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.

It's Always Mrs. HM's Fault

Sunday evening, Farmer H got the container with the Big Sandwich pieces out of FRIG II, to put his supper on a plate. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, wielding the large butcher knife.

"Hey! You can't cut that while it's in my container! I've had that for years. You'll cut through the bottom."

"I can't eat this much, HM!"

"YOU are the one who told me to cut it in four pieces this time, instead of six like last time."

"It's too much!"

"That's not the point! Don't cut it while it's in the container! Set it out on a plate. And it's only too big because you told me to cut it that way!"

"Well, next time cut it in six pieces!"

Farmer H got his plate, and set out the sandwich piece to cut it in half. It's not my fault that he eats a banana while leaving the Mansion, then stops by Casey's for a couple of donuts, then eats lunch at his SUS2.5, then comes home and has a drink and chips before eating his supper. I asked him how he wanted me to divide that Big Sandwich, and HE'S the one who told me to cut it in four pieces this time, rather than six.

Farmer H never takes responsibility. He acted like I'm trying to kill him by force-feeding him to death!

No Respite From Scammers

We no longer have our landline phone. That's a story for another day. Today Mrs. HM's ire turns to scammers. You'd think there would be fewer of them without a landline, right? No more calls trying to finagle personal information out of Mrs. HM, or more likely Farmer H, though he never answered any calls. But no. There is a new source of aggravation.

EMAIL!

I don't think the 10 emails I got this morning between 7:50 and noon are related to the landline. I think they're related to our DISH service. That's the only plausible answer. Two things occurred within the past week. I ordered some vitamins from a company I have ordered from for a couple years now. They have always had my email address, and I only get emails from them, for notifications, and a newsletter that I could stop if I wanted. DISH has always had our email. No problems before with junky phishing schemes. Until...

I paid the DISH bill online. Once I finally got logged in, it occurred to me to update our account, since we no longer have the landline phone number. So I changed it to my cell number. And changed the "office" designation to the "cell" designation. Then I had the trouble with my laptop updates, and not wanting to let me access BLOGGER. In the midst of getting that sorted (how it came about is still a mystery to me!), I went back and changed the phone numbers to how they were originally. Don't worry, we can still be contacted, because Farmer H's number has been on file all along. The BLOGGER issue resolved, perhaps due to another update.

HOWEVER... I started getting a bunch of scam emails. I assume. I only opened them to see what they were. Never clicked on any links inside. I got some calling me GLORIA, as I used to get, telling me I had won something, and others wanting to give me beauty products. I had some saying thanks for subscribing to a financial newsletter, which I had not done. Some saying they could help me pay down my debt, of which I have none. Just annoying things I never asked for, and certainly don't want.

I can't think of anything else that could have triggered this recent spate of unwanted emails. Now I will be forced to unsubscribe from multiple places where I did not subscribe in the first place. 

The Capture

While Farmer H was over on Shackytown Boulevard on Wednesday evening, getting a picture of Pups, he saw an opportunity to make a grab. Pups was sitting on the porch of the Barber Shop, which in true Farmer H style had "collectibles" sitting on both ends. The Barber Shop is across from the chicken house. Farmer H was blocking Pups' path to his safe haven.

"I kept getting a little closer. He couldn't get off the other end of the porch because of the stuff in his way. I grabbed him, and he tried to bite me."

"Well, he's a PUPPY! That's his only defense. He was scared to death."

Anyhoo... I found out about this when I heard Farmer H at the kitchen door, telling me he had something for me. He walked in carrying Pups against the side of his stomach, holding him with his forearm behind Pups' front legs. Farmer H looked like he was toting a flour sack that he was about to drop.

"Bring him over here! He's so cute!"

I started baby-talking to Pups. His little white-tipped tail started to wag. That's the first time I've seen that happen! His head was silky soft. Such a sweet puppy. Scarlett was prancing around outside the kitchen door, like a nervous mother. She knew better than to step in with Farmer H there. 

Farmer H took Pups out, saying he was going to put him in Scarlett's old cage (wire kennel), even though I again said it was not a good idea. How can a puppy keep from peeing and pooping in a cage all day? Anyhoo, the kennel was not where Farmer H thought it was, so he just took Pups to the side porch, and put some food in the littlest dog bowl.

