The Turning Of The Screw

You may recall that T-Hoe had an issue with a clicking/popping noise when the back hatch opened. Farmer H said he had discovered the reason. I figured everything was good. Nope! The next time I opened the hatch, after Farmer H "fixing" the problem by removing a small light bulb left behind by Mick the Mechanic's crew after they replaced a taillight... that noise was still there.

Thursday when we returned from a lunch date with my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel and her husband, Farmer H agreed to stand and listen at T-Hoe's rear while I opened the hatch. He heard the noise. He pinpointed the location. Tried a couple more openings and closings. Then decided the issue was:

The plastic cover of the taillight catching on the side of T-Hoe's hatch.

Farmer H went to get a screwdriver. "There's only two screws holding it on. I guess maybe them guys didn't screw it on tight enough."

Several turns of those two screws, two more openings and closings, and the job was done. No noise when the hatch is raised. 

Farmer H can usually solve a mechanical problem. Even if it takes two tries and lots of nagging.

Pupsie Gets A Scolding

I've been extremely careful not to scare our newest dog Pupsie. Sweet talking, petting the other two fleabags, moving slowing (well, that's a given), not lunging to grab hold.

Wednesday when I got home, Pupsie and Scarlett both came into the garage. Scarlett came out when I exited the people door, but Pupsie stayed inside. I stood on the sidewalk, trying to coax Pupsie out. Scarlett herself jumped off the side porch THREE TIMES, to prance into the garage, and herd Pupsie out. They would start trotting together, Pupsie on the far side, but then Scarlett would continue up the steps while Pupsie hesitated, then went back under T-Hoe. Finally Scarlett gave up, and gave Pupsie a look like, "You're on your own now, kid." Pupsie ran past me like I was a cartoon dogcatcher with a net.

Thursday, both dogs again came into the garage. Jack had asserted his possession of me by standing up to put his dusty paws on my black pants leg, then went around to the porch. Scarlett and Pupsie waited by the people door. But then Pupsie ran back. Even set off the electric eye when the garage door was closing, so I had to let it go back up and re-set before closing again. That's a no-no! Since Pupsie was running around the side of the garage to get to the porch, I let it go.

I had set most of the grocery bags on the chair on the side porch, while I went back into the garage for my purse and water bottle and the mail. When I came out to fend off crazy Scarlett, I caught Pupsie sniffing the grocery bags, and possibly nipping at one to pull it off the chair. 

"NO!"

Pupsie looked right at me. In the eyes. Like: "What's this? Are you talking to ME?"

Yes. I was. No dog of mine will get into the groceries if I have any say in it! Pupsie did not look skittish at that admonition. Stopped. Trotted away. But came back to try again several times as I petted Scarlett. Each time greeted with my "NO!"

Pupsie seemed to understand, and ceased molesting the grocery bag. And also got close enough to touch my proffered fingers with a muzzle. Taming might be underway.

Two Unneeded Cents

Tuesday, Farmer H was looking at our enclave's Facebook page, and saw that our across-the-road neighbor had a picture. Of Scarlett! Saying that she saw this dog on her porch on her RING camera, and did it belong to anybody.

Farmer H responded that yes, it was our dog, and he was sorry if she caused any trouble or tore anything up. Neighbor replied, "Dog, sweet dog."

But THEN another guy out here responded to her statement with: "That's bullshit!"

Not sure what his point was. He responded to another innocuous comment with: "There was three of them."

Okay. So Scarlett, Jack, and Pupsie (I assume, unless it was Copper Jack) run around together. We've not had any complaints of mischief. Most people know who the dogs belong to.

It would be different if our dogs were on this guy's porch, and caused problems. Not sure why he thinks he has to insert himself into our business. Neighbor's dogs (the crazy Rottweiler and killer Poodle) are the ones who killed our 32 chickens, several per day. Farmer H just told them he would shoot the dogs with a paintball gun if he saw them in our field after the chickens. Also, their horses escaped and trampled through the only garden we ever planted. We didn't hold it against them. Animals will be animals.

If something happens to our dogs, I'm pretty sure I know who will be to blame. And it's not Neighbor. She's a dog groomer, and has rescue dogs as pets. I'm thinking she probably was wondering if Scarlett needed a home.

It's the country. Dogs run free. Copper Jack virtually lives here. We don't complain to that neighbor.

Farmer H Sees The Light

On Monday, I picked up a few items for my Christmas Dinner preparations. I couldn't get it all, because I don't have a complete list yet, but mainly because I knew I didn't have room in T-Hoe's rear for too much stuff. It's filled with about 10 six-packs of Farmer H's Diet Mountain Dew. I get it when it's on sale, and he only brings in a couple six-packs at a time.

When I came out of 10Box and hit the clicker to open the rear hatch, I heard a terrible noise! Like a POP or a CLICK. Something that I shouldn't hear. Sweet Gummi Mary! That's the last thing I needed! I could probably stuff the groceries on the passenger seat and floor, and some in the back seats. But I sure didn't want to drive home with T-Hoe's hatch flapping open, dropping Diet Mountain Dew along the countryside.

I didn't know what to look at as the source of the noise. In my mind, I thought it might be something wrong with the hydraulic thingies that lift the hatch. One went bad before, and I had to manually lift up that hatch, and balance it on my head (!) while trying to put anything in or take out. Then Farmer H gave me an old crutch to prop it. He's a peach, that Farmer H.

Anyhoo... when I got home, Farmer H was at least there for once, to help carry in groceries. As he was walking through the garage, I pushed the button to open the hatch.

"Hear that??? It just started. In town, and now. I don't know what's wrong with it. I haven't opened it in a while. I'd been putting stuff on the passenger seat because it's easier to get to when I have to carry it in."

"Huh. Here it is." Farmer H was looking at his palm. "It's a light bulb. I had them put a new bulb in the tail light when I had your car worked on. Looks like they just laid down a bulb, and it rolled over into the latch area."

What in the Not-Heaven??? Is that even possible? It was just tight enough to make that sound, without breaking, and without impeding the operation of the latch.

I never would have seen that.

Dog Does Not Live By Bread Alone

It's no secret that the treat my dogs receive most often is bread. Stale bread that Farmer H says he can smell the mold forming. Maybe he can, or maybe he can't. But a few days after the use-by date, I move the leftover loaf from the cabinet to the kitchen counter. It has become DOG BREAD. Never mind that in the past, Farmer H, being the type who likes to conserve his energy, has eaten such designated dog bread for a sandwich, rather than reach up into the cabinet, and didn't know the difference until I asked why he was stealing food right out of the dogs' mouths.

Anyhoo... I even go so far as to buy the cheapest loaf of whole wheat sandwich bread, just so the dogs will always have something. I know a lot of bread is not good for them. But at least they're not going to be constipated, heh, heh! Besides, they only get a quarter-slice as I leave, and a half slice when I return. The best days are when their bread has been swiped in pan drippings. They really eat it up!

Anyhoo... Sunday evening, Farmer H came through the kitchen door after his day of SUS2.5-ing, and asked an unusual question.

"Do you have anything to feed the dogs?"

"Why? Is little Pupsie out there? I just have bread. But they've already had it twice today."

"No. Not bread. Their feeder is out of dog food. I don't have any food for them. 

I guess they'll be okay until morning. I can go get them some around 7:00."

