Mrs. HM Is Salty Tonight

Farmer H had plans for Saturday night. He told me on Friday night, just before he went to bed around 9:00, when I asked what he wanted for supper on Saturday. The auction was not open.

"Oh. I forgot. I'm going to a play at the junior college. The Veteran asked me. His girls are in it. You can come with me."

"No. I remember how long you were gone last year. What time is it, 7:00? You didn't get home until after 10:00."

"Yeah. The doors open at 6:00. I should probably leave at 5:00. They was already a bunch of people there last year when I got there. I'll pick up something in town to eat when I come home from my store."

Of course he didn't. He said he was going to get something to eat on the way. Since last year, he almost starved, he wasn't going to wait until after. 

Anyhoo... since I didn't have to cook anything, I decided to get something from the Country Mart deli when I picked up our bananas. 

Well. Have I mentioned the quality of the food has gone downhill? Downhill faster than an Olympic skier trying to earn a gold medal in the ski jump.

I figured I'd get a 2-piece dark meat dinner. Good thing, since there were three dried-out pieces of fish skin, two crusty chicken tenders, and the bin of fried chicken, which was fairly full. The lady who plays the lottery and tells me about her wins was working.

"I'll have the two-piece dark meat dinner."

"Oh! THIS doesn't look very good!"

She started stirring a bin of some kind of pale noodle, that was all dried-out on top.

"What IS that? Some kind of white sauce noodle?"

"Yes. What sides would you like?"

"Hmm. You're all out of green beans. So I guess I'll take the potato wedges. For both sides."

"Yeah. There's not a lot of choices."

"That's right. I don't want those noodles. I'm not a fan of the corn, or the macaroni and cheese. I don't want mashed potatoes. So that leaves the potato wedges."

That gal was really nice. She even asked if I wanted two thighs instead of the standard thigh and leg, and didn't charge me extra. AND she remembered to offer me the roll. So I felt like I was getting my money's worth this time.

Well. Their chicken is usually tasty enough. But this time, I could barely eat it. Oh, I DID eat it, heh, heh. But it was kind of a chore.

That chicken tasted like it had been marinated for three days on the bottom of the Great Salt Lake. Then rolled in a batter consisting primarily of Pink Himalayan Salt. Then perched upon a pedestal of livestock salt blocks to cure. Then deep-fried, and dusted with an entire canister of Morton Salt. When it rains, it pours, you know.

I have a feeling I will be a heavy drinker tonight...

Until It Wasn't

Thursday was definitely one of those days... until it wasn't. When I got home, Farmer H had brought me "lunch" from the Senior Center. Of course he left it sitting on the cutting block. Good thing he only got home a few minutes before me. 

"I brung you some lunch."

"I don't want it now. I barely had my banana and cereal. Put it in the fridge. What is it?"

"Some kind of noodle with chicken. Corn. A breadstick. Salad. And apple pie." Farmer H opened the containers to show me.

"Oh. Well. You can have it for supper if you want. If you liked it. The only thing I would eat would be the noodles. I'm not a fan of corn or pie, and I don't like those kind of breadsticks. That salad I might have later, to use for lettuce on a chicken patty sandwich. It's hardly enough to call a salad. The Chinese sweet & sour sauce comes in a container twice that size!"

"Yeah. I can have it. If you don't want it. They really loaded me up. They didn't offer me any extra yesterday, when we had a slab of pork!"

So... it's the thought that counts. And I didn't have to make supper for Farmer H. Just my own, later, when it was convenient for me.

AND when I scratched my lottery tickets, I had a total of $92 in winnings! Not bad for a rained-on fat lady who was locked out of her credit union...

One Of Those Days

Rain was forecast for my errand day. Farmer H and I watched the morning weather, and it looked like we would get little to nothing. Maybe a half inch over two days. I saw nary a drop all morning. Nothing. Until 1:30, when I was getting ready to shower. Even then, it wasn't much. Just visible drops in Poolio out the kitchen window.

By the time I got over to Sis-Town and the Casey's for T-Hoe's gas, it was a steady rain. Though not a downpour. I got a little damp walking in to pay. The little guy who rang up my scratchers had trouble with the scanner. It did every ticket twice. So he had to void one. He didn't mess up, and was polite. So there's that. But they were out of my favorite ticket, the $5 crossword.

On my way out the door, a guy and his not-yet-school-age daughter were behind me. I hadn't really noticed them at the next register. Just in my peripheral vision. The little girl practically yelled, "That lady is fat!" I guess the dad felt a little bad by the third time she said it. So he said, "That's not nice." Heh, heh. At least I'm not ugly! And at least she didn't have a shrill whistle.

I made it through the post office street to mail the letters, without any vehicles taking my turn at the 5 WAY STOP. Still raining. I parked at my credit union to go in and ask about a CD that matures on Sunday. We want to put it into a new CD with a higher interest rate. I hobbled to the door, getting damper by the moment, shielding the envelope with my paperwork in my armpit.

YANK! That was my shoulder almost coming out of the socket. The door WAS LOCKED! It was not even 3:30 yet, and they're open until 4:00. Except they're not. Anymore. An orange sign on the glass door said the hours have changed. 

The lobby is only open until 11:00 a.m. now! Sweet Gummi Mary! Who is up at that Not-Heavenish hour to do their business? They DO have it open from 3:30 to 5:30 on Fridays. And the drive-thru is open most of the day. No way can I go through that drive-thru with T-Hoe! Even my mom's car was too high for it. It's the old-fashioned kind with a metal tray that slides out. Our other financial institution over in Bill-Paying Town has one like that. It was a headache to try and reach stuff in it, so now if I go there I park and go inside. Because THEY have normal business hours...

Not really a good day for Mrs. HM. But it got a little better after I arrived home...

The Loiterers

I was surprised early last week when I parked at Country Mart and saw a sign on their glass doors: No Loitering. Huh. I have not noticed anyone in that area. It's on the second set of glass doors, which they have blocked off to make an employee break room. I used to go in that entrance all the time. It's by the deli and their used-to-be pharmacy. Farmer H says they closed the pharmacy, and have partnered with another one nearby.

Anyhoo... these glass doors no longer open, and there's a metal bench in front of them. I've seen employees taking a smoke break there. Saw a man walking back to his car sit down to take a phone call one time last year. But that's it.

