Just a small get-together. Maybe 20-30 friends dropping by for pretzel sticks (the cheapest and least eaten of any snack foods), bringing their own booze, eager to let down their hair and enjoy an evening of gossip and laughs before heading out to more expensive drinking establishments. With designated drivers, of course!

Back then, Future Mrs. HM and her co-dwellers rushed around madly, pouring a single bag of pretzels in a bowl to set in the living room, and stashing dirty dishes in the (nonworking) dishwasher and (working) oven. Being college students on a budget, shopping at the FM Store (kind of a cross between a Goodwill and a military surplus store) and day-old bread store and the insurance salvage store where Future Mrs. HM actually got a job years later while living on the cheap to attend graduate school...these three did not have a lot of possessions to clutter up their living space.

Not so Farmer H and the current Mrs. HM. Just as too many cooks spoil the broth, too many nooks lead to sloth. We needed to de-clutter the living areas for Thanksgiving dinner. Not so much to impress Genius and his Friend, but so we had room to eat on the table, and put dishes on the counter and cutting block. One of the casualties was a box of Slim Jims that usually reside on the counter, near the kitchen door. The little 4-inch kind. Oh, they could have stayed. But I didn't really want Friend to think that I was serving Slim Jims as a side dish.

Last night, Farmer H asked me where his sugar-free candy went. This was a few minutes after he finished a slice of cheesecake. Not that he wanted it now, mind you. He was just asking.

"Oh, that's in the bedroom, on the brown desk. In that box I put the kitchen counter stuff in. Your wire egg basket full of odds and ends and insurance cards you should put in the cars is in there, too. And the box of Slim Jims."

Let the record show that I warn Farmer H that when he sneaks sweets, he should really have some protein to balance his blood sugar surge. So...not that he would be so foolish as to buy them for himself, of course...if he ever thinks somebody might shove a Casey's donut down his throat when he drives to town, he needs to have something with protein or at least fat to slow down that spike in blood sugar. Thus the Slim Jim box by the door. Kind of like a college health center setting out a dish of free condoms. Not that the students would use them, of course. But so they could have some just in case somebody shoved a--never mind that line of thought.

This morning I was heading to town, and looking for a Slim Jim. I don't buy or eat Casey's donuts, you know. They're not a wise choice. I'd rather save my vice fix for cheesecake. But I DO eat one of those mini Slim Jims when I take my two pills mid-morning. Would you believe I could not find that box of Slim Jims? I searched the bedroom box, and a box in the laundry room (it's just off the kitchen) and the cabinets and mini pantry and under the sink and under the counter where a dishwasher was originally going to be installed, where the wastebasket now lives, and where I put my purse if I'm not taking it with me to the casino.

NO SLIM JIMS ANYWHERE!

I gave up and decided to take those two meds when I got home. On the way down the gravel road, I spied Farmer H on his Gator, heading toward the Mansion. I pulled into the field and asked if he moved the Slim Jims. I could imagine him taking them over to the BARn, for him and HOS to nosh on during a break building the storage container garage.

"No. I didn't take no Slim Jims."

"I can't find them! I've looked everywhere! Three times!"

"Well, I'm looking for my hammer. I just had it. I hooked it over a rafter while I got a different hammer, and now I can't find it. I heard it fall, but when I looked, it wasn't there."

"One of those dogs got it. Probably Jack. He's always chewing on a water bottle you let get away, or a soda bottle, or that foil pan you let them lick the turkey juice out of. It was in the front yard. I'm sure you'll find your hammer."

"I threw that foil pan away this morning. It was a heavy hammer! Weighs at least a pound. With a rubber handle."

"Jack is strong. And Juno has something right now."

"She's got a deer bone she's been gnawing on. A leg bone."

"Or a HAMMER!"

"Nah. It's not my hammer."

"Go get Genius's old metal detector. You'll find it."

"It shouldn't be hard to find on the concrete floor. And the ground's all gravel over there, or packed mud. I looked under my tractor in case it bounced, but it's not there."

"I guess we're going crazy. How hard could those two things be to find?"

On the way to town, I was going over and over my actions as I hurried to get the kitchen ready for the Thanksgiving meal. Mentally inspecting each place I knew I moved things. Then, in between stashing places, like I was mentally walking across the kitchen, a vision popped into my head of the Slim Jim box sitting in the pantry, on top of a bag of chips on the floor. Huh. Funny how your subconscious works. When I got home, I went straight to the pantry (okay, very first I went straight to the bathroom) and yanked open the door, sure I was going to find Slim Jim sitting there on the floor, on top of a bag of chips, looking up mocking me. Nope.

HE WAS ON THE SECOND SHELF ON TOP OF A CAN OF BABY CORN, LOOKING DOWN MOCKING ME.

All right! My problem was solved! When Farmer H called me to say he was heading to town to get stuff ready in his storage container store, I asked if he found his hammer.

"Yeah. It was at the other end of the garage. I hung it on a different board than I thought."

We might need to start making detailed notes, or taking pictures, or leaving a trail of twine or bread crumbs. But most certainly not a trail of Casey's donuts.