Scarlett was trying to eat the food, and Farmer H yelled at her. Dummy! A puppy does not know who he's yelling at. Pups went under the shelf against the garage, and Farmer H put his food bowl there so he could eat, while Scarlett could not reach under. Then he let Pups go in the yard, and he promptly ran over to get under the chicken house.

Thursday morning before Farmer H left the Mansion, I told him I heard Pups knocking things over on the porch. All of Farmer H's fake animals that Copper Jack's former doggy sister named Penny, a yellow lab, used to carry home with her, to be returned after several were collected. Anyhoo... Farmer H opened up the door, and in a gruff voice that he thinks is sweet, said, "Yeah, there you are!" Which scared Pup into scampering back to Shackytown Boulevard.

Pups is still here. He just walked around the porch with Scarlett to get a drink. If Farmer H can stop scaring him so much, maybe he can be handled enough to catch and take to the vet for shots. Which would again be traumatizing!

We are really trying to make a pet out of that little guy.

Another Picture Of The Unofficial Hillbilly Family Pupster

Wednesday evening, Farmer H went looking for The Unofficial Hillbilly Family Pupster over at the old chicken house. He had a slice of bread I gave him to lure Pups out of his hidey-hole.

"Don't give him more than 1/3 of the slice. He's a puppy. Don't want to clog him up. The other dogs will want some. So you can toss them some pieces too."

Well. Upon return, Farmer H reported that he was putting little pieces of bread by the edge of the chicken house, and that Pups was coming out a little farther to get them. Then Scarlett ate the piece meant for Pups' bait, and Farmer H yelled at her.

"I had to get onto Scarlett for eating his bread, and she didn't like it one bit. Then he went farther under the chicken house."

"Of course he did! When you yelled at Scarlett, you scared him! He doesn't know who you're yelling at! Now you might never get him out."

About an hour later, Farmer H suddenly got up from his recliner, and said he was going over to Shackytown Boulevard.

"I need to go unplug a wire. I don't want him to get electrocuted if he chews on it. And it looks like he's been chewing on everything."

Farmer H returned with two pictures of Pups. Here's the best one:

Farmer H had been petting Scarlett and Jack, as I suggested. Pups came out from under the chicken house, and was sitting on the porch of the Barber Shop. Look at those feet! And his chest. I think he's going to be a big dog. Still trying to guess his pedigree.

The best I can predict, Pups is a border collie mixed with a German short-haired pointer. The border collie markings are undeniable. The spots on the white parts lend themselves to the pointer. Especially with the short hair. I was trying to think of other black and white dogs with spots. Pups does not look like a cocker spaniel, nor an English setter. Those are not dalmatian spots. His ears deny heeler heritage. When I consulted my estranged BFF Google for "pointer border collie mix pup" pictures, I got the closest match to what Pups looks like.

There's more to Farmer H's Wednesday evening escapades tomorrow...

Good Deed Soundly Punished

When I paid for gas and scratchers on Thursday at the Sis-Town Casey's, the cashier tried to charge me $10 too little! I looked at her, and at my scratchers.

"Did you maybe forget one? Because I thought it was going to be more."

She looked at the register. I guess at the list of items, which had started out with a $25 pre-pay for T-Hoe's gas.

"Oh. I see it. Thank you for telling me! I messed it up."

"I wanted to make sure. I don't want to cheat anybody. That would be bad luck!"

Off I went to pump the gas, mentally patting myself on the back for being such a fine upstanding citizen. Surely The Universe would reward me. But NO! My scratchers from assorted stores only had ONE winner, and it was for $10. Not only that, but my Country Mart shopping experience was less than rewarding.

The checker gal put too many heavy items in the same bags! I had four bags total. She put three Sister Schubert's Rolls in one bag. Manageable. And two boxes of Stove Top Stuffing in one bag. Too light. Then a BIG SANDWICH and eight bananas in the same bag. HEAVY, and the bananas squished my BIG SANDWICH! Then she put put two jars of mayonnaise in with a can of black olives, a large jar of green olives, and a jar of sweet and sour sauce. WAY HEAVY.