When I got to the real entrance door, they had ANOTHER No Loitering sign. Something must be going on for them to start posting signs about loitering.

I found out this week when I saw two dudes sitting on a metal bench that's around the corner of the store. Down by where I like to park, where that gal on a bicycle blocked me in one time. One dude had a duffel bag, Army green, that looked stuffed full of something. Of course I did not park there! I don't need an audience while climbing in and out of T-Hoe. But I was highly suspicious that these were LOITERERS.

Inside at the left lottery machine, I sensed a tall thin dude walk behind me. I saw him as he went through the double doors. His longish hair was a bit unkempt, and he was wearing pajama pants. He had come out of the hall where the bathrooms are. The cashiers started talking amongst themselves.

"Well, what are you gonna do?"

"I know. Lots of times, they come in with really young kids."

"There's no reason anybody can't find a job these days. Everywhere is hiring."

"Yeah. It's just not right."

I assume these were some of the LOITERERS that the signs were meant for. Pajama Dude was standing right there in the vestibule while they were discussing him. He was looking at something on the wall. Maybe a bulletin board with possible odd job stuff, or perhaps tear-off strips for guitar lessons like George Costanza ripped off that broke his wallet...

Anyhoo... when I went back to T-Hoe and drove around the corner, I saw that now there was a girl with the dudes. Maybe 10-11 years old. Just pacing back and forth. Not sure what's going on here.

Farmer H's Friend Indeed

Since Farmer H has returned to working in his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2), he sometimes debates how early to leave the Mansion.

"I told some guys I'd be down there by 7:00, but I'm waiting until I go poop. I don't want to get down there and have to go. It's not as bad now that I can walk again, and don't have to use the walker or cane. But I'd still rather go at home."

Yes. A delicate matter. I might behoove Farmer H to eat his banana and something else for breakfast before he goes (to the SUS2, I mean), and not on the way, after picking up a Casey's donut. I suggested that scenario, but Farmer H only tried it on the day he had an eye doctor appointment that necessitated keeping him around while his eyes were dilated. Of course it worked! I know Farmer H's habits!

Anyhoo... as Farmer H feared, he felt the need to make a trip to the Port-A-Potty shortly after he opened his SUS2. At least he can lock up the door while he's away, and not worry about being ripped off. But now Farmer H has another concern.

"Them darn people down there stole all the toilet paper out of the Port-A-Potty! THREE BIG ROLLS they put in there, and those idiots took all three!"

"Well. If you're gonna be a thief, I guess it makes sense to take as much as you can get. Times are hard. I guess people can't afford toilet paper."

"They could have left one! For people who need it!"

"What did you do?"

"Lucky for me, my buddy down there had some McDonald's napkins in his truck, and he gave them to me. I'm gonna start carrying a roll of toilet paper in my truck."

That's a true friend. One who'll help you wipe your butt. Figuratively, of course.

The Problem, Perhaps, With T-Hoe

A few days ago, I was coming home from town around 5:30. Temps were in the upper 70s. When I got to our gravel road, I put down my window. I like to smell the evening air, even thought it's currently full of tree pollen that makes me all throat-cleary and snorty.

As I started up Farmer H and Buddy's Badly Blacktopped Hill, I heard a rattle! It was coming from outside the vehicle. Under my seat area, perhaps. Or in front of it, underneath the chassis. Every time I hit a bump (frequent, on that Hill), I heard the rattle.

It was a sound like two pieces of chrome knocking together. Not a sturdy thump. A light rattle.

I described it to Farmer H. He frowned a bit. Said what it might be. I wasn't really listening. I just wanted him to agree to take T-Hoe for a short test drive and hear it for himself. He agreed to do it on Sunday evening.

When Farmer H returned, he said,

"I'm pretty sure it's what I said. A loose rubber gasket on the stabilizer bar."

Don't hold me to that. It's what I THINK he said. Mrs. HM's knowledge of cars is just shy of her knowledge of world geography. When Farmer H talks in car language, I hear Charlie Brown's teacher. 

Farmer H says he will take T-Hoe to Mick the Mechanic and have him put it up on the lift and see what's wrong. I think Farmer H should stand right beside him. Saying what he thinks it is. So Mick doesn't tell him T-Hoe needs a whole new front end.

I don't trust mechanics these days. Especially after Mick told Farmer H that SilverRedO needed something twice as expensive as the local dealer's mechanic told him...

Farmer H Lives In A Different World

I live in Hillmomba. Farmer H lives in Denial.

There is a problem with T-Hoe, so I sent Farmer H out to take him for a test drive down the gravel road. We'll get to that issue tomorrow. Meanwhile, I had to give Farmer H instructions.

"The keys are in the side of my purse. Wait! What in the Not-Heaven are you doing? You don't need to open that! The SIDE OF MY PURSE! What don't you understand about SIDE of PURSE? Right in front of you. Reach your hand down in. I don't know why you think you have to unsnap a flap on the other side!"

"Well. You said the side of the purse. So I was opening up the other side."

"I don't know how you've managed to live this long! Now when you back out of the garage, don't snap off my mirror like you did before. And when you come back, make sure you park so that I can get the door open all the way. Don't get too close to the wall, and don't park where the door hits one of those 2x4s."

"I can get your car in and out of the garage, HM."

"OH! And listen to the garage door when it goes up and down. It makes a horrible metallic snapping sound. I've been telling you about that. I think it needs some grease. 

I don't want to be killed by that spring breaking and piercing my skull."

"The spring isn't going to break, HM."

"It did before, didn't it??? And you made me take the pieces to the garage door shop to get a new one! It snapped, but luckily it shot a different direction than my head."

"It DID break before. But this one is fine."

Said the man who lives in Denial.

Mrs. HM's Annoyance Is Accruing At The Rate Of Credit Card Interest In The '80s

Saturday night, I made Farmer H's supper of taquitos and cheese dip. The taquitos are super easy, just a matter of putting them in the oven for 11 minutes. The cheese dip is also simple, just cutting up some Velveeta, adding salsa, and microwaving until smooth. A bit of stirring needed, and it's done.

