The Label Is In The Mind Of The Beholder

Last week, Farmer H won some treats at Senior Center bingo. He shared some of it with me, taking out granola bars, a tin of cookies, and a marshmallow Santa. I gave the box of Fruity Pebbles cereal, and the Hot Cocoa Ball, to The Pony, but kept the two boxes of Thin Mints.

I had merely glanced into the bag. I set out the Thin Mints on the counter. Anybody around here knows that Thin Mints are a delicious Girl Scout Cookie, a dark wafer covered with mint-flavored chocolate. Mmm! Save A Lot has a generic version that is also just as tasty. I have not had any for over a year. They're just not on my radar when I go shopping.

Anyhoo... I was waiting until just the right time to crack open one of those boxes and enjoy a Thin Mint or two. That time came on Monday evening, when I was preparing to watch the premiere of Deal or No Deal Island. I opened the tubish box and slid out the tray. Took three cookies with me to the short couch, and sat down to munch.

WAIT A MINUTE!

Those were NOT cookies!!! They were MINTS! Can you believe it? MINTS, in a box marked THIN MINTS! Sweet Gummi Mary! How dare that company mislead me into thinking there were COOKIES inside that box!

I guess maybe the Girl Scouts should rethink their branding and call their product Thin Mint Cookies. Though when you buy Girl Scout Cookies, you do kind of assume they will be cookies.

I can't believe I was bamboozled into thinking I had two delicious boxes of cookies. Wishful thinking, I suppose.

I guess my first clue before biting in should have been that this produce was more thick than thin. And was tiny, barely bigger than a quarter. They're not bad, for being just a mint. Kind of like an oversized Junior Mint, with a not-as-shiny, more melty chocolate coating.

I will still consume them. Probably even offer some to Farmer H...

Farmer H, The Contortionist

Oh, the lengths Farmer H will go to in order to declare the opposite of any opinion I might have! He plays a mental game of Twister. His mind goes through a more strenuous workout than a Chinese acrobat. His brain walks a line finer than a canyon-spanning tightrope of a Flying Wallenda.

A couple evenings ago, Farmer H was home at 4:00. I was headed to the master bathroom to change out of my town clothes. He barged past me into the bedroom to put the flip house keys on the dresser, then went into the bathroom.

"Oh. I guess I'll just wait here behind the couch until you're done."

Back came Farmer H. "I'm done now."

"Are you going back in the bedroom?"

"No. I'm going down to the basement." He kept walking, past me, to the steps.

"I just asked, because you left the light on in there."

"I left it on for you."

"I don't need a light. It's still daylight. Even if it was night, I can take one step into the bedroom and find the bathroom light as I go in."

"Huh." Farmer H huffed, and started back from the top of the basement steps.

"I'll turn it off when I go in there. My point is that as you came out, leaving that light on, I asked right then if you were going back. So you could turn it off then."

"I left it on for you."

"Nobody needs a light in the daytime! Just admit that you forgot to turn off the light!"

"But I didn't. I turned it on for you."

I don't believe that for one minute. It's a fight to get Farmer H to turn on the living room light in the dead of night at 8:00 p.m., even though all he has to do is reach his hand up from where he sits in the recliner. It's an opposite thing. And an oppositional thing. 

Let the record show that he didn't leave the BATHROOM light on for me!

The Pony Should Not Be Held Captive

I feel bad for Farmer H meddling in The Pony's home life. On Saturday evening, I called Farmer H to see when he'd be home. I was holding off starting his supper. He said 

"I'm on my way to Pony's house right now with a dresser."

That's a whole other story, which might be told elsewhere eventually. Just know that it's a dresser The Pony had said he could use in his second bedroom, but that Farmer H was taking it there out of the blue.

I immediately called The Pony to warn him. Farmer H has a bad habit of barging in whenever it's convenient for him, to use The Pony's bathroom while he's at work, or to drop off something on the spur of the moment. The phone rang many times, then The Pony answered.

"You must be like Dad, able to see through the phone, and call at the worst time, heh, heh! Dad just got here and we were carrying in the dresser."

"Okay. I was just warning you that he was coming."

"At least he called me this time. But yes, I do not like him coming unannounced. I want to at least make sure I have pants on. And he was here earlier this week, complaining about my boxes in the living room. AND he went in the kitchen, and he had no business there."

Let the record show that The Pony had a new laptop, and a desk chair delivered early in the week. So the boxes were still there. The trash pickup is Tuesday, but The Pony said the boxes would blow around even if he had trash pickup since then. So he was planning to burn the boxes in the back yard. (People do that around here.) And that Farmer H told him to do it THAT DAY after getting the dresser, but it was SO WINDY that even I had trouble standing when a gust hit me while walking into 10Box.

Anyhoo... The Pony got his boxes burned on Sunday afternoon. There's a flat spot up by the gravel alley behind his house that is away from homes and trees. He had a 2-liter bottle that once held soda, full of water, to put out any sparks that might have lit into the grass. It was all done by the time I stopped by (announced earlier that morning).

Anyhoo... The Pony should not have to live life wondering when Farmer H might barge in and spout criticism over his housekeeping skills. The Pony has 20 months of payments into that house already. It no longer belongs to Farmer H!

Ponyburgers

The Pony went to the store while taking some days off. So he's been cooking his own meals. He sent me pictures on the night I was having leftover roasted vegetables and frozen chicken.

"Mmmmm."

Had the buns ready and waiting. Nice and toasted.

Not sure why The Pony made them one at a time.

That makes me want a burger! No lettuce for me, though. Pickles and onions would be fine. I could take or leave the cheese.

Her ADORATION Knows No Bounds

I think blog buddy Kathy might be right with her comment a few posts ago that Scarlett is like a woman who keeps going back to her abuser! Our adopted dog Scarlett ADORES Farmer H so much that she cannot quit him.

A few days ago, Farmer H arrived home as I was leaving for town. Let the record show that the dogs and I have our departure routine. We do not need the interference help from Farmer H. I toss my daily banana peel over the porch rail. The dogs hear the kitchen door open, and the plop of the peel. They rush to greet me. I have a small treat in hand for each of them. I toss it onto the side porch as I descend the steps.