In fact, as I was trying to lift it over the check-writing shelf to get it into my cart, I said, "That's too heavy!" I took me three tries, while she watched. Clueless!

Once I wheeled my cart/walker to T-Hoe, I used spare bags I keep there for just that purpose, to take out the bananas, and the mayo, for their own separate bags.

Farmer H Finds A Clue

Don't get all excited. Farmer H is NOT learning how to live life without me telling him to breathe in/breathe out, or proper handwashing hygiene, or how to respect boundaries. Nope. The clue he found relates to yesterday's tale, about where Scarlett and Jack might be when I don't see them here. Which is most likely related to The Unofficial Hillbilly Family Pupster. Yeah. This little guy:

Farmer H came home midday on Tuesday. Of course scaring one of my (apparent) nine lives out of me.

"I just came home to see your little dog, and get something I need from the BARn. Then I'm going back to town for my doctor's appointment."

"Well, I haven't seen him today, and it's already 1:00. He's usually been up on the porch by now."

Farmer H went outside, and when he returned, he said, "Oh, he's definitely living here. When I started out, he was sitting on the porch of one of my sheds. He ran under the old chicken house. You can see where the other dogs have been digging, trying to get under there. Also, there's a lot of stuff in the field by the BARn that looks like a pup got ahold of it. And I found Scarlett's food bowl, all chewed on."

"I thought it was metal."

"No. Hers it the big black plastic one. Jack's is the smaller metal one. And that little blue one with paw prints is under the shelf."

"You need to get some puppy-wormer. And we'll have to get him puppy shots."

"First we'll have to catch him! He don't wanna come out."

Farmer H was leaving later on Wednesday morning, to pick up some prescriptions when the pharmacy opened. "I'm going over to the BARn before I leave."

"Take a handful of food to put by the chicken house. So I know at least he gets something to eat today."

"I think Scarlett's been bringing him up on the porch to eat and drink."

"She DOES like to herd him around. But I don't know if there's always food left over here."

Farmer H came back inside before leaving. "I took that little bowl of food over there. He wouldn't come out. But while I was in the BARn, he ate it all. Them other two wasn't around, but they're out on the porch now, eating their food."

"You need to put fresh cedar shavings in the dog houses."

"I just did that, last time you told me to."

"Um. It's been summer. They don't sleep in the houses in the summer. So I guess you 'just did it' about 6 or 8 months ago. So now it's time for some fresh shavings."

"I guess he'll come out. If I leave food there, maybe he'll feel like he belongs here. We might have to get him out and keep him in that cage Scarlett came in."

"Oh, then he'll really feel at home! If the first thing you do is close him in a cage!"

"Well, you know. Just a place where we can feed and water him until he's ready to stay."

"I'd rather you sit out there and pet Scarlett and Jack, and maybe he'll come out."

We'll see what happens. At least Pupsie will get food once a day. Farmer H said he's going to take more food over to the chicken house tonight. Because a puppy usually eats more than once a day. Pretty sure he's a stray, if he's so afraid of people.

Farmer H argues that it's a mile down to the mailboxes, where people notoriously dump their "pets." He says Scarlett and Jack rarely go that far. Well. They do when Scarlett chases after him in SilverRedO. Also, that pup could have been wandering up the road and seen them halfway.

At least he's not down by the mailboxes, crying and hungry.

Two-Timing, Double Lives, And Hobo-ing

Farmer H has still not seen our mystery puppy. Pups was here only an hour before he got home, yet gone or in hiding when SilverRedO drove up.

I don't know what's going on with our dogs. I have changed my town schedule by a couple hours since the time change, so I don't have to drive into the setting sun. Maybe that's why I've been missing them. Maybe not. It's odd for both Jack and Scarlett to be missing when I leave and come back. There are treats at stake, you know!

Farmer H thinks Scarlett has found another family. I used to suspect she was two-timing me with another petter, but now she does not smell like perfume as she did back then.

I think maybe some hunters are out here getting ready for deer season. We're a pretty populated area these days, compared to when Farmer H first built our Mansion, but everybody has a 10-acre plot, so there's room to hunt if you know what's in the background where you're shooting. Very hilly. Unlikely to shoot a house. And there are plenty of deer roaming around.