I called Farmer H to the kitchen to get his plate ready. We were out of tortilla chips, so he was having generic ruffled potato chips. He had to get a new bag out of the pantry and open them. Such a chore! Sometimes he prefers them anyway with this dip. He had said he was eating in his recliner this time, rather than at the cutting block. By the time I turned around from wiping pepperoni grease off the previous night's pizza pan, Farmer H was gone.

"Did you take a paper towel? I don't see the new roll."

"No. I don't need one."

"Great! The remote, and the arms of your chair will be slimy with grease. Those taquitos left MY hands greasy when I put them on the pan while they were frozen. And you know chips are greasy."

"I won't get grease on anything, HM."

"Yeah. Sure. You just didn't want to get out the new roll and put it on the holder."

I stand by that belief. There was a single paper towel left on the cardboard roll, kind of folded over, as the last one does, stuck to the tube. Farmer H didn't want to be accused of taking the last one and not getting out the new roll of paper towels. Which was in the pantry, right beside the bag of chips.

You know what I did next, right? I got out the new roll of paper towels and put it on the holder. Then I started my dishwater to wash a skillet Farmer H had used to make himself ham and eggs, a plastic Chinese Tupperware container that had held 3 slices of cooked bacon, some random silverware, and the pizza pan.

"Hey! My water is not getting hot! It's barely warm. I don't think I can wash bacon grease and pepperoni juice with lukewarm water. Even if I used the real Dawn, instead of your FREE auction detergent. Do you know why the water isn't getting hot?"

"No."

"Did you have a shower while I was gone? I see that you're in your underwear."

"I had a shower."

"A LONG shower? To use up a whole water heater full of hot water?"

"It was a shower. Maybe kind of long."

"Maybe you could have told me that, when you saw me getting the pizza pan ready to wash."

Yeah. Farmer H had just gotten home as I was leaving. I was gone for 50 minutes. I'm pretty sure he had a 45 minute shower.

I'll probably need to wash those dishes again. And I'm taking a paper towel to the short couch to wipe off the remote before I use it.

Sweets For The Sweetie

Farmer H went to the auction Tuesday night. He even brought me something. Something NOT expired! The picture it not very flattering, because my kitchen lighting is not the best, and I had just pulled the plastic wrap off the treat. Farmer H came in carrying two of these:

He ate his immediately, and I told him to put mine in FRIG II for later. It's some kind of cake. I can't figure it out, but it was so tasty that I would eat it again if Farmer H finds it at the auction. Some kind of cherry, I think, but it also had the taste of orange. Maybe it's a poke cake, where you stab it with a fork and pour Jello over it. But there was a textural element that might have been fruit particles.

Farmer H was most likely not thinking about bringing me anything. To hear him tell it:

"They was gettin' rid of leftover cake, and had these on a table when we left. So I got two."

Heh, heh. He might have already eaten a couple in the car! But I'm thankful for this treat. They were on a small paper plate, wrapped in clear plastic. I set mine of a more sturdy paper plate, a big one. Very tasty. My compliments to the scavenger.

Like Standing Behind A Jet Engine On The Plains Of Oklahoma

Somebody needs to tell March's lion that it's April now, and he should have gone out like a lamb. The winds were whipping again in Hillmomba on Thursday. Not a good day for Mrs. HM and her lovely lady-mullet while doing the weekly errands.

My near-death experience is discussed on my not-so-secret blog. But I will share the near-maiming with you here.

I stopped for T-Hoe's gas at the Sis-Town Casey's. Every time I do that, I mull over changing the location of my gas-getting. I just don't like the pump situation at the other Casey's stores. Not sure why I like this one, since it's not exactly Mrs. HM-friendly. 

This Casey's is located halfway up a big hill. To the south is the old lead mine. You can't see the actual mine building from the pumps, but you can see the tailings. The acres and acres of dust that resulted from rocks ground up and transported from underground. It's actually a state park. There's a lake way out in there that I used to frequent as a high-schooler. And an 11-mile blacktop trail that I used to walk in the summer. Not every day, of course. Just on special occasions to prove that I could.

Anyhoo... the wind comes whipping across that vast expanse, even on calm days. It usually makes me wish I had worn a jacket. On Thursday, it made me wish I had shaved my head. The Medusa-like tendrils of my lovely lady-mullet snaked around my face, getting in my mouth, in my eyes, whipping the skin of my cheeks and forehead, tangling themselves worse than a knot puzzle on a competitive reality show.

That's not even the worst part. The worst part was opening T-Hoe's door. It was a feat of strength, and a test of ingenuity. Once I forced the door open two notches to start my climb onto the running board, I had to devise a way to keep it from slamming before I had my legs in, perhaps slicing me mid-shin like a very dull guillotine. 

I did this by holding the door open with my left hand, while grasping the frame of the cab with my right hand, to hoist myself onto the running board. Then I used both hands to hold open the door, while sitting my rumpus on the seat. Then I used my left hand and leg to hold the door open while I drug my right leg into the vehicle. Then a quick (for me) yanking in of the left leg, while trying to fend off the wanting-to-slam door with only my left hand. Thank the Gummi Mary for some intermittent gusts.

Let the record show that Mrs. HM still has a complete set of limbs.

Patient Zero Fingers The Culprit

Just when I was positive that Farmer H was the source of my itchy finger-bump... some new information came to light. I hate it when that happens. When Farmer H has a chance to skate scott-free!

Sure, it was a bit of a stretch that Farmer H was still responsible for spreading the liquidy clear stuff from the bump on the side of his hand that he squooshed a week or two prior to my outbreak. Especially after I found those bumps on my stomach. I rarely use my stomach to change channels with the remote, or turn the water faucet on or off. So that kind of eliminated Farmer H.

Late Monday night/early Tuesday morning, I was ensconced on the short couch, happily watching TV, hands in the pockets of my fleece jacket, with The Pony's fleece throw covering me up to my neck as usual. So toasty and warm. But I had to uncover for a trip to the bathroom.

When I returned to the living room, I saw a fluff of sock lint on the back of the couch. It was directly behind the area where my head leans back. You may recall a previous encounter with my socks on the back of the couch. They were a bit... shall we say... aromatic. I went to pick up the sock lint, and saw that IT WAS NOT SOCK LINT AT ALL!

IT WAS A SPIDER!