Jack eats his treat while Scarlett is mouthing hers, trying to ascertain if it is, indeed, food. I'm pretty sure she was never given table scraps in her former life trapped inside a wire kennel 12 or more hours per day. Jack comes to the steps, and puts his digging paws on the hand rail. When I get to the bottom, I sweet-talk him and pet him for a few minutes. Scarlett keeps her distance. She knows that HER petting will be when I get back.

Farmer H had parked T-Hoe, and came to sit on the side porch. That made Scarlett hyper after her treat. She was wiggly and reaching a paw to me as I went down the steps. Of course Farmer H thought he was in control of The Universe, and scolded her. "NO! Scarlett NO!" 

Scarlett sidled up against the object of her ADORATION while still reaching a paw towards me. Farmer H looped his right arm over her neck. Essentially trapping Scarlett in a headlock. She endured it. Her eyes did reflect her eventual confusion. "Daddy why you do this to me?" Such a lady. She did not snarl or claw. Only tried to back her way out of the clinch.

"Stop! Let her go! She's fine. I don't want you to give her an ear hematoma like poor Juno."

Farmer H was not the cause of Juno's ear hematoma. It was from shaking her head when the five Mailbox Row cats got ear mites, and shared them with Juno. But still, she had the fat ear, which eventually crinkled and was not the same.

Farmer H released Scarlett. She stood on the side porch, not longer pawing at me. But still shooting imaginary cartoon hearts from her eyes towards Farmer H.

A Year Late And $25 Short

The Pony has taken a mini vacation during his birthday time. On Friday, he asked Farmer H if he wanted to go to lunch. As with all meals we share with The Pony, we pay. Farmer H had a $25 gift card for a local Mexican chain that he had gotten at the Senior Center when they gave out before-Christmas gifts. He and The Pony had tried it before, but the restaurant said it was for the location in School-Turn Town, and not the one they went to in Sis-Town.

Anyhoo... Farmer H and The Pony went lunch at the School-Turn location.

Farmer H had the Fajitas Lunch for $11.99. It came with the fajita in foil, and the guacamole, lettuce, salsa, cheese, and refried beans on one plate. Then the shrimp and chicken on another plate. 

The Pony had the Burrito Azteca shown here, for $13.99. Not sure what that white sauce is. They shared the chips and salsa that came with their meals.

Their sodas cost $2.99 apiece! Like Farmer H pointed out, a whole meal at the Senior Center is only $4.00! Too bad he didn't take The Pony there!

When they finished, Farmer H used his gift card to pay. Except they told him it had ZERO DOLLARS on it! So he had to pay with our debit card. Farmer H is going to let them know about this at the Senior Center on Monday. Not sure if that gift card expired at the end of 2023, or if it wasn't loaded with money, or if the other location scammed him.

Anyhoo... Farmer H had the nerve to complain to me that The Pony always orders the most expensive item. Seriously? Look at the food Farmer H had, and the food The Pony had. I hardly think The Pony's motive was to scam Farmer H out of lunch money! I would have thought Farmer H's meal would be more expensive than The Pony's. It had SHRIMP! And more total food!

Anyhoo... it's not like that meal came out of Farmer H's pocket. It was OUR debit card, by cracky!

It's Deer:30 Somewhere

Several evenings this week, deer have been lurking along the county blacktop road as I come home from town. They're on the stretch down by the low water bridge, near where I got behind the hay trailer with unsecured round bales. 

Sometimes they are crossing the road from the creek into the woods. Sometimes they are in a field, grazing. They are big healthy deer. We've had a mild winter. They are well-fed. I told Farmer H they were all does, but he said this time of year, the bucks have lost their antlers. I don't quite believe that. Otherwise, how do you get a big buck with 12-point antlers? Do they grow all at once like that? I don't know, and am not curious enough to look it up. It would be just like Farmer H to spout out something that he knows I am ignorant of, and claim it to be the truth!

Anyhoo... these deer are a welcome sight, leaping and flipping the white fluffy underside of their tails. That act is called "flagging." I DO know that! I am glad they have avoided hitting me, and I them. I've had to stop several times to let them cross.

Not so lucky was a critter The Pony spied on his way home from our casino trip last week. He wasn't even out of the driveway yet.

"Dead? Raccoon?"

It didn't look like a raccoon to me. But definitely dead! Farmer H verified it as a raccoon. He got an up-close look at the tail. That's all I was asking about, whether it was a raccoon. But Farmer H blurted out:

"It's gone now. I took care of it."

Do I think Farmer H got a shovel and dug a hole and buried that dead raccoon? Not-Heaven NO! I'm 99.9 percent sure Farmer H grabbed it by the tail and tossed it into the sinkhole! He considered the sinkhole to be nature's wastebasket.

I'm guessing maybe that raccoon was guilty of coming up on the porch and eating out of the dogs' food dishes. He would be no match for three dogs. Especially my little Jack, the baby-mole killer. And Copper Jack. Scarlett... not so much except for the chasing. 

Scarlett barely knows how to eat a half-slice of bread spread with bacon grease! She picks it up, chews, spits it out, picks it up again, spits it out, licks it, then starts chewing. Just when I thought she was learning that she's a dog.

Thank You, Universe

Last week, Farmer H told me that The Veteran was taking him fishing. I thought that would be a nice outing for them. The Veteran is quite the outdoorsman, and writes a column about fly-fishing. Farmer H used to take us fishing when the boys were young. At one time we had a little pontoon boat that we took to a local lake development, for me to fish, and The (little future) Veteran and HOS (Farmer H's Oldest Son) to jump into the deep, deep lake and swim. With life jackets, of course!

Anyhoo... the evening before the fishing trip, Farmer H said something(s) that first concerned me, and then whipped me into a panic.

"The Veteran is going to call tonight to let me know if we're going. He has to see if a guy can drop us off with the boat."

"WAIT! Boat? You didn't tell me you were going in a boat! I thought you'd be fishing from the bank. At a lake or river."

"The guy has to put us in, and then we'll fish as we float to where The Veteran leaves his truck."

"FLOAT? You're not going in a canoe!"

"No, HM. We're not going in a canoe."

"But those bass boats aren't much better! I've seen them on TV. They're just a slab low in the water! With seats that put you up high. Or some people STAND and fish!"

"Don't worry about a bass boat. We'll be in a raft."

"RAFT??? That's even worse!"

"I'll be wearing a life jacket, HM."