Monday afternoon, I smelled a campfire. Not a trash fire from somebody burning cardboard boxes in a barrel. Actual hickory smoke. So maybe Jack and Scarlett have befriended (more likely are being a nuisance to) somebody who comes out here occasionally, getting their hunting site ready. The season starts this weekend. We'll know when the dogs start dragging random deer bones into the front yard.

If Pups actually belongs to somebody, maybe Scarlett has been hanging out at that house for a portion of the day. Then they both come here for a while. Jack might be going to look for Scarlett when he gets bored.

Monday, I noticed that Scarlett's food bowl was gone! What in the Not-Heaven? Did she tie it up in a red bandana on a stick, and take off down the gravel road? That metal bowl was nowhere to be seen. Not anywhere on the porch, not under the shelf, not under GassyGJr, not on the lava rocks that line the sidewalk, not under the carport where Farmer H parks SilverRedO. Farmer H had not even noticed. He said he will look in the front yard/field. Of course, he'll have to start getting home before dark for that.

I do not like change. This missingness of the dogs needs to resolve.

Mrs. HM Outsmarts Herself Once Again

Have I ever mentioned how I do not like paying bills online, or with auto-payment? I think I have, maybe once or twice... Checks are how I pay my bills, with a good old-fashioned envelope and stamp. Somebody's got to pay The Pony's salary, you know!

The latest bee in my bonnet is our phone company. Not the one I've been meaning to sever ties with. The one that provides our cell phone connections. It used to be just fine. I always mail the payment the day after I get the bill. Always. When they receive the payment, they send me a text of thanks. I'm not crazy about that, but they DO have my cell number, heh, heh.

Anyhoo... it was never a problem until last month, when they charged me a LATE FEE of $10. What in the NOT-HEAVEN! I mailed that September bill in plenty of time, as usual. It was mailed on September 12, due on September 22, which was a Sunday. Yet the phone company said they received my payment on September 23, a Monday. Well, DUH! Isn't that when most businesses get their mail? On weekdays, not weekends? The postmark clearly showed that it was mailed with enough time to get there. 

I can't believe the post office is THAT slow! More like the phone company needs to revamp the way they send and receive bills! The latest bill arrived on November 9. The date on the bill was November 1. So it took eight days to get to me? The Pony Express was faster than that!

Anyhoo... I wrote out my check, which is due on November 22. On Sunday, November 10, I drove it over to the main post office in Sis-Town, where I TOOK IT INSIDE to mail in the slot on the wall. I realize that mail does not go out on Sunday. Nor will it go out on Monday, due to the Veteran's Day holiday. But that bill will be waiting to ship out first thing on Tuesday, November 12. 

Here's the thing... once inside the main post office lobby, I could put my bill in the pull-down flip-door thingy that would fit a package about the size of a shoebox. Or I could put my bill in the slot in the wall above that pull-down flip-door. I usually just put it in the flip part, close it, then look to make sure the letter fell out. This time, I got to thinking that maybe they have a separate bin for packages to fall into. So I put my bill in the slot.

NOOOO! I did not hear my bill fall down into a bin. I reached a couple fingers into the slot. I could FEEL my bill lying there! As if it was on a little shelf. I couldn't push it farther. I couldn't pull it back. Oh, how this venture was proving to be folly!

I left my bill lying there. Nobody else could see it. Nor could they pull it out of the slot. It's just the idea that it was lying on a shelf. What if some passive-aggressive mailperson (surely there is no such thing, heh, heh) decided to just take the bin, and leave my bill lying there?

I explained the situation to The Pony, who chuckled. He said there is a little "ramp" shelf behind that slot, and mail is supposed to slide down into the bin, but it often gets stuck. Sometimes there's a whole bundle lying there. And it would be fine, a worker would put my bill in the bin as they picked up that mail.

Well... let's hope so. I don't want another $10 late fee. Funny how our credit card payment, and the checks to Lowe's and Menards, are cashed within three days of me mailing them.

More Suggestions For The Pony's Feedbag

Nothing to complain about today, so I'll give you some more pictures of the 5 for $25 selections I sent to The Pony, in case he wants some quick foods to have in his freezer.