A small spider, about the size of a pea. It didn't have the four-legs-front, four-legs-back configuration of some spiders. It had all eight legs spread out around its body. Like a tiny dry jellyfish. I grabbed a Puffs With Lotion from the pillow where I keep a small stack, and pinched that spider. I took it to the kitchen, to look at under the light of the counter, and confirmed that it was, indeed, a spider, and not sock lint.

WELP! Looks like that spider is was probably the source of my itchy bumps filled with clear fluid. Perhaps it was on the fleece throw, and then crawled into my jacket pocket while I was covered up with my hands on the outside, playing Wordle. And then it got back on the fleece throw, and attacked me again on subsequent nights. Then emerged to crawl from the throw to the couch-back while I was in the bathroom.

I have not found any new bumps since the squooshing of the spider.

I hope the mystery stays solved.

Patient Zero Searches For A Diagnosis

With two extremely itchy bumps on my right hand fingers, I wracked my brain for what might have caused them. 

Was I allergic to something new? I have a new box of dryer sheets, in a new fragrance. Store brand. I had taken one out using my right hand on Friday.

Was there something in the pocket of my fleece jacket? I pulled the pocket inside out and left it flapping for a day. I rarely take off my fleece jacket. It's so comfortable. It rests on the side of the big triangle tub in the master bathroom while I have my shower and go to town. Then I put it right back on when I get home. At night, I take off the shirt underneath, but put my fleece jacket back on. 

Then I asked Farmer H if he had experienced anything like it.

"A week or two ago, I had one on the side of my hand. I squeezed it open and some clear stuff run out."

Welp! There you go! I had obviously caught something from the secretions of Farmer H!

"Great! Now I've got it. You must have got that stuff on the remote, or on the handle of the water faucets. So I caught it from you!"

"No. No. You didn't get that from me, HM. It's something else."

Nice try. He's always in denial. How else could he explain my malady? Except...

On Monday, I noticed myself scratching my stomach area. The sides of my front-stomach. The area where I sometimes shove up my fleece jacket while under The Pony's fleece throw, and rest my hands there to warm them before putting them back in my jacket pockets.

I took a look before getting in the shower, and saw three little bumps in a line on the right side, and four little bumps in a cluster on the left side. They seemed to have little fluid-filled centers.

Meanwhile, I had put a bandaid with triple antibiotic ointment on my ring finger bump, which stopped most of the itching. The morning after that, my hand did not itch much at all. Not even in the hot water of the shower.

But wait! There's more to this story...

Is Mrs. HM Patient Zero For A New Malady?

Friday night, I snoozed off on the short couch in the wee hours of the morning. I was quite comfy, having my hands in the pockets of my fleece jacket, and covered by the fleece throw The Pony left me from his college days.

When I woke up, my right hand was itching on the ring finger. I don't wear rings, just describing which finger. It was on the last section of finger. The part with the fingernail. The intense itching was on the finger pad. It was hot and red. I daresay my fingerprint would have been so stretched out as to eliminate me from a crime scene.

Dang! It itched so much. I had to scratch. That's not very much space to scratch. Sometimes I just rubbed in on the tweed-like upholstery of the couch cushion. I couldn't see anything wrong with the finger itself. I vaguely remembered it feeling like I had scratched it a couple days previous. Perhaps while getting ice cubes out of the bin in FRIG II, or on the wooden handrail while going down the steps on the side porch.

Through the morning and into the early afternoon, that finger itched like the dickens. It was swollen to three times the size of the ring finger on my left hand. When I got in the shower, it HURT! The hot water running on it made my whole right hand feel like it was on fire. It lit up like a Christmas tree. A Christmas tree in a steel foundry on the surface of the sun, decorated entirely with red lights, just before bursting into flames.

I took a picture in town on Sunday. 

It's only about double the size of the left-hand ring finger in this photo. Doesn't feel like the skin is about to explode. As you might notice, it developed a small bump filled with clear fluid. No, I did not squoosh it open. That's just an observation of what I see when I push at it, and the contents move around under the skin. What in the Not-Heaven? What disease have I contracted?

I showed Farmer H, and he suggested that it might be a spider bite. I don't think so. To make matters worse, and more curious, on Sunday night, another such bump popped up on my right index finger, between the punching knuckle and the frogging knuckle, on the side by my bad finger.

There's more to this story...

This One Has Me Stumped

The power line that was knocked down at Country Mart several days ago still has not been repaired properly. I THINK it's a power line. It could be a phone line for all I know. They both run on big tall poles.

See the jagged top of that broken-off pole? I don't know why it's still there. I haven't looked closely, because when I'm entering or leaving the road, I pay attention to my driving, so as not to KNOCK DOWN A POLE, heh, heh!

Maybe there's still a wire running down that stump, to connect to that metal thingy on the ground. Maybe somebody will get that fixed during the upcoming work week. For now, the wires running across from the other poles are very low. A delivery truck could catch on them if it's very tall. That won't be good for anyone!

I'm not sure what that building is in the background. It's not the rat poison factory. That is to the right, out of frame.

Hope they get this work done in the morning hours, so as not to disrupt my daily scratcher purchase out of the machines!

24 Hours Around The Mansion

Friday night, my little Jack was restless. He was barking on the front porch at 12:30 a.m. Barking. Barking. In kind of a frenzy, though not his STRANGER bark. He kept going down the porch steps and onto the brick sidewalk, or under the dirty-white picket fence and into the front yard. On and off went the solar motion lights Farmer H has planted along the front sidewalk.

I opened the front door to take a look, and caught Jack sitting at the top of the steps. He wriggled his way over to the door, front paws in, asking permission to enter. Nope. That's not allowed, per the decree of Farmer H. I bent down to pet Jack. Talked calmly to him. And saw Copper Jack skulking around in the side yard between the Mansion and the Shackytown Boulevard area.

"Jack. It's okay. I don't know why you bark at that dog. He's your buddy! He's here ALL DAY LONG. But at night you want to pretend he's a threat to us. It's okay. Calm down. I'm not mad. You're a good dog. My good boy."

Of course Jack only heard "Jack." And maybe "good dog."

He backed up as I closed the door. And was quiet. I don't want to get in the habit of petting him when he barks. That's the wrong message. But I guess he was just stressed, feeling like the whole job of guarding the Mansion now rests upon his low freckled shoulders.