"It is FEBRUARY! The water is COLD! You'd have hypothermia in a minute! You'd freeze to death! A life jacket won't help that!"

"It's fine. The Veteran has insurance. He takes other veterans on fishing trips."

"So if you die, I'll have to sue The Veteran to pay for your funeral?"

"Actually, you'd be suing his insurance company."

"That is not making me feel any better! You're an old man! You have no business floating down a river on a raft in February! The news is full of old men who disappear while fishing and are never seen again!"

"We'll be fine."

Thank the Gummi Mary, The Veteran called and said the guy couldn't take them. So that was a relief. Until two days ago, when Farmer H and The Veteran rescheduled their fishing trip. The Veteran was coming to pick up Farmer H at 7:30 a.m. on Wednesday. 

Farmer H slept in until 6:45. Then he fed the dogs and ate a banana and sat down to wait. At 7:00, he got a call. The Veteran's truck had broken down on his way to the Mansion!

I was happy for Farmer H, but sad for The Veteran.

Wrong Time, Wrong Place. Right Time, Right Place.

In the continuing Even Steven adventures of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom...

Tuesday, I was in 10Box to buy bananas and Diet Shasta Cola. I've been putting off the soda for a week now. I usually get it at Save A Lot, but their parking situation is problematic. Sometimes they're out of my soda, too! I was happy to see that 10Box carries the Shasta Diet Cola. Since I'm in there a couple times a week, there was no sense of urgency.

I didn't get a handicap parking space at 10Box because they were all full. I DID get the space next to the last handicap space. So there was that striped walkway to keep cars from parking too close to T-Hoe. As I shut off the engine, one of the workers who has cashed my big winners was outside gathering carts. She grabbed the one in front of T-Hoe that I was hoping to grab to walk in. She turned it around so the handle was facing me, and parked it next to T-Hoe's front tire. I gave her a happy thumbs-up!

Inside, I felt like somebody was following me. HE WAS! Some young guy in a store uniform shirt. He went around me, and turned down the last aisle, where I was going. There he stopped by a cart parked in the middle, and pulled a wet wipe out of a cylindrical container in its child seat. He stepped over to the soda shelves and started scrubbing.

Wouldn't you know it! Scrubby was RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE ONLY 12 PACK OF SHASTA DIET COLA! Scrubbing its cardboard box! I hated to invade his space, but I was running out of soda.

"Oh. Excuse me. I hate to bother you. But I want that box of soda."

Scrubby stepped back and said okay. He spoke as if he might be deaf, or have some type of developmental issue. He was a nice guy, scrub-scrub-scrubbing away diligently. 

My box of Shasta Diet Cola was still a bit sticky, because I didn't give Scrubby enough time to clean it. How in the Not-Heaven does somebody spill soda on a shelf higher than their waist? It's not like they drop it on a higher shelf so it drips down. It had to be real soda, too, because diet is not sticky.

Anyhoo... I got my bananas, threw in some potatoes, carrots, and onions, and went through the checkout without incident. Then to the lottery machine.

After I'd cashed a winner in and got tickets for Genius, the Gas Station Chicken Store clerk who sold me that $1000 winner last week, and for myself, I had $10 left in the machine. It does not give change. It was out of some tickets, like my crossword. What to do? I hate to get two consecutive tickets, unless they're the crosswords. I'd already gotten a $10 ticket like my big winner. Nothing else appealed to me. So I got a second one of the $10 ticket.

When I scratched tickets at home, the first one was a loser. The second one that I had been reluctant to buy was a $50 winner. I guess that made up for my sticky soda.

With Baby Steps Like These, A Toddler Would Walk At Approximately Age 22

Ever since Farmer H started renovating houses five or six years ago, I have told him not to throw random receipts on the kitchen counter for me to deal with. Sometimes it is unclear if he paid with our credit card, cash, or one of the store credit cards like Lowe's or Menards. Sometimes he takes back items that don't fit, like pipes or faucets, and gets a store credit on the replacement items. 

Now that he is working on two properties, and an occasional upgrade on The Pony's house, I need to know where the merchandise is going. Don't even get me started on when he was doing work for Back Creek Neighbors Bev and Nick, or  the Senior Center lady who asked him to work on her kitchen while she was on vacation for the month of January.

Anyhoo... I thought I had Farmer H trained last week when he had to go to the living room for a pen, and finish circling the date on a receipt, after he had already circled the total/payment method, and written which property it was for at the top. You know, because I'd been on a rant lately, having caught him tossing those receipts there while I was sitting at the kitchen table, rather than sneaking them out in the early morning hours as he leaves for town, while I am unable to see him from the short couch.

Last night, while Farmer H was at the auction, I discovered another receipt. NOT completed to my liking. When he got home, it was time for This Is The Most Recent Thing You've Done Wrong, a chat we had while watching Contraband: Seized at the Border. $3 million worth of cocaine concealed in a gas tank coming in from Mexico!

Anyhoo... I asked Farmer H how much that recent receipt was for.

"It's on there."

"It's on every receipt, but I have to search for it. Each one is in a different place. Sometimes there's a discount or credit somewhere above it. Sometimes it's confusing with the tax. There's a bunch of writing on some, like the store location and the manager's name. I think I see the final number, but it's not. You should remember how much you just paid, and circle it, instead of me combing over it days later."

"Oh. Well. I wrote that it was for the Beauty Shop on top. And circled the date. I thought I had it all on there."

"Not quite. I should just be able to glance and know when, for what, and how much."

Farmer H did not go circle the amount. The receipt is still lying on the kitchen counter. 

This may seem persnickety, but I am responsible for paying the bills, designating how much is The Pony's share of this investment, determining how much we've spent on the property when it comes to a sale price, and calculating our taxes. I don't need to comb over every single receipt for this information.

No Spots Being Changed Here

I made a pot of vegetable beef soup on Saturday while Farmer H was raking in money hand-over-fist in his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2). When he got home, I asked how much he wanted. One bowl, or two. He said two. Rather than warming the whole pot again, I dipped out Farmer H's portion into a saucepan. Easier to manipulate, and then I could get out my own serving to warm up later.

Knowing that Farmer H prefers his soup to be solid, I dipped very little liquid into the pan. Of course there was SOME. It's soup, after all! Once it was warmed, and his garlic toast done in the oven, I called Farmer H to the kitchen.

"You can dip your own soup. There's enough for two bowls."