See there? Didn't I tell Farmer H that I didn't think the self-feeder was a good idea? First of all, you don't know who's eating it. Maybe Scarlett gets more. Maybe it's not even our own dogs. Copper Jack has been back up on the porch lately. And the squirrels and birds are always around. When I got back from town, I know there was food in the feeder, because Jack was munching on it. So within 30 minutes, SOMETHING finished eating that food.

Of course Farmer H doesn't see anything wrong with his plan. But when he was giving the dogs food in their bowls every morning, he never ran out of food for them.

Savory Smells, Savory Smells, It's Chex Mix Time In The Mansion

I started the first of my four batches of holiday Chex Mix on Saturday. Sometimes it takes five. I'll be exhausted. My knees are already complainy, although it's not like I squat down to peer into the oven. It's the up and down every 15 minutes for two hours to stir, and the initial 30 minutes standing to fill the pans.

Mmm... if only you could take a whiff of these heaping pans of my world-famous Chex Mix fresh out of the oven. Too bad smelleblogging isn't a thing.

I tried a new kind of pretzel this year. Not sure I will use them again. They don't seem to pick up the flavor like the twist pretzels. Also, the generic cheerios are not my preference. I usually get them at Save A Lot, but this time I used the kind from 10Box. How much difference could a plain little toasted oat make, you ask? It's not the taste. This kind wanted to stick to the bottom of the pan in the first two stirrings.

I thought it might be the pan that is oldest, not quite as non-stick as it used to be. But no. I happened in all three pans. Then I thought it might be my oven not working right. There's a 25-degree play in the knob that controls the temperature. I try to wiggle it and get it set right in the middle of the wiggle. Chex Mix requires 250 degrees. No more, no less. On the second batch, I was extra-careful in setting the temperature. That was not the solution. I assume it might be the powdery stuff on these cheerios. Anyhoo... only five or six per pan stuck, and didn't affect the flavor of the rest of the batch. They soaked off easily when I washed the pans between batches.

It's heaped in the middle here, but that's because I stirred when I took the pans out for the final time, to help with cooling. When putting them in the oven, the particles have to be lying flat, or some will get scraped off by the rack above them. That's no good! Not just wasteful, but they burn on the bottom of the oven.

That paper plate you can barely see is where I set my stirring spoon to rest, and also pile the particles that escape onto the cutting block during stirring. That's what Farmer H gets when he asks for some. Until I have enough for my gifts, he's out of luck aside from that pittance, or the crumbs from the bottom of the pans.

Two down, two (at least) to go. That has to wait until I buy more ingredients. It takes three boxes of cereal per batch. I'm also down to one giant bag of Bugles. And out of Worcestershire Sauce and mixed nuts and cashews. I have enough pecan halves to get by. They cost almost as much as a bargain flip house!

Another Portal To Not-Heaven

Most people can go their entire lives without having a portal to Not-Heaven open up in their living quarters. Am I right? I've never seen one here at the Mansion, nor in any other residences where I have resided. Yet The Pony is on his SECOND!

Way back in 2017, I told about the first one on my not-so-secret blog. While I was talking to The Pony on our 6:00 a.m. phone call Tuesday, another such portal appeared!

"I'm going to send you two pictures. I was just laying here in bed talking, and my whole kitchen lit up. I thought you'd like to know that I might have another hellmouth where I'm living!"

"That's the window over my kitchen sink. Not my freezer. My freezer is fine here, as far as I can tell. But then I looked at my bedroom wall, and saw more."

"Dang! What kind of energy do you attract?"

"Don't worry, Mother. I figured out what it is. My new neighbors park sideways in their driveway. One of them is leaving for work, and the tail lights were shining through my kitchen window when he backed up."

"Good to know!"

Such an unusual life The Pony leads, for being a simple mailman living in a corner house on a quiet street.

Another Random Discovery For The Pony

The Pony never knows what he might find when he opens up a mailbox on his route. I've mentioned on my other blog how the carriers sometimes post pictures on Reddit of strange items that some suspect might be an attempt from postal inspectors to check their honesty. They just leave it, and say: "Not today, Postal Inspector!" 

Such things as money with no note. The consensus there is that it's probably drug money from the resident, meant for their dealer to pick up and leave the goods. Indeed, some have posted pictures of illegal substances left in mailboxes as well.

The Pony found frozen meat a while back. It was on the sidewalk, perhaps because it didn't fit in the mailbox. Thursday's discovery might have been a nice side dish to that sidewalk meat.

At 4:15 I got a text from The Pony:

"This is a new one. Not today, Postato Inspector!"

"Heh, heh! I see what you did there."

Never a dull moment in The Pony's workday. There are worse things that could be found in a mailbox.

Autocorrect Is The Devil

Wednesday morning, I got a text from Genius, showing a gloomy day in Pittsburgh out his window.

"It's SNOWING!"

"That makes me cold."

Of course, I'm always cold. And we've already had our first snow. Not that I wasn't excited for Genius. I would have thought he'd get snow before us. Anyhoo... I went on to say:

"You need to make a big pot of chili."

Well. Good thing I looked at it before I hit send. That dang Autorcorrect had changed my words! Specifically, it changed CHILI to CHILD!!! 

I also informed Genius of that attempted trickery. He thought it was funny. I stopped short of typing my theory that Autorcorrect is the devil. Genius is quite dismissive of my conspiracy theories. But seriously... in what kind of world does an app replace CHILI with CHILD in a context like that?

The Pony also laughed when I told him, and said, "Darn those satanists!" He doesn't buy into my conspiracies either, but at least he will joke about them.

What Hath Doc Wrought?

While at my doctor appointment on Tuesday, the doc NP was reviewing my medications, making sure I still used the same pharmacy. I mentioned how there's one drug that I pay for out of pocket, since it's a brand name version that insurance doesn't like to pay for.

"It's always been a fight, no matter what insurance. So I just paid outright for it. I haven't tried using insurance since I switched over to [Old People Insurance] last year."

"Oh. I can submit it. Want me to do that?"

"Sure. It's worth a try."

As The Universe's shady circumstances would have it, my pharmacy was just bottling up those heart-slower meds when I pulled up to the drive-thru to get the only prescription I had called in for refills the day before.

"Oh. I don't really need that one right now. My doctor just put it in to see if the current insurance would cover it."

"Okay. We can wait. But it's almost ready. They're working on it right now."

"Well, I can take it. Then I won't have to call it in so soon."

"Just a minute, and we'll run it through insurance to see what it is."

Funny how I pay $53.52 for it every month without insurance. But WITH using the insurance, it will cost me $61.22. No thank you. I'll go back to paying out of pocket. 

Mrs. HM Hates Change

I went to the doctor nurse practitioner on Tuesday, for a yearly checkup. This was my first time in the new facility that they moved to in November. I hate going new places. I like to know the exact layout, so I can mentally prepare myself. I knew the old clinic on the upper floors of the hospital building. I knew where the bathrooms were located. How far I'd have to walk to get to my appointment. Where I would be sitting while waiting. The thought of this appointment gave me the jitters. Should I take my cane? Would there be any steps to navigate? What if I needed the bathroom while waiting? How would I find the right office?