Saturday evening, around 6:00, a big storm rolled through. I was not expecting it. I'd only seen a forecast for a chance of rain overnight. Farmer H was gone over to Outer Sis-Town for the annual credit union dinner. 

The sky turned black as night, where usually it's light until after 8:00 p.m. The wind was whipping the trees in a leaf-stripping circular motion. Rain started to pelt the metal roof of the Mansion. I went to check on the weather on the city TV stations. The satellite went off. Then my internet went off. The Pony sent me a text:

"Tornado sirens going off here in town."

I gave him my weather situation.

"Rain only really hit here 20 minutes ago. Sirens just stopped. Not that dark here. Still a bit of thunder and lightning, but rain isn't even all that heavy right now. Just to the point it gets tough to deliver in."

"Go to your hall bathroom if you need to. Or to the hall by your laundry room."

"Sirens going off again now. Keeping an eye out the window, ready to move if I need to. Rain looks to have mostly stopped. App gives about 20 minutes for the warnings to be past."

When I informed Farmer H, he replied: "Thunder here."

When Farmer H got home at 8:00, it was full dark, but the wind had stopped. Just a little rain. Farmer H said he never knew about the wind or the warnings.

Farmer H also reported that when he came in the kitchen door, little Jack was in Juno's house. Good. He's safe there. I hope he makes a habit of it.

The Uncelebrated Jumping Balm Of Hillmomba Mansion

Farmer H was in for a talking-to during Friday's "This Is the Time of Day We Talk About the Most Recent Thing You've Done Wrong." Of course he denied any knowledge of doing wrong...

Farmer H has been putting Arthritis-Strength Hempvana on his aching hips every night.  It comes in a small white jar, about the size of a peach, with a screw-top lid. For his convenience, Farmer H keeps that little jar in the master bathroom, to apply after a shower. 

I know you won't believe this, but Farmer H once again has found a way to inconvenience Mrs. HM! He sets the Hempvana jar on the edge of the big triangle tub, right where I lay my folded pants before my shower. That is MY territory! 

The first time, I cut Farmer H some slack. Perhaps he didn't know that spot is reserved for my town pants. So I said nothing. I just moved the Hempvana jar six inches sideways, and on top of a plastic box of baby wipes that hasn't been used in years, with contents most likely as dry as tissue paper. Sure, they could probably be revived with a bit of water sprinkled inside. I don't remember why we had them in the first place. Perhaps some former affliction of Farmer H that left him unable to shower for a couple days. Anyhoo... no need to congratulate us. We are not having a baby...

That was a perfect solution. With the Hempvana jar on top of the baby wipes box on the corner of the tub, there was space once again for my pre-shower town pants. Who wouldn't notice the relocation, and realize that the Hempvana had a new resting place?

FARMER H, THAT'S WHO!

For a week now, I move the Hempvana up on the baby wipes, and for a week now, I find it back in my way on the edge of the tub when I go in to shower.

When I asked Farmer H why he keeps returning the Hempvana to MY RIGHTFUL PANTS SPACE, he replied,

"Oh. I didn't notice."

"What do you mean, you didn't notice? Do you think that Hempvana jumps up on the baby wipes box every night while you're asleep?"

"I didn't notice that it's moved. I just put it back where I always put it."

Yes. In an open space that I use for my needs. Same as with every open space in this Mansion, from FRIG II's shelves, to the kitchen counter, to the table between recliner and short couch, to the kitchen table, to the laundry room shelves and freezer top!!!

It's like an unhidden talent that nobody in the world would celebrate. Except maybe another space-stealer.

There Are None So Blind As Mrs. HM In A Pair Of Sunglasses

When I started down the driveway at 2:15 on Thursday, the sun was blazing. I put on my sunglasses, and was annoyed (as I am every other sunny day) by the scratch on the right lens, directly in front of my pupil. It was going to be a long ride, since I was headed over to Sis-Town on errand day. I grabbed my old pair of sunglasses off the lower section of T-Hoe's console. They have a scratch on the left lens, directly in front of my pupil.

Doggone it! This was not going to do. I wanted clear vision without tilting my head. I stopped beside the trash dumpster, and fished around inside the vault of T-Hoe's console, under the lid with the indentation where I lay my phone while traveling.

Aha! There was my newest pair of sunglasses that I purchased last fall. I suppose I'd been saving them for a special occasion. They were still in the crinkly clear wrapper. I bought two pairs at once, from a bin in Save A Lot, for $3 each, if I remember correctly. The other pair was yellow. I keep them in A-Cad, to wear on casino trips with Farmer H, Master Sweaver, behind the wheel.

Anyhoo... I slid my new sunglasses out of their wrapper, and slipped them on my face. They fit just right. But WAIT A MINUTE! There was a scratch on the left lens, directly in front of my pupil! What in the NOT-HEAVEN??? Mrs. HM just can't catch a break.

I wore them out to the main blacktop lettered highway. Then took them off and set them on the lower console. It wasn't TOO bright. And neither is Mrs. HM...

While waiting at the bank, I picked up my new sunglasses to rub the marred lens on my shirttail. Sweet Gummi Mary! That wasn't a scratch! It was the little piece of cling plastic with a code number on it. I peeled it off, and the lens was perfect.

Here they are, posed on T-Hoe's dash at Country Mart:

Aren't they snazzy? That style was all the rage in the '80s. Well worth my $3. Though you'd think Save A Lot should pay ME to wear them, for being such an ambassador of advertising for their chain.

There's Something To Be Said For Timing

I was parked at the Hillmomba Casey's yesterday when I heard sirens. A glance behind me showed a city police car coming from the Country Mart road, going past Casey's towards the direction of the dead mouse smelling post office. I waited another couple of minutes, for some behind-walkers and a car backing out, and another city police car went by with sirens. Huh. Guess it's a good thing I wasn't headed to the post office.

Leaving Casey's, I got in the left turn lane to go to Country Mart for my machine scratchers. WELP! The entrance was blocked off! Good thing I could see it from the light, and take the alternate route behind Dairy Queen.

It looked like somebody had hit an electric pole. The "pole" was now in two pieces, dangling by the wires. Some white utility trucks were working with a lift. And one police car, plus a couple regular trucks, were blocking the road there.

Looks like there was more than one calamity I avoided. That realization took away the annoyance with myself for being an hour and a half late to town.