I noticed that Farmer H was holding the ladle against the side of the pan, draining the liquid! In fact, his "soup" was stacked up higher than the top of the bowl.

"All in that pan is yours, but it looks like your second bowl is going to be all juice!"

"It's a normal bowl of soup, HM."

To HIM, maybe! If I had taken a picture, you might have sworn it was the inside of a Shepherd's Pie. The hamburger, potatoes, carrots, peas, and green beans were a mountain in the middle of the bowl. He could have tilted that bowl almost 45 degrees without a drop of "soup" spilling out.

Anyhoo... when he came back, he poured his soup out of the pan and into his bowl. He probably could have consumed that portion with a straw. 

Farmer H does not grasp the concept of SOUP!

Thank the Gummi Mary, I did not set out the entire pot for Farmer H to sieve out the solids.

Mrs. HM Goes To Town

Temperatures fell into the teens on Friday night, making our two inches of sleet/snow turn crunchy. Little melting took place on the porch rail, even though the sun was bright on Saturday, with the high reaching 33 degrees. I know that sun on blacktop will help the melting. Especially if the roads had been treated. So I texted Farmer H at 3:00 to see if I should go to town.

"Yes. I'm on my way home now. But you can go no problem at all."

He was in the Mansion before I left, and told me that there was an icy patch on Mailbox Hill, and an even slicker spot on the other side going down. He said I shouldn't need 4WD, but to put T-Hoe in AUTO, so any tire spinning would activate the 4WD. And also, that I should probably go out the other way, across the bridge by Mailbox Row. It's not as hilly, but takes extra time.

 

I backed T-Hoe out of the garage. I had on my gloves. Put on my sunglasses against the glare of the soon-to-set sun. Got the garage door closed after a couple of tries with my low-battery opener/closer. Going up the driveway at a slow pace, I put T-Hoe in AUTO. That's the good thing about T-Hoe. It's a simple turn of a dial to get into or out of the regular two wheel drive and into AUTO, 4WD, 4WL, or 4WH. That dial is on the bottom of the dash, to the left of the steering wheel. With the sun blazing in, I didn't see the orange light that signified it was indeed in AUTO, but I know it's the first notch when I take T-Hoe out of regular two wheel drive.

At the mailboxes, I looked at Mailbox Hill. It was nothing worse than I had driven on before, so I decided to go that way, rather than the longer way. I made it up the hill just fine, and down the other side. No slipping at all. I was proud of T-Hoe and my driving skills!

The county blacktop road, and the county lettered highway, were clear of any ice or slush. So was the parking lot of the Gas Station Chicken Store. I parked, turned off T-Hoe, grabbed my winners to cash in, and opened the door.

BING BING BING BING BING!

What in the NOT-HEAVEN??? What was wrong with T-Hoe? Again, the sun was blazing into my eyes. I didn't see anything wrong. I put the key back into the ignition. Turned on the power to the radio and windows. Made sure the windows were all up completely. Didn't see any lights on the dash, other than the usual one telling me my tire was low (it's not, it's a bad sensor), and the CHECK ENGINE light, which comes on and off, no rhyme nor reason.

I tried to get out two more times. 

BING BING BING BING BING!

Huh. No idea what the problem was. The gear was in PARK. Ignition off. Keys in my hand. I looked down at the 4WD dial. That was the only thing out of the ordinary that I'd messed with. I turned it back to the regular two wheel drive.

WAIT A MINUTE! 

That wasn't the 4WD dial! That was the headlights! I had taken it off the AUTO selection, and put it to the ON selection, which meant the lights stayed on when I got out of the car. So the alarm was warning me that my lights were on, which would drain the battery over time.

Heh, heh! I was so careful about putting T-Hoe into AUTO so the tires wouldn't spin on the ice! So brave to take the slick way to town! Except I'd been in regular two wheel drive all along. That dial was a couple inches to the right of the headlight dial.

Like Arguing With A Fresh-Mouthed Fencepost

We had thundersnow on Friday. Which started with thundersleet around 11:00 a.m. First time in a long time that the TV meteorologists have nailed the forecast. I was keeping an eye on the conditions. It's been in the 50s or 60s for a week. So I didn't think this would amount to much. BUT the temperature dropped all day from 36 to 30, and that precipitation cooled off the ground.

Farmer H sent me a text that the roads might be slippery. I called him about 2:00, and he said I probably shouldn't get out. I really wanted some scratchers, you know. I had a $100 crossword winner that I was going to cash in. Farmer H said he could bring me tickets on his way home. That he'd stop by the School-Turn Casey's, and the Backroads Casey's. He doesn't go to the Gas Station Chicken Store.

Anyhoo... I sent Farmer H two pictures of previous losers, to show what kind of tickets I wanted from each Casey's. Under the pictures, I texted him the cost and description of the tickets. I specifically said TWO (just like that, in capital letters) of the crossword tickets at each store. Then a total of what it all would cost. I also said what I was paying him, and that he could spend $10 on himself.

When Farmer H came home, he put the tickets on the kitchen table. He came to his recliner, and told me, on the short couch...

"The top three tickets are from the School-Turn Casey's. Then the sideways ones are from the Backroads Casey's. Then there's one from the Gas Station Chicken Store, because Backroads didn't have that green one. And the one on the very bottom is my ticket. How much was I supposed to spend? Because I think I'm $5 below that."

"Oh. If there's only three from the School-Turn Casey's, then you forgot two."

"I didn't say I only got three there! I said there was three stacks!"

"Well. You did say the top three tickets. So I was just commenting on that."

"There are three STACKS! That's what I said! Three stacks of tickets!"

Actually, there were four stacks, because of HIS ticket. But I didn't bring that up. Farmer H is well-known for saying things one way when he means another. I have no idea why Farmer H went ballistic when I was only trying to clarify which tickets he got where.

And I was pointing out why he might have come up with the wrong total. I figured when he volunteered to bring me tickets that he'd mess something up. I didn't really care. I was just trying to find out where which tickets came from, because I write it on the back, so I know where the winners come from, and not to buy the same thing there after a big winner. And he had said he didn't think he spent enough.

"There you go, always complaining!"

Which I really wasn't. Just trying to find out the origin of my tickets.

"I guess you left off one of the crosswords somewhere. That's the only way you could be $5 off."

"I only got one crossword at each place. I got what was in the picture!"