At least I had Farmer H driving me over to Bill-Paying Town for this appointment. To drop me off at the door. He had refused neglected to drive by over the six weeks I had asked him to find the place. At that morning, he did not feel the need to look up the address on his phone. He was "pretty sure" the building would be located behind the hospital.

We left in plenty of time for my 9:30 appointment. Got over there at 8:53, for my arrival time of 9:15. Yet Farmer H drove right past the street. I calmly pointed out that he had just passed it. 

"Huh. I can get there this way, and go behind the hospital. But I'll turn around and go back."

Sure. He said that to save face. There was no road going to this facility from the hospital. He turned around in an apartment complex, and backtracked. Let me off at the front door, which had several yellow-painted concrete pillars to keep people from driving right through the double doors.

I'm no architect, but I think I could have designed a better entrance. Once through the two sets of double doors, there was a horizontal hallway. I stepped in to look at the sign on the wall listing the doctors and the suites where their offices were located. All I could gather was that my very own NP was on the ground floor. 

Hm. A dilemma. I chose to turn right, and walk into the large waiting area and ask for directions. The first desk was labeled LAB. Not what I was looking for. Past it was a counter with three receptionist-looking women seated behind it. I stopped at the first one. 

"I'm looking for [my NP's] office."

"Well, you found it!"

That gal was SO helpful. Cheerful. Looked up my appointment. Told me they had been "calling from both ends," so I might want to choose a seat in the middle of the room. Well. Easier said than done. That place was packed. I saw a wide seat under the front windows. That's always good. Nobody sick can sit right on top of you! I chose it. 

At 9:15, my name was called. Way down at the opposite end of that cattle corral. It took me a couple minutes to get to the gal who called me. She took me down a hall behind closed doors, to a scale. And then to an exam room, where she took my blood pressure, pulse, and oxygen level. Left me to wait (less than 5 minutes!) for the NP to come in.

We had a nice visit. I got my prescription refills. He listened to my lungs and belly. Didn't bother to stick that looky thing up my nostrils or in my ears. Complimented me on my weight loss, and asked my secret. PORTION CONTROL! Told me balance is one thing that can be practiced and improved. And not to wait too long if I was considering knee replacement surgery, as his mom almost did, but got it at 72 years old. Then he showed me the way to the lab area. Where a gal explained how it worked, and sent me back out to sign in for the LAB, and wait again in the cattle corral.

Sweet Gummi Mary! That corral was packed. No comfy wide seat as a buffer. I had to sit in a regular seat (not at all uncomfortable) in a row of three. The skinniest man in the world was sitting in my previous wide seat. AS IF he needed that! He was like Jack Sprat, having never eaten fat in his life. Oh, there was another wide seat across from me, with a little slip of a gal sitting there, all complainy, asking if she might have missed hearing her name, but the LAB receptionist told her no, they were just really busy. And get this! About 30 minutes later, when Slippy was called back, an old lady on a mobility scooter came in, and backed her scooter up in front of that wide bench, blocking its use by anybody else. Are you freakin' kidding me? She had a built-in seat on her scooter! She could have parked against a wall. No need to disable a perfectly good seat.

Anyhoo... after 45 minutes I finally got called back to give my blood sample. It was quite a hike into the inner sanctum, past three bays with curtains. In the old place, it was just a step inside the door.

Nobody waiting in this new clinic seem particularly happy to be there. In the old place, there were different groupings of chairs for the assorted doctors. Not one giant room where everybody had to wait together, eyeing each other for lack of anything better to do. Not a magazine in sight.

At least next time I'll know what to expect: an unpleasant experience.

Paying Bills Can Be Hazardous To Your Health

Sweet Gummi Mary! It's a good thing Mrs. HM is no longer taking blood-thinner medication! Six months of that was enough, back around 2014, after a bout of multiple bilateral pulmonary embolisms. Had I still been on that poison Xarelto, I could have exsanguinated last week!

I was going about my business, sitting at the kitchen table, writing out a check to pay the yearly insurance bill for our 4-wheeler that Farmer H never rides anymore. It's around $80 to insure that mechanical statue that resides under the back porch of the Mansion. 

Anyhoo... as I licked the envelope, I got a paper cut ON MY LIP! Yes. It WAS painful!

Only a couple days later, I re-opened the large manila-sized white envelope that held our tax bills for 2024. Yes. It required such a large envelope, because it contained 11 bills. We're apparently land barons. 

Anyhoo... as I pulled those bills out to separate the payment stub portion from the bigger portion, I got a paper cut on my left index finger. Right in the crease between the pointer tip and the middle section. It hurts like fire, even now, when I first step under the shower water. Don't get me started on washing dishes.

As if the bill-paying chore wasn't enough to (thankfully-not) kill me, Jack jumped up as I was going down the porch steps to pet him, and gouged a hole in the next-to-knuckle section of that very same left index finger. That gaping wound dripped all through the garage, and I had to bind a Puffs With Lotion around it to spare T-Hoe's leather seats on the way to down. Jack has some mighty sturdy diggin' claws from his dachshund half.

Most of you will be happy to learn that I have survived these injuries to type again. 

You Be The Bagger

Once again, Mrs. HM is nonplussed after a trip through the checkout line at Country Mart. The logic there escapes me.

No matter how I arrange my items on the conveyor, the cashiers there use their own questionable judgment when putting my groceries in their bags.

Today, I'll let YOU be the judge of how my purchases should have been grouped. At the end, I'll tell you what I would have done. Don't cheat! There's no right answer, I suppose, except MY solution, heh, heh! I'm just curious how you would have liked your bags filled if these were items you were taking home.

First of all, let's establish that they used three bags. So that's what you have to work with. One gal was ringing them up, and a second gal stepped up to put them in the bags. They were both probably late teens/early 20s.

I only bought five items. Okay, it was seven, but two were 12-packs of Shasta Diet Cola, and they remained in the cart to be scanned with the handheld thingy.

* clear square plastic container of fried chicken from the deli

* clear rectangular container of chicken tenders from the deli 

(half the size of the square container)

* bunch of six large bananas (about 3 pounds)

* bag of onions (3 pounds)

* large bag of Ruffles potato chips

That's the groceries. Think for a moment how you might bag them, lest you be swayed by what those checkers did with them. Got it? Here's some blank space, and then their solution.

###############################################################

###############################################################

###############################################################

Bag 1: onions with potato chips on top

Bag 2: bananas with chicken tenders container on top

Bag 3: fried chicken container by itself

At least they didn't put the bananas and onions in the same bag, so it was too heavy to lift, and bruising to my bananas. That's an improvement. However, the plastic container of chicken tenders had sharp edges suitable for gouging my bananas. And why leave the fried chicken by itself?

Here's how I re-bagged them in the rain at T-Hoe's rear:

Bag 1: onions

Bag 2: bananas with potato chips on top

Bag 3: fried chicken container with chicken tenders container on top

To me, that's the logical combinations. The chips on top of the onions wasn't too bad, but the onions were the heaviest bag, slightly, over the bananas.

A Pupsie Update

Our newest pet is still elusive. I don't remember what was happening last time I mentioned him. I've decided his name will be Buddy. There have been a couple of breakthroughs in his "taming." Meaning he doesn't always disappear when we are in his sight. We're still nowhere near to catching him for a vet visit.