The Pony always orders a sausage biscuit and hash brown when we drive through McDonald's on our way to the casino. So I know this is a food he would like. 

I also know that The Pony likes French Toast Sticks, from when he was a child, eating or refusing the foods I put out for him. 

And who could turn down a Handmade Cinnamon Roll??? I don't know whose hands made them, but they have to be better than the kind that comes in a tube like biscuits, which The Pony also gladly ate in childhood. Under them are the Sausage Patties. In case The Pony might want sausage with eggs, or to add to pasta.

I think these options would be handy to have at home, and save money on ordering food delivery. They would require minimal effort to prepare, and stop the hunger pangs after a hard day at work. Of course it wouldn't be healthy to live on these items entirely! Just a quick supper when tired. 

This Is Why The Pony Wears Glasses

I have been telling The Pony that he might want to check out the 5 for $19.99 deal at Country Mart. He shops there on occasion, but does not look in the refrigerated bins where these selections are kept. He mainly goes around the perimeter, I think, for the meats, and the frozen goods inside the glass doors. These would be quick items that he could prepare after a hectic day at work, and not have to stand and cook much, nor buy pricey delivery food.

Anyhoo... I took some pictures Thursday to show The Pony what kind of stuff I was talking about. Shockingly, they were 5 for $25! I'm sure they used to be cheaper, but I might be confusing that store with Save A Lot's deals. Anyhoo... I saw a lot of breakfast food selections that The Pony could eat for supper, since he rarely eats much for breakfast, what with having all that 11-mile walking route to get through. I know he likes hash browns. A couple of them could even work for breakfast.

Just before our 6:00 a.m. phone call Friday, I started sending pictures to The Pony by text, figuring we could talk about such items. Of course my phone decided to show out, and sent the food pics, but then wouldn't send the two of The Unofficial Hillbilly Family Pupster, nor let me make my call to The Pony. That stupid phone said I was not registered on a network, and could only make emergency calls. Farmer H's phone does this sometimes, and The Pony's used to, when he lived out here. I had to do a restart, which thankfully worked this time.

"I got those food pictures, and I was trying to figure out the first one. What is THAT? Why is she sending me this? Is that french bread? Then I enlarged it, and saw that it said Hash Browns. I didn't have my glasses on yet."

Heh, heh. Let's hope that The Pony never loses those glasses. And if he does, that he calls an Uber, or Farmer H or me to drive him to get a replacement pair!

No Knockout From The Universe, But The Pony Takes A Couple Of Jabs

During the pouring rain Monday that saw The Pony treading through inches-deep standing water, he wore a different jacket than the last rainy day.

"It really must have been that jacket last time. I still got a little bit of a rash with this other jacket, but only on my right arm, around the elbow bend. Since I still had the skin cream, I put some on there. No steroids, so I was able to sleep."

"Yeah. At least you knew what must have caused it, and that you weren't about to kick the bucket from a strange allergy."

On Tuesday, The Pony had a routine medical appointment, and was off work early. He fell asleep when he got home, and woke up later in the evening, past supper time.

"I was hungry, and made some fish sticks that I had in my freezer. I'm sure you will understand the horror of what I'm about to tell you... I WAS OUT OF KETCHUP! Not only that, but I was also out of mayo, because last time I used it, I forgot and let it sit out overnight. So I had to throw it away. I had to eat plain fish sticks!"

I hesitate to put this out into The Universe. Earmuffs, Universe! Don't listen. Or perhaps I should say: Blindfold, Universe! Don't read!!!

At least The Pony had remembered to close the freezer door, so the fish sticks themselves were okay.

The Unofficial Hillbilly Family Pupster

Farmer H has still not seen the little pup I observed on the back porch with Scarlett. He stopped short of activating his crazy temple twirly finger, but I'm not sure he actually believes I saw a puppy. 

I have seen it three more times. Once through the cracks in the living room mini blinds, where I saw Scarlett cavorting with him at her feet. Again on the back porch, standing with his feet on the lower part of the rail, looking into the woods. I called "Hey, PupPup! I see you, cutie!" And he turned to look toward the window, which made Scarlett barge around from the water dish area and block my view and take him trotting after her. It was then that I realized he was NOT a beagle. He looks like a little border collie.