"I didn't put two in the picture, because under the picture I told you what to get. I even wrote TWO crosswords, in capitals."

"Well, I didn't read that. I just looked at the pictures."

Funny how Farmer H figured out he could spend $10 on himself. THAT wasn't in a picture!

Anyhoo... just goes to show you that Farmer H can't be bothered to read a simple sentence under a picture. And would rather scream at me than start right off by saying he didn't read the instructions. In fact, he left off TWO crossword tickets, and was $10 under the total I expected him to spend.

I still don't care that Farmer H was two tickets short. I am mainly irked that he yelled at me for merely trying to find out where the tickets came from. And the fact that he doesn't follow written instructions any better than spoken instructions.

At least I won $50. Farmer H won nothing. 

The Perpetrator Blames The Victim

Two days after Scarlett's Unfortunate Enclosation, we were on the way to our new favorite casino. The Pony was in the back seat, and I was trapped beside Farmer H. That's because my knees don't like the back seat, or I would gladly give The Pony the honor of riding shotgun.

We had gone about five miles when talk turned to Scarlett's trauma on Sunday, being closed in the garage for 4 1/2 hours.

"Yeah. And when I backed out to take the car to get gas this morning, I ran over a dog bed and a folding chair that she drug out!"

"What? We don't have a dog bed."

"Well. A cat bed, maybe. I don't know where we got it. Somebody gave it to us."

"Dad. She probably wanted something to lay on that wasn't the cold concrete floor."

"Folding chair? You mean like a lawn chair?"

"No. A metal folding chair. I think I brought it from the locker."

"I don't think Scarlett was planning to sit on a folding chair. She had a bed, you know! It must have been piled where it fell off. It probably scared her."

"She shouldn't have been messing with stuff. That's why I keep the garage doors closed."

"Too bad you closed her INSIDE the closed doors."

"She was hidin' in there."

"I doubt that. Wait! You backed over a metal folding chair? Are the tires okay? I don't want to have a flat and have to sit beside the highway. Did you check the air in the tires before we left?"

"The tires are fine, HM. I checked."

"No you didn't!"

"I drove to town and back, and they were just fine."

Farmer H has no qualms about stating something as truth when he knows it's not.

Farmer H Does It Again

The Pony arrived shortly after 3:00 on Super Bowl Sunday. We were chatting when Farmer H came in the kitchen door at 3:20. He handed me a card, then sat down at the cutting block to try a sample of The Pony's Cinnamon Apple Haze wine.

We got rid of Farmer H pretty quick once we started setting out the pans and assorted frozen foods for warming. The evening was a good time for all. The Pony left at 7:40 to head home, having volunteered to work the next day, though he had originally scheduled it for a vacation day.

I sat down at HIPPIE at the kitchen table. I thought I heard something at the back door. THEN IT OPENED, and Scarlett came running in. She sat at my feet. Just sat. No jumping or pawing. Sat like a good girl, gazing into my eyes with relief as I petted her. Then Jack trotted in. He never comes in the house unless invited. The Pony stood at the door.

"I had stopped at the side porch to pet Jack before I left. Then I heard something in the garage. I opened the door, and Scarlett ran out! She was closed in there!"

"NOOO! That means she'd been in there for 4 1/2 hours! Since Dad came home from his Storage Unit Store!"

"What? What did I do now?"

"You closed Scarlett in the garage!"

"Oh, well."

"She ADORES you! And you've shut her up in the BARn. Almost strangled her with the cable wrapped around the Gator tire. Let her chase your truck all the way down to the mailboxes. And now you close her up in the garage!"

"Nobody would have found her until Monday morning! I'm glad I stopped to pet Jack!"

"This dog is shaking. She's so traumatized she's just SITTING here at my feet. Not looking for YOU. Not acting wild."

"I guess she went in there and hid behind the Acadia when I got your card."

"HID behind the Acadia??? Yeah, right. Like she would get six inches away from you. She's always on your heels. You probably slammed that garage door right in her face when you went out."

Scarlett does not ADORE me, yet I always have to watch her as I leave for town, because when I go out the kitchen door, she circles around behind me, and I'm afraid she's trying to get in the house, and I might slam her in the door.

Farmer H needs to be more aware of his special pet.

There's a bit more to the tale of Scarlett's Unfortunate Enclosation...

Not Sure Why I Bother

Monday night, I prepared Farmer H's supper from our Super Bowl leftovers. I set out his yellow school-cafeteria-style tray. Put a fork on it, and half a Select-A-Size Bounty Paper Towel. This was mostly finger foods, you know. I abhor a greasy TV remote.

I called Farmer H to the kitchen to put his piece of Buffalo Chicken on Hawaiian Rolls. I'd already warmed it, and cut it in half. While he was doing that, I took the mozzarella sticks out of the oven. The toasted raviolis were already done. I had his marinara sauce in a ramekin, ready to put on his tray. All Farmer H had to do was put chicken on a roll, and some Ruffles potato chips on his tray. Then I was ready at the stove to spoon on the Little Smokies, and slide on the mozzarella sticks and raviolis.

So simply, you would think. As did I. Until I was cleaning up after he left for his recliner, and saw that Farmer H had tossed aside his half of a Select-A-Size Bounty Paper Towel. There it lay on the cutting block, with the half I was going to use for myself.

"Hey! You forgot your paper towel!"

"No I didn't. I got one." 

Funny how Farmer H went to the trouble to tear off a paper towel from the roll, yet the REMOTE WAS GREASY later that night when I sat down to watch TV after he went to bed.

So many mysteries in this Mansion.

The Pony Is A Winer

When The Pony came out for Super Bowl snacks, he brought his own beverage. Farmer H likes Wild Turkey, but The Pony prefers wine. He sent me a picture asking which kind I would LEAST like to try. I am no wine drinker, but I'm willing to give it a taste. You know, just to please The Pony, heh, heh. At least The Pony actually wanted to share something good. Not like those evenings at the Christmas Eve party of my sister the ex-mayor's wife, where people would taste wines, and say, "This one is TERRIBLE! Here, try it!"

I think this picture might be from the wines The Pony gave his cousin for Christmas, judging from the wrapping paper there. Otherwise The Pony might need to do a little housecleaning. (Types the woman who has had a fully-decorated Christmas tree standing in her basement for 7 years now.) Or maybe that's from his car, which once had a year-old cookie on the floor, and his Bestie from college ATE IT!