This week has been encouraging. Buddy is running around with Scarlett and Jack. Like he realizes this is his pack, and not just using Scarlett as a surrogate mother. Also, Buddy stays on the porch where I can see him as I leave for town. No more hiding around the front corner of the porch.

Friday when I got home and was doling out treats of a slice of bread that had been wiped through the skillet after Farmer H had scrambled eggs... Buddy came running around the corner of the porch, and grabbed at Scarlett's bread slice. Pulled on it, trying to steal it. And she let him have it! So I tossed her another piece.

Saturday, Buddy came running over to the side porch with Scarlett and Jack as I left. He stood still while I tossed HIM a scrap of bread after occupying them with their usual scrap. I've been working on this for a couple weeks, tossing a piece that way. Usually Scarlett would gobble hers up, and run eat Buddy's as well. I even tried chucking it under the generator that sits there, where Scarlett can't get her big head. Hard to tell if Buddy or Jack eventually ate it.

Saturday around noon, I was able to get a couple pictures. Oh, they're not GOOD pictures. If I open the kitchen door, Buddy scampers away. But I got a picture through the window shades and screen. Don't strain your eyes. Maybe squint and the picture will look clearer!

They like this patch of sun at the corner of the porch. Scarlett relaxing, Buddy on alert, because he could hear me pecking at the keyboard.

Jack joined them, and Buddy got in between, just like a child in the middle of his Moms and Pops. Something got their attention, as all three stretched their necks to look toward the front yard. Probably Copper Jack. Poor thing! He's being shunned since he returned from being tethered during deer season. It seems as if Buddy has taken his place. I feel bad for him. Scarlett barks at him constantly, and he doesn't come up on the porch for treats any more.

You can't really tell through the shades, but Jack and Buddy were rubbing noses, snuggling a bit. A happy little family.

Farmer H says all three of them sleep over by the old goat pen, in square bales of hay piled under a camper shell. Jack has preferred that place for years, rather than a house on the porch. He has dug a little hole down in those bales. They are under a roof, and out of the wind from any direction. And have the snuggle heat of all three bodies. There are cedar shavings in the two dog houses at the bedroom end of the porch, but I imagine a hay hole is more cozy than having a large house with empty space above, and a door where a draft could come in.

I am happy they're all getting along, but I wish Buddy would come for petting. He sits ever closer and watches, and tilts his head when I make that kissy noise to get his attention. Still not ready for petting.

Farmer H says, "I don't think that little dog likes me. He runs off every time I try to pet him."

To which I replied, "Wait until you catch him and take him to get his balls cut off. Then he REALLY won't like you!"

10 Minutes She'll Never Get Back, Or Why Mrs. HM Should Trust Her Instincts

While leaving the Hillmomba Casey's on Friday, the thought crossed my mind to go back across the moat, up the alley behind the Gas Station Chicken Store, and get on the road that would take me straight through the light to 10Box. I often do this, because traffic is heavy on the main road this time of afternoon. But no. I figured since I was just making a right turn to get on that strip of main road, I'd not take the longer roundabout way over the moat.

You know what happened, right? I got stuck in traffic. 

Oh, I got out of the Casey's lot just fine, onto that main road. But I needed a left at the stoplight to make my turn to 10Box.

Here I am in the left turn lane. Usually not a problem at all. But this day, the guy in front of me wanted to make a left turn into the parking lot of the Liquor Store. The two cars ahead of him at the light went through when the arrow was green. But he stayed in the same place, waiting for traffic to allow him his left turn. Which he couldn't make, because of that ignoramus just sitting there in her car. There's not enough room behind her for this guy to get his car out of the oncoming traffic lane.

See what I mean? She just sat there smoking, flicking her ash out the window, not CLOSING THE GAP in line so other cars could pull onto the lot behind her. What kind of psycho does this???

I can't really blame the guy ahead of me, who wanted to make this turn. He could have pulled up to the stoplight, then made a left turn, and gone a few hundred yards to turn around at 10Box, and come back to make a right turn at that other entrance to the parking lot, and get in front of that ignoramus. Or he could have just made his turn onto the lot and parked in a parking space until she moved forward. But still, SHE was the one causing the holdup.

I sat there for 10 minutes. Through 5 changes of the stoplights. Traffic was backed up behind me, way over the hill. That's because other people wanting to make a left turn were blocking the space needed for people wanting to go straight to get into their lane.

If only I had crossed the moat, I would have been on my way, easy peasy.

The Acts Of Life

You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have the acts of life that Mrs. HM experiences on a daily basis with Farmer H.

Remember way back when I mentioned how something was wrong with T-Hoe? That there was a rattle underneath? And Farmer H said he would take it to Mick the Mechanic? Well... that day finally came on YESTERDAY! And that was only because I whined mentioned to Farmer H that I was getting afraid to drive T-Hoe, because the steering has not been right for quite a while.

"It wobbles. Like if somebody crosses the center line, or starts to pull out in front of me, or there's something in the road... if I have to steer suddenly, it feels like T-Hoe is going out of control. Like it takes too long for the wheels to turn, and then the whole car wobbles back and forth. It really bothers me when I pull out onto the county lettered highway, right onto the bridge, and if somebody is over the line, I'm afraid to get over, because I might hit the concrete side."

Farmer H came home the next day, saying he had an appointment for T-Hoe at 8:00 Thursday morning.

"That's good. It's only been 9 months since I told you something was wrong."

"No it hasn't. It's only been a couple months."

"I'm pretty sure it was during Spring. Because it wasn't warm enough to have the windows down, but I put it down to listen to the rattle."

"It wasn't that long!"

Okay, looking back at that post as a reference, it's only been 8 months! Since April.

Anyhoo... Farmer H brought T-Hoe home before leaving again for town. It took less than two hours, and cost $130.83. Pity that T-Hoe couldn't have been fixed 8 months ago. I can definitely tell the difference when driving. Farmer H said he thought I would, because he also noticed that the steering was mushy, and then worked fine after repairs to the stabilizer bar. The rattle is also gone.

Anyhoo... before Farmer H left that morning with T-Hoe, I had two requests.

"Be careful backing out of the garage. I don't want you to break off a mirror again. And when you come back, make sure I can get the door all the way open, so I don't hurt my knees getting in."

Well. Both mirrors are intact. But when I left for town, T-Hoe's door hit the 2x4 board that is part of the framing of the garage. You have to park where the door opens in between two 2x4s. Or the door won't open completely. Depending on how far you've pulled in, it could be a couple inches, or six or eight inches less opening space.

I have not yet mentioned this detail to Farmer H. He has been scolded multiple times about T-Hoe's door not opening all the way after he parks T-Hoe in the garage. I suppose his response will be that T-Hoe's door DID open all the way... until it hit the 2x4.

No Thanks From The Thankless

In the tradition of shooting the messenger, on Tuesday evening, Farmer H poisoned the cook. Poisoned any good will remaining, anyway. 

At the end of our Thanksgiving leftovers, I mentioned that there was bacon left from the roasting of the vegetables. And that I had a can of biscuits in FRIG II that needed to be cooked before they exploded and put us in need of a FRIG III. Farmer H perked up.

"Oh. I can have eggs and bacon and biscuits for supper!"

"Yes. If I make the eggs, they will be scrambled. I am no good at frying eggs."

"I can do that."