Listen To Your Elders

There are signs of unrest at Country Mart. I overheard a discussion between cashiers while poking the lottery machine to get my scratchers. There were no customers around. Except me. I guess they think of me as one of them, since I bring in a cart every day.

Anyhoo... it seems that three new employees have been hired. I haven't really shopped since the Thursday before Easter, except to pick up bananas. So I haven't noticed any new faces. The Elderlies referred to them as "the new girls." So I assume they are young. 

One of the Elderlies was headed outside for her smoke break. They like to stand by the new plant display out front, which is built on bread racks and has ferns and such. I don't know much about plants. But the little plastic swimming pools next to them catch my eye. I was a bit annoyed when the display was being built, because the gal working on it was blocking three parking spaces with her stuff, and had the hose stretched across the sidewalk, with puddles all over. I had to walk out in the driving lane to get to the front door. She was not a new employee, but one I don't see there often.

Anyhoo... my favorite Elderly was saying, "Them new girls don't listen to a thing you say! I had to tell them not to destroy the plants when they water them. They don't pay any attention!"

I can imagine that scenario. I don't know if some plants were messed up, since I don't pay attention to the plants. But it's feasible that the new girls think they know everything, and see nothing wrong with getting the watering done as fast as possible, to gain more time on their cell phones.

That seems to be how the world works these days.

The Eye To Stomach Ratio

The Pony piled on more than he could chew at Easter dinner. He set his plate on the kitchen counter, and asked if I wanted to save a smidge of his ham sandwich for Jack. Yes. It's in the treat bowl, still waiting for Jack. 

When I came home Monday afternoon, Farmer H stopped me to talk while he was on the lawnmower in the front yard/field. The main point of the conversation being that he had just broken the belt on the mower. Scarcely three hours after he'd bought a battery for it.

Jack was down by the carport then, chewing on something. As I got closer, he trotted under SilverRedO with it. Looked like a round bone. Perhaps from somebody's ham. Not ours! It was boneless.

Anyhoo... Jack did NOT come to greet me, and did NOT come up on the porch to get his treat. Too bad, so sad. Enjoy that dry bone, rather than a juicy ham sandwich portion.

Monday night, I gathered myself some leftovers and sat down at the kitchen table with HIPPIE. My best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel began texting. So I was a bit distracted. And then all at once, I was FULL! I could not finish my food. That is unheard-of for Mrs. HM. Whose eyes are usually smaller than her stomach.

Jack will be getting some 7 layer salad. I think he will only pick the bacon out of it. And maybe the cheese. Possibly the eggs. He will like the cheesy hash brown casserole better. And most certainly the half slice of ham.

IF Jack can tear himself away from that dry bone.

No Rest For (Most Of) The Feasters

We had our Easter feast yesterday. Farmer H declared the time should be after he was done working at his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2). He took in $325, of which $75 was clear profit. So I guess that was worth it for HIM. Although I worked tiredly through the night, preparing the vittles. For free.

In addition to ham, we had our usual sides of deviled eggs, potato salad, hash brown casserole, 7-layer salad, Stove Top Stuffing (The Pony's request), and Sister Schubert's rolls. Dessert was a choice of brownie cake with frosting, a frozen chocolate pie, and a variety of cheesecake slices. All storebought. 

Farmer H was supposed to pick up The Pony on his way home, so The Pony could have wine with his meal and not worry about driving home. The plan was for 1:30 pickup. Yet when I was carrying a platter with an 8-pound ham to the table to slice, I was startled by The Pony yanking open the kitchen door. It was 1:35. I was NOT expecting them so soon. Which threw off the timing of the meal. Although I WAS happy to see my little helper. I'm NOT talking about Farmer H! He went to snooze in his recliner while The Pony and I got the rolls in the oven, and a set the table, and put out the food.

It was quite tasty, though I regret using store-brand mayonnaise in my 7-layer salad, as I could tell a difference in taste from my usual Kraft Mayo, which I did not have except in a squeeze bottle for sandwiches.

Anyhoo... everyone ate their fill, and probably more. Farmer H was done first, and had a slice of pie, then went back to snoozing. The Pony took a little longer. Skipped dessert in order to take it home with him, since he was full. I sent many leftovers, but The Pony went off and left his potato salad container in FRIG II. Farmer H is going to drop it off at his house on the way to the Senior Center. You know. Because he can't eat my leftovers for lunch!

I suppose Farmer H is missing being a pampered pet. He hasn't been to the Senior Center since last Wednesday. He had his surgeon appointment on Thursday, and the center was closed on Friday. I hope they don't send him home with extra food!

No Rhyme. No Reason. Unless He's Possibly Trying To Kill Me.

Farmer H has developed a rather annoying habit of late. There's no reason for it. He can pick up things off the floor with his grabber. He can squat if he needs to bend part-way. So I can only imagine that he's trying to drive me crazy(er), or raise my blood pressure until I put myself out of his misery.

Because of his back surgery, I have been bagging the trash. When it's full, I tie up the bag, take it out of the wastebasket, and put in a new one. We use the large black plastic trash bags. They can get pretty full. I tell Farmer H not to lift them, especially when there are jars and heavy stuff inside, and it's probably over 10 pounds.

That said, there are no limits on Farmer H FILLING the trash bag. He's capable of throwing away garbage. Yet he suddenly does not!

The first item was an empty box that had held 6 Little Debbie Zebra Cakes. The new kind, shaped like a jelly-roll, or like the other delicious Little Debbie, the Swiss Rolls. There was room in the wastebasket for the box. Yet Farmer H set it on the floor, BESIDE the wastebasket. What in the Not-Heaven? It would have taken more effort to squat and place it there. Unless he merely dropped it, in which case I think it would have fallen over, rather than standing up leaning against the wastebasket.

Friday night, Farmer H did it again. He put the paper sack that had held our take-out Chinese food next to the wastebasket. There was room, because I had picked up the Little Debbie box and put it in the trash. But now here was a large paper sack. Empty. BESIDE the wastebasket. It could have been crumpled and put inside. But no. That was apparently my job.

I have no idea the reasoning behind Farmer H's trash habits. I hope they don't continue. I guess I could ask why, and risk a tirade for my inquisition, with accusations that I expect things to be done MY WAY. Which I think is a pretty reasonable way to dispose of trash...