The third time was TODAY (as I type this), in the front yard again. I got my phone and went to the front door to sneak a picture. I knew Scarlett would come running up on the porch the minute she heard the door open. Figured I could get a closeup when he followed. But no.

PupPup was actually more alert than headless and stub-tail-less Scarlett. Jack was in the yucca plant, and came running up on the porch first. PupPup walked around the yucca and sat on a flat rock. I couldn't get that picture, because Scarlett was on me with a quickness, forgetting her back-porch manners and planting both big feathery feet on my belly.

When I told Scarlett "NO!" it frightened PupPup, who took off toward Shackytown Boulevard.

This makes me think PupPup might be a stray, because what kind of puppy doesn't come running to an open door with people?

Such a cute little feller! He's welcome to come around until he isn't. No chickens to kill. Nothing he can really bother that Jack won't have gotten to first.

PupPup is a roly-poly little guy, which makes me think he may NOT be a stray. Of course, he could be feasting every day on the food left by Jack and Scarlett in their bowls from Farmer H's overfeeding. I'm not sure what time he gets here (or is brought by Scarlett), but I've seen him between 10:00 and 1:00.

No collar. But our dogs don't wear a collar either. Jack hates them, and I don't want them getting hung up on limbs while running rabbits through the brush. I guess we'll see what happens as PupPup gets older. Maybe he will be a permanent visitor like Copper Jack. Or maybe he will move into one of the dog houses on the end of the porch. If he's going to hang around long-time, I imagine he'll need a worming, and some shots. We can do that.

He's WELCOME!

The struggle continues. FRIG II's icemaker is still not fixed. Two days after his hissy-fit, I showed Farmer H a list of possible fixes on my phone. You know. Because it requires a former VALedictorian to Google "Frigidaire icemaker broken" on a phone. He was receptive. He read through it. Went to the kitchen.

Farmer H made sure the new filter he had installed the night before on the refrigerator side was properly snapped in. Tested the freezer door feature that puts out water when you push the lever. It did. He pushed something that said it was a re-set, because he saw an "H" flashing on the temperature display. He took out the ice bin from the freezer side, to make sure nothing was stuck behind it, blocking a sensor. He flipped up, then down, the lever that stops ice from making if there's a pile of it in the bin.

All that was at 6:00 a.m. At 10:00, I still had no ice. When he got home that evening, Farmer H went to turn off the main breaker to FRIG II's electricity, because he said that would do a re-set. The next morning, we still had no ice. Farmer H poked his stubby fingers around by the water hose that connects to the icemaker.

"Well, one thing's for sure. It ain't gettin' no water. That hose is bone dry."

"So maybe there's a clog somewhere along the hose? A mineral deposit from our hard water? It had been making grindy noises for a couple weeks, right after I'd get ice, and another batch would dump out."

"I don't know. Maybe that. Or it might have a bad sensor, and it doesn't know it's out of ice and needs to make some."

"Okay. Maybe we just need a new icemaking unit."

"I don't know if I could find one for this model."

"I've been telling you for two weeks that it was grindy. And then not making much ice."

"Well, I always hear you chopping at it. So I figured it worked."

"Even when I specifically told you that IT DIDN'T WORK? And the chopping means it is NOT working right. Because I'm trying to move the ice around because it dumps, and some are not frozen in the middle. And sometimes one freezes in the slots where they are before they dump, and it stops that part from dumping."

"I'll have to take a look at it. Move it out from the wall to look at the hose that has the water."

This was at least a couple days before Farmer H's election duty. I was tired of not having ice, so I bought a bag at 10Box Tuesday afternoon, and dumped it into the bin.

When Farmer H got home from his election judging duty on Tuesday night around 8:30, I fed him some chicken tenders. 

"Do you want a drink with that? Or a soda?"

"Nah. I don't want no drink."

"Okay. I got a bag of ice and put it in the icemaker bin."

"Well, I'd drink one..."

Uh huh. ICE changes everything! He's WELCOME!

The Universe Throws The Pony A Brick

During the random minutes throughout the day when I am not feeling sorry for myself because I've HAD NO ICE CUBES FOR A WEEK, and was TRAPPED IN THE MANSION WITHOUT SCRATCHERS because of flash-flooding... I have been worrying about The Pony.