Of course I got everything else ready for Farmer H. I put the biscuits in the oven, intending to watch over them as he fried his eggs. I was pretty sure he could not do both. I also put his already-cooked bacon on foil, on a pizza pan, to slide into the oven as the biscuits neared their done-ness. I had the skillet set out, and the bottle of vegetable oil, and a spatula, and a plate with fork and knife, plus three eggs on a paper plate with a rim and coating that grease won't seep through.

I called Farmer H to the kitchen.

"You can start your eggs when you're ready. The biscuits cook for 13-17 minutes. They've been in for five. I will check them and move them to the lower shelf when I come back, and put in your bacon to warm. There are your eggs. Put the shells back on that plate, and you can toss them off the porch."

With that, I took a quick bathroom break. I came back to the kitchen to see that Farmer H had put his bacon off the pizza pan, and onto the back burner of the stove, still on the foil.

"What are you doing? I had that all ready for the oven!"

"I put my bacon back there to warm up."

"That's what the pan was for, to slide into the oven."

"Huh. Well. This works."

"If you think so. Not sure how fast that is going to warm. What about the biscuits? I can't see them."

Farmer H opened the oven.

"Huh. It doesn't look like they're cooking. They're pale. I told you the oven doesn't work right."

"The oven is heating from the bottom. The biscuits are fine. They've been in there for... 14 minutes."

"Exactly. And they don't look done."

"THIS IS WHY I HATE TO DO ANYTHING! YOU ARE ALWAYS BOSSING ME!"

With that, I left Farmer H to his own devices. Not another word from me to boss him around! I sat down at HIPPIE and started computing. I heard grease sizzling. The oven opening and closing. Seems that Farmer H thought it best to move those biscuits down to the bottom of the oven where it was heating, and put the bacon in there, too.

When Farmer H finally buttered his biscuits and took his plate to the living room, I saw that he had left the skillet of grease on the hot burner, with the metal spatula balanced in it. And had put his eggshells on the flimsy paper plate rather than the one I had put them on with directions to put the shells back on it.

After eating, Farmer H brought his plate to the kitchen to put in the sink. I pointed out the skillet on the hot burner.

"I turned it OFF, HM."

"Uh huh. Because that instantly makes the coil cool enough to leave popping grease on. And the eggshells are on that plate soaking through to the counter."

"The shells are fine. I'm taking them out right now."

It's really easier to cook for him myself. I'm pretty sure that's his evil plan, anyway...

Can't Blame This Attempted Killing On Farmer H

The Universe plots against Mrs. HM. When not using Farmer H as an agent of her demise, The Universe finds other ways to hasten her end.

We had snow on Monday, starting mid-morning, after temperatures overnight in the low twenties. The snow stuck on the Mansion porch, and the rail, and on the cover of POOLIO. Farmer H was in and out, telling me the roads were fine except for bridges, and the pavement didn't seem slick. He was going to an auction that afternoon. In fact, he followed me out the gravel road as I went to town.

I had on T-Hoe's 4WD but didn't need it. A little snow was still flaking down. Not sure if you can see it in this picture from our gravel road as I came home.

The parking lots in town were basically clear. Some had a shiny look to them, so I trod lightly and surefootedly. The trip to town was uneventful. My first stop was the Gas Station Chicken Store, where I got my rightful handicap space. When I came out, I opened T-Hoe's door and stepped my right foot on the running board to get it. Whoopsie! I felt my foot slide. Good to know. I rubbed the sole of my shoe back and forth, to scrape off the film of ice that builds up from road spray while driving. I hadn't noticed it getting out. Maybe it was fresh from the little mist that was falling when I went inside.

Anyhoo... with my right foot planted, I hoisted myself up onto the running board. My decrepit knees make me use an odd method to get in. I turn to face outward, putting my left foot on the running board as well, and sit my ample rumpus onto T-Hoe's leather seat. Then I turn to sit the right way in the seat, rather than facing out.

Welp! Something went terribly wrong! My left heel could not gain traction. I was unable to get my ample rumpus onto the top of the seat. I was a bit sideways, and FALLING off T-Hoe's running board! This was scary! It was so cold! I didn't want to end up on the pavement, waiting for somebody to see me and try to help. I held onto T-Hoe's door with my right hand, while my left hand was being wrenched loose from the door jamb. My left foot slid down onto the pavement, and my right followed, but not before bending my knee too tight. I usually slide that foot off the running board when halfway down, but in my struggle to maintain balance, it stayed on the running board.

I was able to stay on my feet. My heart was racing as I tried to figure out my next move. Holding onto the side of T-Hoe, I moved to the back door, and opened it to get my long ice scraper. Thank the Gummi Mary, it was within reach. That's the advantage of never cleaning out your car between seasons!

Anyhoo... I used the scraping end to get the film of ice loose from the running board, and the brushy end to sweep those shavings away. I made sure I had traction in the areas both feet needed, and climbed back in. I had to do it again at my next stop, Casey's just across the moat.

I'm so glad I had my scraper! Otherwise, I don't know how I would have gotten into T-Hoe to get home. My right arm is sore, and my left arm has a tremor when I try to reach over to the counter to lay something down while sitting at HIPPIE. It doesn't hurt, but I must have strained a muscle needed for that motion. The right knee is swollen and achy, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to survive.

Not today, Universe!

Probably A Relative Of Farmer H

Farmer H enjoys a good tree stump. He has several sitting in the lava rocks that line the front and side of the Mansion, interspersed with actual rocks, gathered from the creek, and my grandma's collection. Sometimes when we're driving, Farmer H will exclaim: 

"I wish I had that stump!"

Of course that's what I thought of when I pulled up behind this truck at the stoplight on Monday. Well. It's the second thing I thought of. The first being: "Don't get too close, in case that junk falls out when he takes off when the light turns green."

Those are not small stumps. They would wreak havoc with the undercarriage of any vehicle that ran over them. They're not even strapped in with a bungee cord or come-a-long! That guy has raised the top that would sit over a load in the back of that pickup. Only gravity holds them in the truck bed.

Even Farmer H is smarter than this guy, and knows how to haul random tree stumps without being a possible road hazard for drivers behind him.

Counting ONE Of Farmer H's Blessings

When I was in the Gas Station Chicken Store on Wednesday, the cashier wished me a Happy Thanksgiving.

"You, too! I've been home cooking, getting part of it ready for tomorrow. I probably smell like onions right now!"

"Not at MY house. SOMEBODY who lives there doesn't like leftovers. So we have to prepare things as fresh as possible."

Oh, no. Can you imagine having to work your regular shift, get home after 10:00, then get up to cook the next morning before you can serve Thanksgiving Dinner? What a stressful scenario. They probably didn't get to eat until evening, unless she got up at midnight:01 to start cooking!

That's one (I said ONE) good thing about Farmer H. He may eat the food in five minutes, but at least he eats the food, and doesn't mind that I started cooking it the day before. AND he will eat holiday leftovers for several days, because they're special things that I don't make often.

This Old Nag Continues To Pummel A Deceased Equine

I'm sure you're getting tired of Mrs. HM telling lottery stories. I can't help it. That's all the news I have to share. The last two were upbeat, considering that Farmer H and I were both winners. Today's tale is a groaner. Another near-miss for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! Technically, it's another near-win. But that sounds too positive for the way I feel.