Anyhoo... I said the Blackberry Cobbler. The Pony brought the Cinnamon Apple Haze. It was very tasty, though still had that twang of wine. A sip was enough for me, but the flavor was fantastic. The Pony brought his own corkscrew. You can't see it here, but they ARE wines with actual corks. Not a metal screw-top, heh, heh. And they are a somewhat local wine.

Farmer H tried a little bit in a red Solo cup. That's what fine wine connoisseurs we are. The Pony had asked before coming out what wine I thought Farmer H would like best. I said the Blackberry Cobbler, and The Pony said, "Too bad. I drank half that bottle last night!" He didn't want to risk bringing it, with the mutilated cork and all. Which also shows our connoisseurness in The Pony's self-proclaimed cheapest corkscrew I could find.

Also, conveniently for The Pony, the shop that sells these wines is on his route.

Google Is The New Celery

Do you get the connection? My estranged BFF Google is like celery because they both are associated with a concept called S T A L K. 

I want to slap Google across his smirking, know-it-all face! He needs to mind his own beeswax, and let me go about my days (and nights) without looking over my shoulder.

A few minutes ago when I signed out of my other blog account, a box popped up and balloons sailed to the top of HIPPIE'S screen, and Google had the nerve to wish me a pleasant coming-into-this-world day.

Here's the thing. Every time I sign in, Google wants me to enter such a date, commemorating that day many years ago. Nope. Google does not need to know that. So I skip over it. But apparently, Google has known all along! What's up with THAT, Google? Either you know that day, or you don't. You can't ask and ask and ask to the point of harassment, and then turn around and wish me a pleasant such day. UNLESS you just found out, due to S T A L K I N G me on my other devices. On one of which some children sang me a song wishing me a pleasant coming-into-this-world day.

Google is a cad and a liar!

Farmer H Would Be The First Eliminated In Follow The Leader, And Mother May I

Give a man groceries, and he will eat until his wife goes back to the store. Give a man directions, and he will starve to death.

Once again, Farmer H defied all reason AND MY INSTRUCTIONS for carrying in the groceries! Uh huh. I'm sure you are shocked.

I didn't know if he'd be home, so I put my three bags on the seat behind me in T-Hoe, easy to grab without Scarlett's interference. I sent Farmer H a text with no response. So I called him before I went down Mailbox Hill. He was home, and said he'd come help. I told him the bags were behind me, and that he could also get two 6-packs of his Diet Mountain Dew out of T-Hoe's rear, since I'd only taken in two the day before.

Farmer H was waiting for me at the people-door of the garage. He had turned the light on! No need, because it was still daylight, and a light comes on automatically when the garage door is opened. Anyhoo... he walked right past me, so I opened up T-Hoe's rear, and he got out the soda.

Farmer H opened the door to get the three bags of groceries. One held a tub of margarine, a block of Kerrygold butter, and a small tub of French Onion Dip. Another had two plastic boxes of little chocolate donuts, one for our Super Bowl desserts, and the other for The Pony to take home afterwards. The last bag contained four bananas, a birthday card, and a bag of Vegetable Beef Soup Mix.

"You can leave the bananas, and I'll take that bag in, so you don't bruise them."

"Okay."

"Hand it to me while you're back there."

I put my hand up over my shoulder, so Farmer H could pass that bag beside my headrest and the window. But no. He closed the back door, and stood waiting for me to open my door to hand me the bag. I then had to close my door to allow Farmer H room to walk to the front of the garage and out.

Sweet Gummi Mary! The bag Farmer H had given me held the little chocolate donuts! And he was banging that swinging bag with the bananas against the soda as he went up the steps to the porch. 

Is it wrong of me to consider arranging those bananas with the four we had remaining, so that every morning Farmer H will get the bruised ones?

Mrs. HM Says Uncle

I've been fighting with my internet connection tonight. Have it. Don't have it. Reload. Hold my breath. Reconnect. "Update failed." Not worth the effort. I'm not staying up later, nor getting up early, on the chance that the weather might clear.

This rain and hail do not bode well for our new dirt hill...

Good Thing It Was Broad Daylight

Thursday was errand day for Mrs. HM. Mainly just a trip to the main post office to safely mail Genius's weekly letter, and the final payment for SilverRedO. And feed T-Hoe his weekly gas ration. Yes, of course scratchers were also on the agenda.

The wind was whipping at gusts of 29 mph. A bit chilly, blowing up under my flapping shirttail while pumping gas, despite the 61-degree temperature. My lovely lady-mullet was also a victim.

That is NOT a spectre anybody wants to see!

L A M E - O And Scarlett Was Her Name-O

Something happened to Scarlett during the hour I was gone to town! When I came home, she was running down into the woods behind Copper Jack and Jack, as usual. While I was getting stuff out of T-Hoe's rear, she came around the concrete end of the carport, LIMPING! It was her back right leg or paw.

Scarlett did not jump her front feet up on the bumper, and crowd against me for petting. She sat down at my feet. I petted her, of course. I am not a monster! I ran my hand over her haunch, and she did not make a noise or pull away. I thought I saw something there, but it could have just been a tuft of fur disturbed from her biting at an itch, or running through the brush. 

When I got to the people door, Scarlett did not leap up and down waiting for me to turn the doorknob. She stood. Then ran through. She went up the stairs okay, without a noticeable limp. Then she SAT ON THE SIDE PORCH for more petting. I sweet-talked her out of pity. Jack came running to see what the occasion was, since I was not yelling at Scarlett for leaping at me.

Once inside the kitchen, getting the treats ready for dispersal, it seemed that Scarlett had a miraculous healing. She leaped at me and rebounded off my belly with her two front paws. She was putting a bit of weight on that paw as she ate her treat of leftover chicken scraps. Not quite back to normal, but better.

I am hoping she just strained that leg leaping around tussling with Copper Jack. Or maybe stuck something in the paw. Farmer H will look at it in the morning. 

There's No Pleasing The Entitled Generation

Thanks to blog buddy Kathy for giving a proper name to the young whippersnappers who plague my existence. The ones who pull the convenience-store door shut behind them, rather than holding it open for an old lady, or at least let it close naturally. The ones who walk or drive into the path of an actively-backing vehicle. The ones who pass on a bridge, and nearly collide head-on with Mrs. HM in her rightful lane.