A Mind Is A Terrible Thing To Chase

I'm not sure what Farmer H has done with his mind. Perhaps he left it at his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2). It most definitely is not in his noggin. It is difficult to follow his train of thought.

Friday afternoon, he came home early because his legs hurt from sitting on his stool at the SUS2, his doctor was closed because of the Good Friday holiday, and his cronies were not meeting for their weekly bull session. I was just putting away the 30 eggs I had boiled to get ready for Easter dinner preparations. Farmer H sat down in his recliner. I stopped to talk to him on my way to the shower.

"I'm tempted to go ahead and boil the potatoes for the potato salad. So they can be cold and ready to peel tomorrow before I go to town. But I'm worried about having enough room in FRIG II to keep all the Easter stuff."

"It's not hot outside."

"What's your point?"

"You don't have to keep them in the fridge. They can set outside."

"It's 62 degrees! And why would I want our food sitting outside in the open?"

"You could put them in the garage."

"What? There are bugs. And maybe mice!"

"You could put them in the back of your car."

"Um. No. I'm not going to set my boiled potatoes outside for bugs to crawl over, at 62 degrees."

Not a very logical conversation. Even for Farmer H. But we obviously had a conversation about me wanting to put a bowl of boiled potatoes in FRIG II.

When I came home from town, I discovered that Farmer H had put six Diet Mountain Dews, and six bottles of Perrier, on the top shelf of FRIG II. Taking up HALF the space on the top shelf.

I suppose I could go ahead and make Farmer H a special batch of potato salad, and set it outside until Sunday afternoon...

Mrs. HM Was Almost Killed With Kindness

I'm not trying to discourage people from doing good deeds. I just want them to do good deeds within reason! So the good deed does not become a burden. Like that neighbor who kindly hauled our trash dumpster back to the Mansion, necessitating us to find a way to get it back to the end of the driveway.

The Veteran did a good deed on Thursday. He accompanied Farmer H to his follow-up surgeon appointment. Farmer H did not NEED any help this time. He drove himself last week when he was in considerable pain, and using a walker. This trip was easier, since his pain was less, and he only took a cane.

Anyhoo... Farmer H said he planned to leave home at 9:45 for his 11:00 appointment.

"I hope The Veteran doesn't come early. I don't feel like entertaining people before I've even gone to bed."

"He won't get here early."

"Sure. I bet he's here by 9:00, and I have to sit around and talk to him while you get ready."

I said that, because when The Pony and The Veteran were driving Farmer H to his surgery, The Veteran got here a half hour early.

Anyhoo... Farmer H wanted me to wake him at 7:00. He went to take his shower, so I could put the betadine on his back scar. Then he started getting dressed while sitting in his recliner.

Around 8:00, the dogs started barking their fool heads off. It was the STRANGER bark. Copper Jack was especially fierce, with my little Jack joining in with his yips.

"I hope that's not The Veteran already. It's way too early."

"That's not him, HM. It's only 8:00."

Farmer H's phone buzzed with a text. He picked it up mid-pants.

"That's him. Saying he's here."

"CRAP! I'm not sitting here talking for an hour and 45 minutes! I'm going to bed!"

And I did. That's pushing the envelope, showing up that time of morning, almost two hours early. I appreciate him accompanying Farmer H. But let's be reasonable. 

Straight From The Pony's Mouth

On the ride home from the casino on Tuesday, The Pony mentioned that he and his co-workers have instructions to put the CHEAPEST gas into the post office vehicles now.

"I'm pretty sure the new vans are supposed to have mid-grade, but we're supposed to use the cheapest gas now. I think it might ruin the engines."

"Well. It will affect performance. I don't know if it will ruin them." Said Farmer H, an accomplished mechanic.

"Pony. You wouldn't have to cut corners like that if the post office would stop spending so much money on their commercials, and the song rights!"

"Huh. I don't know. I don't watch TV that has commercials."

"There was that old one, with the Johnny Cash song. Where it says, 'I've been everywhere, man, I've been everywhere.' And it shows carriers delivering the mail. Now there's a new one, with a guy directing a whole fleet of vehicles, and the song 'I Like to Move It.' They're really good commecials. I even watch them!"

Seriously. That's gotta cost a pretty penny for the rights...

Too Little, Too Soon

Welp! Only a couple days after my plan to help my little dog Jack reduce his stuffed-sausage girth, we seem to have a case of TOO LITTLE, TOO SOON.

Tuesday morning, The Pony came out to join us for a trip to the casino. The plan was to leave the Mansion at 8:30, so we could get home before bad weather was supposed to arrive.

Farmer H had The Pony outside, moving auction items from the back of A-Cad into SilverRedO. The Pony came back in to tell me they were ready, and help shut things off and lock up the doors.

Jack was not on the porch when we left. I noticed that his food dish, and Juno's old food dish, were both empty. 

"Huh. Jack must have really been hungry this morning. He polished that off quick!"

About halfway to the casino, another scenario dawned.

"Did you feed Jack when you went out this morning?"

"Oh. No. I forgot. I was telling The Pony what to do."

"Poor Jack! He must be starving!"

Indeed. Jack must be thinking we've put him on a fast. When we got back, he rushed up to jump on my legs before I could get out of A-Cad. Farmer H poured 3/4 cup of dog food into Jack's bowl. He took a few bites. Then followed me to the door. I felt so guilty that I gave him a whole slice of bread that I had wiped in the grease left on the foil where Farmer H had stacked the grilled sausages.

Poor little feller.

The Little-ing Of Jack

Now that my Sweet, Sweet Juno has gone over the rainbow bridge, to that big farm upstate... there's no need to have dog food sitting around in the hopes that she might eat it and gain back some weight. The dog-feeding can go back to its regularly scheduled routine. Dry food poured into the bowl in the morning. Then a 1/4 slice of bread as I go to town, and a small treat of leftovers when I return.

That should work. In theory. It will allow my little Jack to return to his former lithe and svelte self. 

However... Farmer H is not a good instruction-follower. I told him that Jack does not need a full bowl of food. Farmer H said that he only gives him a cup full. I said he can do with 3/4 cup. It's a metal cup like a camper might drink coffee out of, not a regular measuring cup.