Considering that Farmer H won $200 on that Black Diamond ticket, I figured that's what I should buy. It's an unusual amount. Most rolls of tickets have a $100 winner on them, and then lesser amounts. So this was something special. I figured maybe more of those would have been distributed around Hillmomba this month. As much as MoLottery claims these winners are random, they show up in clusters each month on the prize map. It only shows wins of $1000 or higher, but there are always clusters around different cities, and it's usually the same ticket.

I went to town Friday with the mission of getting two or three of those Black Diamond tickets for myself. I could afford it, from my recent not-losing streak. My first stop was the Liquor Store, because it's on the right side of the road, and the traffic flow favors this route. I got my Black Diamond and a crossword from a new employee there. He appears to be of Indian (not Native American) heritage, with an accent like Apu from the Kwik-E-Mart on The Simpsons. The regular stoner guy who wears a hoody has not been there my last two times.

Anyhoo... from there I made my left turn by the Casey's, and looped back to the Gas Station Chicken Store. I was cashing in Farmer H's $200 winner, and Fave the cashier said,

"Oh. A guy just came in with one of these that he got over at the Liquor Store. He asked me if I could cash it. I scanned it, and it said SEE MISSOURI LOTTERY. It was a $1000 winner! So I gave it back to him."

"WHAT? I just bought one over there. Just now! I had been planning on it since my husband scratched this one. If only I'd been a few minutes earlier, that would have been mine!"

"Isn't that always how it goes?"

"You're tellin' me! And so soon after missing that $50,000 over at 10Box!"

Anyhoo... I can't get much closer to a big win. Oh, and my Black Diamond from the Liquor Store was a loser. Same as the one I got at the Gas Station Chicken Store.

Farmer H Takes The Cake

Having survived 35 years of marriage to Farmer H, you'd think I would know better. Better than to tell him something, and expect him to follow through. I know he's not a rocket scientist (unless it would involve putting the parts of a rocket together and making it work), and he's not one to pay attention and do as I tell him. So I was setting myself up for failure from the get-go.

We had a big selection of store-bought desserts for Thanksgiving dinner. Farmer H had said he would like a cherry pie. I DID look for one, but all I found were pumpkin and pecan. That's not counting the freezer section, because he knew I didn't want to cook an actual pie in the oven.

Anyhoo... I found a Cherry Pie Danish that I got for him, in a long pan, to be sliced and eaten. He had a piece of it after finishing his plate of real food.

Other desserts were six triple-chocolate brownies that I bought for The Pony to take home. I think the package said "two-bite" brownies. They looked good. I got The Pony something like that last holiday dinner, and he liked them. As Farmer H was looking over the desserts, I specifically said, "I got those brownies for The Pony." Same as I had said when he carried the desserts in from T-Hoe. 

What do you think Farmer H did? That's right! He opened those brownies and ate one! While standing right there with the knife in his hand for slicing his Cherry Pie Danish. To his credit, The Pony said, "That's okay. I don't mind." Oh, and Farmer H ate the brownie in ONE bite.

Other desserts were a selection of mini donuts. Chocolate, powdered, and cinnamon. A dozen mini cupcakes, with vanilla and chocolate. And a triple chocolate cake. It looked like a Bundt cake, but without the ridges. Just a ring of a chocolate cake, with chocolate icing, and mini chocolate chips on top.

That triple chocolate cake is the bone of contention. As The Pony was packing up leftovers, I sliced up half the cake to go. They were thin slices, to lay down in the flat container. The last two wouldn't fit, and I thought, "Oh. That's a good size for me to have, since I've been cutting back. A thin slice of cake won't hurt. It's the holiday."

Later that evening, I asked Farmer H if he was still full, or if he wanted some leftovers. He said he thought he'd just have more dessert. Something he can do on his own, which I don't need to warm up.

"Okay. Have whatever you want. I have two thin slices of that cake already cut, that I'm going to eat for the next couple of days. You can slice whatever size you want."

I was in the bathroom while Farmer H was getting his desserts. Then I started washing up all the dishes on the counter. Then I had more computer time. Around 10:30, I shut down HIPPIE to go watch TV. I got a little bowl to put my thin slice of cake in. When I pried off the clear cover of the cake, I could not find my slices! But you knew that already, didn't you?

I turned that cake all around. Maybe the light was tricking me. Maybe the chocolate icing had run over the incisions I'd made in the cake. Nope. My thin slices were gone! BOTH of them! 

Yes. I realize I was free to make another thin slice of the cake. It's just the idea of it. I can't have one thing in this Mansion that is MINE. Just for me. Earmarked as my personal property. Farmer H always has to assert his dominance as King of the Mansion. He obviously didn't want a thin piece of cake. He took TWO thin pieces of cake, when he could have cut his own thick piece with the knife that was lying right there. But no. He had to take both of the pieces of cake that I said I wanted.

It's the principle of the matter.

I Was Thrilled To Win $100 On A Scratcher, Then I Met A Man Who Won More Without Buying A Ticket

Thanksgiving this year fell on our anniversary date. That makes 35 years of matrimony for Mrs. HM and Farmer H. We didn't plan anything special. I had Thanksgiving Dinner to prepare. I got a card for Farmer H, and some scratchers.

While The Pony and I were getting food ready in the kitchen, Farmer H took his scratchers to the living room. We heard him exclaim something about having a winner. The Pony went to investigate.

"Yes. You've won $50."

Farmer H scratches off the prize as soon as he hits a winner, rather than waiting until the end to reveal the prize like I do. When The Pony came back to the kitchen, we heard him exclaim again. Off went The Pony. Back. Another exclamation. And the same scenario again.

By the time he was done, Farmer H had won $200 on a $10 ticket. He would have been happy with the first $50 that he uncovered. He was ecstatic about the $200.

I'm happy for Farmer H. Really. He never wins. This might actually be his biggest win ever.

What's that? You want to know what Farmer H got me for our 35th anniversary? A card. Yes. It's the thought that counts. And I sure didn't want any candy, since I've been cutting back, and we had our Thanksgiving feast looming on the horizon. But Sweet Gummi Mary! Farmer H gave THE PONY a gift! It was a little replica of a U.S. Mail car, like an LLV (Long Life Vehicle), only blue instead of white.

I really didn't expect a gift. But I also did not expect Farmer H to give something to The Pony on our anniversary, and nothing to me!

Thanks, Even Steven, For Giving

Of course I am thankful for the health of all the Hillbilly relatives, and our Mansion, and my fleabags and the new pup that has decided he lives here. I'm still able to hobble around, and have a voice with which to complain as the whim strikes me. The cherry on top of my thankfulness sundae is the luck with which Even Steven has provided me this week. Luck that found me in the form of this little treat on Tuesday:

That's a $3 Christmas ticket. I buy two of them every day at the Gas Station Chicken Store. I usually win nothing, but I have won $3, $6, and $9 since the ticket has been out for about a month. I've even hit the STAR and the CANDY CANE symbols. It's kind of a boring ticket.

NOT NOW! I hit three like symbols on the very first game. Waited to scratch off the prize until I'd uncovered all the games. I was expecting to see a prize of $3. Imagine my excitement when I uncovered a large zero. That means it's not cents. It's a bigger prize!

It was a $100 WINNER! Can't beat that on a $3 ticket. Well. Unless you win the grand prize, maybe. I'm satisfied with the hundred.