Tuesday afternoon, I was returning from town. I came down the hill toward the main low-water bridge at the same time a small maroon pickup truck was approaching it from the other side. I had plenty of room at the bottom of my hill. The roadway before the bridge itself has room for three cars to drive abreast. So I stopped, to allow that truck to cross first. The road on the other side is barely wide enough for two vehicles, without one getting tires off the pavement, where there's a considerable drop-off.

The small maroon pickup truck had slowed, and was about to stop. The bridge itself might be wide enough for two cars to pass, but there are no sides. It's not like the high long bridge on the lettered highway, with its concrete walls, where that passer had almost killed Mrs. HM.

Seeing that I had stopped and was allowing him to cross the bridge, did the driver of that small maroon pickup truck feel any gratitude? I'm saying no. I base my opinion on the fact that the driver of that small maroon pickup truck stomped the accelerator, and flew over the bridge, engine roaring, and passed me with not only no thank-you wave of a couple fingers on the steering wheel, but a SCOWL upon his face!

Well, EXCUUUUUUSE ME!!!

How dare I stop and allow him to cross before I did! Shame on me! How dare I not get there a few seconds later, so he did not have to brake.

People are rumpusholes. Especially the Entitled Generation.

Chickening Out

For a week, I have been looking forward to driving over to Sis-Town on Monday, to shop at Country Mart and get their dark meat chicken special. The day finally arrived. I WAS DEVASTATED! I guess they don't have that special any more. There were no boxes of dark meat chicken in the warmer by the register. Nobody pushing a cart through the store with such a box. 

I was about to ask at the deli counter, but while I was browsing the cold section, a gal told the other workers, "You have a job to do. Get your stuff out first. Customers can wait." Ain't THAT a fine how-do-you-do? I was RIGHT THERE. I almost think she was saying it for my benefit. Not exactly a benefit. More like a warning. Then she turned to the guy over by the hot case, and said, "We'll be with you in a minute." Not freakin' likely!

Anyhoo... I went back by the warming case near the registers on my way to check out. They had a long container of four leg/thigh pieces, baked. They had a couple of rotisserie chickens in plastic tubs. They had bone-in hot wings and BBQ wings. Maybe those are the new specials. I picked up some BBQ wings, but it's only enough for one person. Maybe six wings inside. I figure Farmer H can have that tomorrow, with the hash brown potato casserole I froze at Christmas and just thawed out.

I want my FRIED DARK MEAT CHICKEN, dang it! I don't have anywhere else to buy it.

It's An Epidemic, I Tell You!

The younger generations have no sense of self-preservation! I swear, they are so used to being coddled and awarded trophies for merely existing that they cannot sense danger if it bites them on the rumpus! 

Sunday evening, I attempted to pull into one of my rightful parking spaces at 10Box, my handicap placard swinging from T-Hoe's mirror. There were two such spaces available, next to each other save the striped walkway area. 

One of the friendly workers, who has cashed two of my $500 scratcher winners, was pushing several carts towards the garage-door-like entry of the cart bay. She was in the closest handicap spot, turned around talking to a late-20s gal who was standing in the other handicap space. I had T-Hoe's blinker on, signaling that I was turning in to that space. 

The Worker Gal saw that I was parking, and pushed her carts over so she was out of the way. I didn't plan on using that space, because it is marked for VANS. I use the others if I can. I was not in a hurry. I could patiently wait for them to finish their conversation. Within reason, of course, lest some vehicle come up behind T-Hoe and want to move on down the driving lane in front of the store.

There I was, signal on, halfway into my parking space. 20s Gal stood in on the right line of the space. The car she was returning to was in the regular parking space to the left of the handicap space I was trying to park in. The passenger door was wide open. I angled into my space with enough room to avoid that open door. The handicap spaces there are wide enough that it didn't matter if I parked T-Hoe all cattywompus.

20s Gal continued talking as she backed toward her vehicle. I was afraid she would walk into the right side of T-Hoe! Even though I was stationary, with my foot on the brake, you never know when someone might run into T-Hoe, and say I hit them! Stranger things have happened. I've seen them on YouTube! Scammers stand in the road, and jump onto the hood of cars waiting at stoplights. Then declare that they've been run over and injured. Not that I thought this 20s Gal was a scammer. But you can't be too careful these days.

I waited. And waited. Then the Worker Gal cautioned the 20s Gal, "Watch yourself!" She snapped out of it, and glanced over her shoulder. Then she waved goodbye and walked in front of T-Hoe to her open door. As I got out, Worker Gal, having parked her line of carts and gone back to the end of the store, around the corner, pushed a single cart over to me. She does this so I can use it as a cart/walker. She's done it before. Even though I wasn't shopping this day, only getting scratchers out of the machine, I took the cart.

"I was afraid I might run over her!"

"I told her to look out! I was thinking the same thing. That she might walk right into you."

Us old gals have to look out for the young 'uns. They have no sense of self-preservation. The world revolves around them, and vehicles with the motor running, pulling into a parking space, will be repelled by their very special force-field.

Venting Like Mt. Vesuvius, Old Faithful, And Mt. Pinatubo Combined

It seems that I spoke too soon about feeling sympathy for Farmer H. After our conversation Saturday evening, he's on his own. He revealed that he's like the scorpion in The Scorpion and the Frog. He cannot change his nature, just like a leopard cannot change its spots.

On my way home from town, I was thinking how, even if I won a big jackpot on my scratchers, Farmer H would probably claim it for himself. Under the guise of saying it's for US. Even though his Storage Unit Store earnings are only for HIM.

I broached the subject when he came in from his Storage Unit Store at 5:15.

"I just started scratching. I was thinking about how you always wish I would hit a big jackpot. I bet you would think that's OUR money."

"Well, it would be! Why would you need all that money?"

"It's money I'd make with my hobby of playing scratchers. You use YOUR weekly allowance for auctions and stuff for your store."

"I never asked for your $10,000."

"What $10,000?"

"That you won at the casino."

"That was $8,600. And I only got $6,400 after taxes. It's still in the safe."

"I don't ask you how much you spend on scratchers."

"As you shouldn't. It's MY allowance that I'm playing on."

"Well, if you won a million dollars, you wouldn't need all that money."

"But still, it would be money I won playing on my weekly allowance."