Jack's metal food bowl is smaller than Juno's. Hers is a regular dog dish with a flared-out base. Jacks is smaller, with straight sides. A full cup fills Jacks bowl until it heaps over the top. A full cup is level in Juno's dish.

Anyhoo... Farmer H moved Jack's food bowl over to the side porch, next to Juno's bowl. I think this is a cruel reminder of her absence, but Jack has not complained. He sometimes shies away from that area, because he was so used to Juno bullying him out of her space.

Anyhoo... for the first few days, I saw that Jack's food bowl was empty when I left for town. The weather has been warm. No need for him to have extra fuel to stay warm. So it seems a balance had been reached with Jack's feeding.

NOW I see that Farmer H has put Jack's food in Juno's bowl! AND that bowl was half full when I left for town. I have a feeling he has been dumping in a whole cup of food again. Or more, to fill Juno's bowl. I guess I should just remove it, and leave only Jack's smaller bowl.

I will get my little Jack back to fighting trim. He does not need extra poundage, what with his long body, and penchant for jumping off the concrete carport to chase squirrels five feet below. 

When Did People Get So Stupid?

I'm starting to think that we won't have to worry any more about overpopulation. At least in Hillmomba. Some people are too stupid to live. They have no sense of self-preservation. They are walking death-magnets.

Sunday afternoon, I was backing T-Hoe out of a parking space at the Hillmomba Casey's. Actively backing. Backup lights on, tires rolling. 

A woman and her young daughter came out the door, stepped off the sidewalk, and continued across to their car at the gas pumps, while the mom glared at me! I don't know about you, but if I see a large SUV rolling backwards in my direction, I stop and wait until it has moved out of my way.

Of course I jammed on the brakes. Once they were across, I continued backing. I'll be ding-dang-donged if a middle-aged man didn't come out the door and do the exact same thing. Except he didn't bother to glare at me. Just kept walking like he had a force-field around him. I'm pretty sure he didn't. So I stopped again.

After that guy had cleared T-Hoe's rear bumper, I again began backing. Welp! Here came a 60-somthing man from the direction of the pumps, headed into the store. He gave me a glance, but did not slow his stride. 

SWEET GUMMI MARY! 

Is T-Hoe invisible? He's dirty enough, and has a piece of plastic trim hanging off, to show that anybody I run over is not likely to get a large cash settlement. So I can't assume these privileged walkers are looking for a sweet deal to fund them for the rest of their lives. With the different ages, I can't even blame it on a sense of entitlement from being raised with everyone getting a trophy for merely existing.

I hope nobody tries this with Farmer H. He DID run over an old lady with the city fire truck. And that was going forward...

SOMEBODY Must Be Feeling Better

Farmer H continues to struggle with pain in his right hip. The left hip seems to be on the mend, not hurting as bad as the right. He was up at 1:30 a.m. Friday night, sitting in his recliner, saying that he couldn't sleep because of the pain. I suggested that our mattress is doing him no favors. Farmer H sleeps on his right side. So that hip is being bent out of shape for 12 hours a day. Farmer H's side of the bed has a sag, because of his penchant for sitting on the edge every single day since we've had it, and putting on his clothes and socks and shoes. Mattresses are not made for side-sitting.

Anyhoo... I proposed that Farmer H try to sleep in The Pony's room. I went in and dragged the containers out of the way. Fetched a blanket for Farmer H. Got him settled and covered. Turned out the light. He slept the rest of the night, even without having his breather.

On Saturday afternoon, I washed the sheets and comforter, and put pillowcases on the two pillows left behind by The Pony. Farmer H took his own pillow, but he can use the other two to prop up his breatherless head. Although he DID take his breather in there when he got home.

We had Terrible Taters made with pulled pork on Friday night. Farmer H had some left, and was planning to have it Saturday night, over a piece of bread. I told him that when he warmed it, he should take it out of the plastic container, and put it in a glass bowl. I don't think some plastics are made for microwaving. Farmer H said he'd just put the pulled pork on a paper plate to warm it. I objected, saying that a paper plate is more expensive than the rest-of-my-lifetime supply of fake Dawn dishwashing liquid that Farmer H got me at the auction.

Flash to Saturday evening. Farmer H came to the kitchen, and took five minutes and much noise rooting out a giant glass plate, upon which he dumped his pulled pork.

"Wait a minute. What are you doing?"

"Warming my BBQ. You said to use a glass plate."

"I said to use a glass bowl. They're way easier to wash than a big plate."

"No. I told you I was using a paper plate, and you said to use a glass plate."

"I never would have done that. I figured you'd scoop your BBQ out of the bowl, onto the bread on a paper plate. Which would only use one plate. Not two."

"I was going to put my bread down first, then the BBQ on top to warm it."

"Well. You never said THAT. It would make the bread tough. And now you're not even putting bread under your BBQ. So how are you going to do that?"

Farmer H had a fit, saying that I give too many instructions that make no sense, and I only want to boss him around to do things MY way. To which I replied that HE is not the one who has to deal with washing the dishes by hand every single day of his life.

Yeah. I make HIS life so hard! Let him make his own alternate bed and lie in it!

The Piper: Price Gouger Or Scam Artist

It's time to pay The Piper. The Piper sent a bill. A bill for Farmer H's walker. The walker he was given when he left the hospital after his back surgery, because the staff felt it would make him more stable than a cane. How convenient. Farmer H has a plethora of canes that he has gathered from assorted storage units, auctions, and estate sales.

Anyhoo... I looked at the bill, as I am wont to do before writing out a check. 

Here are the specs:

Description: Wheeled Walker

Quantity: 1

Amount Billed: $306.84

Insurance Allowed Amount: $46.60

Insurance Amount Due: $37.28

Customer Amount Due: $9.32

How does that make sense? The Piper billed $306.84 for a Wheeled Walker, but is willing to accept only a total of $46.60? Which is the Insurance Amount Due, plus Farmer H's Amount Due.

What happened to the rest of the "worth" of that walker? Insurance pays 80%, and Farmer H's part is 20%. That's standard. But what about that whopping $306.84? How did that get "reduced" to $46.60? Don't get me wrong. I don't want Farmer H paying 20% of the amount billed. I'm just trying to figure out this system.

Insurance is crooked. And so is The Piper.