Unintentionally Agitating The Birds

Tuesday morning, I boiled 30 eggs. Two cartons I had bought for that purpose, and six others that had been in FRIG II for a while. One of them floated to the top of the pot, so I took it out. Technically, I only boiled 29 eggs. One of them split open and emitted a bit of cooked yolk. I took it out while cooling the rest in cold water. So I ended up with 28 eggs. Eight will go into the 7 Layer Salad. One will go in The Pony's individual salad. So there's 19 eggs to be deviled. Eight fit into the container. Five will go home with The Pony. Two will be used to scoop filling out the bowl for taste-testing. One will be given to Farmer H to sample before Thanksgiving Dinner. That leaves three eggs unaccounted for. I'm sure The Pony and Farmer H will not reject another sample. Besides, sometimes the whites tear apart during peeling. So I will have a cushion.

Anyhoo... that first paragraph was mainly for my own benefit, so I know how many eggs I have to deal with. 

The floaty egg I tossed off the back porch. I heard it crack. The dogs will probably lick it up, though they don't know what to do with an egg in an intact shell.

The burst-open boiled egg I tossed onto the back porch. It broke in two pieces as I took it out of the shell. I called the dogs, but none showed up. I went about cooling the other boiled eggs, and set them on my dish drainer to drip dry, before I put them back into the cartons until Wednesday, when I make my 7 Layer Salad, and Thursday, when the deviling begins.

I sat back down at HIPPE at the kitchen table, and heard crows cawing. LOUDLY! Two giant shiny black crows landed on the porch rail. That's unusual. Sometimes they land in the trees by POOLIO, at the edge of the woods. But not on the porch rail. That is for squirrels. I noticed that the boiled egg pieces were not on the porch. I suppose maybe the dogs had come around and eaten them while I was not watching.

Surely those crows didn't eat the boiled eggs! That would make them kind of cannibalistic. I know crows are scavengers. But for the love of Gummi Mary! You don't eat a close relative's unborn offspring! No matter how they're cooked!

I don't know why those crows were so feisty. It was unusual behavior for the Mansion porch. I can only surmise that it had something to do with the egg. Maybe not cause and effect, but surely a correlation.

A Good Day For Mrs. HM

You were almost robbed of a post today, because Mrs. HM has nothing to complain about. Instead, I will share how The Universe took a day off from conspiring against me.

I left home Monday ten minutes before I had planned. 

The sky was overcast, with rain supposedly coming, but it never appeared. 

I hit the stoplight green. 

Pump 4 was open when I stopped for T-Hoe's gas. 

Nobody was in line at the register.

The closest handicap space at the bank was open. Two cars in the lot, one in the other handicap space. As I was walking in, two women came out. So I had a teller ready to wait on me when I stepped through the door. As I left, there were two people waiting inside, and four cars parking.

I got the second handicap space at Country Mart. But wait! As I was picking up my purse, the car in the closest space backed out! So I moved T-Hoe over. It matters when coming out with a full cart, the cold wind whipping around. There was a CART sitting on the sidewalk by the building! I found two big salads that had all the regular ingredients, including the two halves of boiled eggs. My groceries were bagged logically, and nothing was smashed. 

Back in T-Hoe, I checked my phone, and Farmer H had sent a text that he was on the way home, and could carry in groceries.

When I scratched my lottery tickets, I had a $100 winner.

It was a very good day.

Genius Consults The Source For Some Devilish Advice

We rarely hear from Genius these days. Just a picture here and there from a trip he's on. I write him a letter every week. Sometimes I'll get a couple texts asking for more specifics. He will be here for Christmas, and we'll get to see him for a few hours. I know Genius has his own life to live, so I try to survive on these scraps tossed my way.

 

Saturday night at 11:00 (midnight in Pittsburgh!), I heard my phone buzz with a text. I figured it was The Pony, having woken from an after-work nap, checking in with something about investment houses, or his job. But no. It was Genius!

"Can you send me your deviled egg recipe when you have a chance? I want to make them later this week."

For Thanksgiving, I presume. And what else do I have but time to send an unwritten recipe? For about the third time.

"I don't measure, but I can give you the ingredients now. Yolks, ground black pepper, dill pickle juice, yellow mustard, mayo. Not much mayo."

"Pickle juice is the thing I was noticing missing. We were at a dinner tonight with friends and they just weren't as nice. I thought it was not enough mustard but now that you say that this was definitely the missing acid."

"Slice the green olives in thirds. Mustard is more important than the mayo, but pickle juice is vital. I usually do about 18 eggs, and start with 4 or 5 serving spoons of pickle juice. Lots of mustard. And maybe 1 serving spoon of mayo, another half if it's too dry."

Surely Genius can figure out how to make tasty deviled eggs with that description.

A Stray-Walker With A Conscience

It's no secret that Mrs. HM despises looks askance at people walking across parking lots directly into the already-moving path of T-Hoe. A giant vehicle, already in motion, has the right-of-way, unless the pedestrians are in a clearly-marked crossing made just for that purpose.

I was backing out of my rightful handicap space at 10Box on Friday afternoon. It was not the space right by the door, but the next one down, past the striped area designated for the cart-return. I was about halfway into the driving lane that passes across the front of the store, when I saw a small woman on my left, on the other side of a car parked in the closest handicap space, pushing her cart out the doors. I was rolling slowing in T-Hoe, my head on a swivel, because these stray-walkers have a way of darting out, and T-Hoe's sensor beeper doesn't work.

Stray-Walker kept pushing that cart. Cutting at an angle from the door, taking a long route that crossed T-Hoe's backing path. She kept coming, even though she looked right at me. Must have seen my eyes roll back in my head with contempt as I slammed on the brakes and came to a complete stop, halfway out of the parking space. Because she started jogging with that cart!

I think it would have been easier to simply stand and wait until I was out of her way. It wasn't raining. It wasn't freezing. Just a sunny mid-40s day. But no. She continued to insert herself into MY way, with that long angled path from door to her car that was parked up in the regular rows. Not even in the row behind me, but the next one over.

At least I see this as progress. A feeling of guilt from a stray-walker. Showing a little hustle, rather than moseying along like she owned that lot, and I was the intruder.

Mrs. HM, The Confrontationalist

Most days, Mrs. HM slides through life not making waves, her picture next to milquetoast in the dictionary. Remember the dictionary? Anyhoo... on Thursday, Mrs. HM made a stand. It involved scratchers. Nobody messes with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's scratchers!

I was in the Sis-Town Casey's, paying for T-Hoe's weekly gas, and getting scratchers. The cashier was a slim chick I've had wait on me many times. She's always polite and businesslike. I told her I wanted $20 of gas on Pump 3, and to get scratchers. She put the gas purchase in the register, and asked which scratchers I wanted.

"A number 25, and three number 27s."

Slim Chick tore off my tickets, and laid them on the counter. She did not fold them over on themselves like some cashiers. I could see the face of the tickets. Which revealed that the strip of three tickets was NOT what I had asked for.

"Oh. Sorry. Those are not the tickets I asked for. I wanted three of the number 27s. That's the crossword. Not those Fun 5s you gave me."

"That IS the number 27."

"Out here in your case, it shows the crossword ticket as the number 27."