"That's stupid. It should be OUR money."

"You don't share your Storage Unit Store money with us."

"I go down there and work for that money!"

"I go to town and decide where to buy my scratchers with my money!"

"I spend it on stuff for the flip house!"

"And you get your money back IN FULL every month! You always get reimbursed from OUR money. I do all your bill-paying and record-keeping, and I don't ask for money."

"I do all the work on the flip houses, and I don't get paid nothin'."

"I raised the kids for 18 years, while you sat in front of the TV at night after I made your supper and cleaned up, got the kids homework done, saw that they had a bath, and made sure they had clean clothes every day. THEN I had time to do the grading and planning part of my job. And took them with me everywhere, so you could build your little sheds, and a giant Freight Container Garage we didn't need, and have two tractors, and buy a lawnmower without telling me. I didn't get paid for any of those hours and chores for 18 years. So don't tell me how much you deserve my hobby money if I win big!

It's not like I will let us be hauled off to the poorhouse. If we need to use my potential fortune, we will. But right now we don't need it. And I'll be darned if I put that as-yet-unwon amount into a joint account for Farmer H to spend at will!!!

Sweet Gummi Mary! You can agree with me or disagree. I don't care. I just needed to get that out. What's his is his, what's ours is his, and now apparently what might futurely be mine is his!!!

Every Now And Then, You Feel A Little Bit Bad

Poor, clueless Farmer H. When he's not actively trying to kill me, he just muddles through life the best way he knows how. Sometimes, I actually feel a little bit sorry for him. Well. Not so much FOR HIM, but for the way I try to manage his behavior. He's like a half-grown puppy, who runs into the house and jumps up on the couch with muddy feet. Unsure what he's done wrong. And the next time you open the door, here he comes again, all eager to see you, newspaper swats forgiven, committing the same infraction.

Friday evening, I saw that Farmer H had once again laid a Lowe's receipt on the counter by my glasses case. I have an immense collection of them, along with Menards, lumberyards, and hardware stores. I have told Farmer H over and over that he needs to write at the top what project this was for. AND circle the date and the total, showing the method of payment.

As Chief Record Keeper and Bill Payer, I need to know which of our flip projects these purchases were for. Though most are paid with the credit card, some are cash, some are debit. One of the credit card statements does not itemize the items. We have had HOS House, Pony House, and the Double Hovel flip houses. I do NOT want to scrutinize every receipt to find when, which, what, and how much. It should be simple enough for Farmer H to make a few circles on a receipt at the time he receives it.

After all these years, I might have made progress. Farmer H came to the kitchen and wrote on that receipt! I also asked him where the pen was. The pen I used to keep there on the kitchen counter. He swore he never took the pen that is now missing.

AND LAID DOWN THE PEN HE HAD JUST USED!

"There. You can have that one."

It was purple. Had writing on the side. I picked it up to read it. It was Farmer H's commemorative pen from his 50th high school reunion!!! That pen does not belong on the kitchen counter! It's special! Not something free from a credit union or title company.

I made Farmer H take it back. Somebody's got to look out for him.

Killing Me Softly With His Wrongs

Farmer H is at it again. I'm pretty sure he's trying to kill me. Subtly. By doing things to raise my medicated blood pressure. No evidence that way, you know...

Wednesday, I basked all morning in the warm thoughts of my evening free of cooking and cleaning up after Farmer H's supper. I love bingo night! But then Farmer H sent a text before noon that he would NOT be attending bingo, because his Senior Center friends had something else to do. So I had to come up with an idea for supper. He turned down the Terrible Tater stuffed with diced Christmas ham, cheese, and broccoli. But did agree to diced Christmas ham in BBQ sauce on a hot dog bun. So I just had to thaw out a baggie of diced Christmas ham, and simmer it in a saucepan with BBQ sauce. Then dice an onion, and set out pre-portioned shredded cheddar for the topping. So much for my night off.

Thursday evening, the joke was on Farmer H, because I had laid out some sausages from Save A Lot for him to grill. The temperature hit 69 degrees! Anyhoo... Farmer H started by soaking a paper towel with water to "clean off the grill." Of course he does not know how to turn off a faucet. A faucet that he installed when building the house. One of those lever type faucets, which must be shoved to the left for cold water, and to the right for hot water. That's because he reversed the hot and cold water pipes under the sink. Anyhoo... Farmer H left that faucet dripping. Long slow drips. Until I got up to turn it off correctly.

THEN, when he came in with the cooked sausages, and put food on his plate while leaving 8 other sausages for me to put away, with the glass casserole dish of baked beans that I spent 2.5 hours tending before going to town... Farmer H mishandled my oven mitts. Instead of hanging them both back on the hook on the cutting block where I keep them, he put one mitt on one hook, and the other mitt on another hook. I have told him repeatedly that I grab them both at once, and don't want to hunt for the second one and wrestle it off another hook.

It's the little things.  

I Sure Don't Remember This Problem A Few Years Back

I'm starting to think the end is near. The stupidity of people these days is mindboggling! Once again, I've had to stop people from suiciding themselves under T-Hoe's wheels. TWO in two days!

Monday, I was backing out from a parking space up against the front of the Liquor Store. Of course I looked before I backed out. Nothing coming in either entrance/exit. Nothing parked in my way. I was halfway out when a black sedan came in the side street entrance by the stoplight. I was clearly backing up, but he kept coming. I had to jam on my brakes. He whipped past T-Hoe's right rear bumper, then veered into a parking space. Like that could not have waited until I stopped backing and went forward to go out the other entrance/exit.

Tuesday, I was leaving a handicap space in front of 10Box. I checked all three mirrors. Nothing coming either way. No people coming out of the store, no people coming from the parking spaces behind me in the main lot. I checked the mirrors again. Backed slowly. YIKES! A man came up from T-Hoe's left rear bumper area, on his way to the store door. He had been RIGHT BEHIND ME! Had come from my blind spot on the right rear, as I was backing, and gone across my path. I could have squashed him!

This is quite concerning. I am not a psychic when it comes to pedestrians at T-Hoe's rear! Surely we had more common sense back in the day! We knew that if a vehicle was in motion, we should STOP AND WAIT until our path was clear. NOT keep going into the area where that vehicle was rolling.

Some people are just too stupid to live! But I don't want to be the one to unalive them.