Rather than taking those Fun 5s back and giving me the crosswords, Slim Chick leaned over the counter and tried to look around at the case. With a bit of an attitude! Like she was going to prove me wrong, instead of just giving me the crossword tickets that I said I wanted. She could not lean around enough to see the case. So she walked all the way around the counter, up beside me. Where I pointed to the crossword tickets with the number 27 label.

Then Slim Chick went back around the counter, and called over another clerk. Who asked what she had already rang up. Which was my gas and the other ticket, but not the Fun 5s. Other Clerk put the Fun 5s back in the case while Slim Chick stepped to the next register, to wait on the line that had formed.

Other Clerk asked if I meant the $3 or $5 crosswords. When I said the $5, she said, "Oh. There are SO MANY $5 tickets in here." Not rudely. Just matter-of-factly. With a bit of despair. Then she found the right tickets, and scanned them and told me the total. Took my exact cash payment, and apoligized for the inconvenience. I told her it was no problem.

Really. It was no problem with HER. But Slim Chick did not need to be so rude when I asked for the ticket I wanted. I'm not paying for some random ticket just because whoever stocked the lottery tickets did not do it right. Finding the ticket I asked for would have been fine. No apology necessary. But instead she acted like I was an idiot or a liar, and huffed around the counter to prove me wrong. Yet she couldn't.

Fave at the Gas Station Chicken Store would never treat a customer this way.

Not So Regrettable After All

More on yesterday's story of the Dude who was panhandling at the stop sign exiting Orb K. He was still there on Wednesday as I passed on the way home. That makes three days in a row Dude has been waving his unreadable cardboard sign.

If the sign really said something about needing money, and not having lunch (which is the best I could make out while watching for traffic), then Dude needs a better plan, before he starves to death! OR... Dude could be finding this panhandling to be profitable.

Seems that if he can spend three days hanging out at a stop sign asking for donations, he has time to look for an actual job. There are places around here that hire people who don't even speak English. They hired our neighbor Tommy, who had no work experience. There's the rat poison factory just through the stoplights. Dude could even walk to work. Or there's the produce company that employs the non-English-speakers to load potatoes and other vegetables onto trucks. They made Tommy a kind of manger after a short time.

Just saying... if I HAD given Dude a donation, I wouldn't regret it now, or hold it against him. But I don't feel the need to offer him anything, seeing as how he seems to be having success. Otherwise, why would he be there three days in a row? 

This time, he was walking around rather than sitting, pointing his sign out at the road. And he was wearing a nice two-toned jacket against the wind. I think Dude's gonna be alright.

A Glimmer Of Regret, But It's Passing

We don't see a lot of beggars around Hillmomba. So when one appears, they stand out. Something of a novelty, but not in a good way. Sometimes I'll give something, sometimes I won't. Depends on how they look, or if I get a feeling they are scammers. No judgement. People have to get money to eat. Somebody with a cardboard sign, holding out their hand, is not stealing from me. Not tricking me. It's MY choice if I give them something or not.

On the way home from town Monday, I saw a guy sitting on a box at the entrance to Orb K. He was a bald (or shaved-head) black dude, maybe mid-40s, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. He caught my eye as I drove by, and nodded. I couldn't read his sign. 

Well. That was unusual. It's not like when we had the community of homeless people living under the bridge who would have their signs at the exit of the McDonald's, or at the stoplight by McDonald's, Burger King, and the Devil's Playground. I assumed he could be staying at the ill-reputed motel behind Orb K, where a city policeman was shot and killed a couple years ago while responding to a disturbance. That motel has weekly rates for people who need somewhere to live. It's not really a traveler's motel like the one across the road by Save A Lot.

Anyhoo... the next day, Tuesday, I stopped at Orb K on my way into town for scratchers. As I was waiting to pull out at that dangerous crossing, I noticed the same Dude there again, sitting on a box, with his sign. I still couldn't read it. I think the bottom line said NO LUNCH. T-Hoe's radio was turned up, because I heard a song I haven't heard in a long time: Vern Gosden's "Way Down Deep." Which is kind of a gospel-sounding song. Dude smiled, started bobbing his head, and gave me a thumbs-up. I smiled back, but I was preoccupied with looking for traffic. 

I don't think Dude could have picked a worse place to panhandle. You've got after-school traffic coming from the right, stoplight traffic and highway off-ramp traffic coming from the left, with a left-turn lane into Save-A-Lot/Subway, and the traffic across from you coming out of Save-A-Lot/Subway, either turning the same way towards town, or coming straight across into Orb K, or turning the other way towards school/out-of-town. It's a hairy traffic situation. You have to be on your toes to avoid an accident.

Anyhoo... here's the thing. I was torn. If I had The Pony riding shotgun, I might have handed him a twenty to give Dude. I figure if I can spend money on scratchers, I can spend money to help out somebody who might need it. Even if they might make a "job" of roadside begging. I'll take that risk, unless it's somebody on a highway off-ramp who is there for weeks or months.

Location, location, location. People could not pay attention to Dude while trying to exit the parking lot. As a woman alone in a car, with my purse sitting on the passenger seat, I did not feel comfortable calling Dude over to hand him money. As trusting as you'd like to think yourself, do you really think it's wise to open up the window with a chance your purse could be snatched out of the car? AND, Dude really needed a more readable sign. Did he need money to eat? Money to get car repairs? Money for gas? Was he willing to Work For Lunch? Most signs are specific enough to draw you in.

I am wondering if Dude will be there today (Wednesday) as I go to town. Not that it changes anything above. It's just not convenient to donate to Dude. He'd have better luck standing where people walk by, not at a stop sign where traffic is hectic.

Another "I Told You So" Might Be On The Horizon

Our little Pups is still here. He seems to spend a lot of time on the porch while Farmer H is gone to town. I see him prancing by with Scarlett, who always looks back to make sure he's coming. I suppose they spend time in the sun on the end of the house by our bedroom, where the southern sun lingers through the day, and two dog houses sit. Pups is still very shy, but when I baby-talk as he walks by, he stops and tilts his head, rather than running off.

The dog bowls have been scattered all willy-nilly across the side porch. Scarlett's is often missing, but Jack's metal bowl, and Pups' smaller metal bowl are there, just underfoot and out of position from where Farmer H feeds them.

Tuesday evening, Farmer H started out the kitchen door. 

"I'm going to fill that dog feeder. Then I'll know they always have food."

"Are you planning a trip?"

"No. But the food will be there, and they can all eat."

"The squirrels will be all over the place! Like when you had the feeder filled up before. That's why you stopped."

"We'll see what they do."

"You really think Scarlett is going to let the other two eat? Haven't you seen how she treats Jack? When he goes to eat out of his bowl, she runs over and shoves him away. Then he goes to her bowl, and she runs back and shoves him away. Scarlett will be the size of a hog, and Jack will be a skeleton. And that poor puppy won't get ANY food!"

"Scarlett will let that pup eat! She shoves him over to the bowl."

Well. This is something I've never seen. Farmer H has also told me that when he was trying to catch Pups the first time, over on Shackytown Boulevard, that Scarlett pinned him down with her leg so Farmer H could get to him, but Pups got away. Uh huh. I imagine Scarlett was just bullying him.

We'll see, indeed. I don't like the feeder idea, unless it's because we have to be gone for a few days, and can't find anyone to check in on the dogs.