You know that pouring rain that caused the flash floods also fell on The Pony, right? During his 8-hour work day walking 11 miles to deliver the mail. We got no mail. That's understandable. A car is not a boat, so our rural carrier could not get to Mailbox Row. At least the temperature was in the mid-60s, a range that The Pony finds comfortable. Let's hope The Pony was not wearing a windbreaker and a jacket. Another rash would be the icing on this unfortunate spite cake from The Universe.

The Pony sent me three short videos Monday night, of his travels through his own flooding. Oh, and one that morning before work, as well. I'd love to share them, but cannot, as they take up too much of something electronic-y transmit-y to send to my blog. I'm pretty sure the problem is with my meager internet.

Anyhoo... before work, I got a video from The Pony looking out his back door at his Rogue in the driveway. Which was sitting in three or four inches of water that also covered The Pony's back porch.

"Well! So much for keeping my shoes dry!"

I advised The Pony to take off his shoes and carry them to the car. Alas, he had already left for work by the time the video loaded on my phone. It would only have delayed the wet shoes by about an hour, until The Pony had his mail cased and loaded in his Metris for delivery.

Later in the evening, I sent a text asking if The Pony was okay. It was 4:58. The Pony was home from work, but sent me the three videos. Which showed those poor shoes, slogging through ankle-deep water, in what looked like a shallow lake. When crossing a bridge, The Pony showed the rapidly-flowing water, and caught a BRICK bobbing along. Crossed to the other side of the bridge, and showed that brick sailing down the stream. Water has to flow pretty fast to carry a BRICK on the surface!

Anyhoo... The Pony was home, and drying out, trying to decide what to order to have delivered for supper. No shade here. The Pony deserved to have delivery, after such a hard day of work.

The Universe Is Laughing

Still no ice at the Mansion. We'll get to the rest (hopefully!) of that story another day.

Farmer H had three days of the mostaccioli. That's three days for him. It would be six servings for "normal" people, but I don't begrudge Farmer H his appetite. Since he went to bed (in a fit of pique) without supper on Saturday, that left Sunday and Monday to finish out his mostaccioli. However... Farmer H declared that he was going to the auction on Monday, and then reminded me that he had election duty on Tuesday. So there were two meals I didn't have to prepare for him.

I fed Farmer H the mostaccioli on Sunday evening, then put the rest in two smaller containers in the (non-ice-cube-making) freezer of FRIG II. Oh, the freedom! Such anticipation. Two evenings without Farmer H!

But no. The rains came, and flooded out our bridges, and Farmer H could not get to the auction on Monday evening! WHYYYYYY?????? That meant I had to make supper for Farmer H. Oh, how simple it would have been to warm up that mostaccioli, which was now rock-solid in FRIG II. 

Almost as simple was the fried SPAM sandwich (make that two) Farmer H was provided instead.

Anyhoo... here's a look at that mostaccioli, in the container straight out of FRIG II, before freezing.

If I was eating this, I would add more sauce! Even if it was poured directly from a can or jar. Enough sauce to make it red, and moist, to be eaten with a spoon. Farmer H prefers his pasta on the dry side, like this. He eats it with a fork. I did sprinkle in some shredded cheddar to melt. And gave him a couple slices of garlic toast from a box in the little freezer in the laundry room. 

It looked more appetizing in a bowl, heated up with the cheese, than it does cold in this container! After all, Farmer H declared it was the best I ever made. Which perhaps says more about my cooking than it should.

Mrs. HM Does Not Fulfill Farmer H's Model Needs

Well. The Mansion still does not have ice. Are you shocked? I didn't think so...

Around 5:20 on Saturday, Farmer H called and said he was looking at the filters for ice makers at Lowe's, and there were about 10 different kinds, and did I know what was FRIG II's model number.

"How would I know that?"

"You have to look for it."

"Where?"

"I don't know. Inside?"

"You'll have to wait until I can get up and get over there."

Mrs. HM is not spry. It takes a couple minutes of standing to unstiffen her knees so she can walk. I tried to hurry from the kitchen table to FRIG II. Nothing in the freezer side that would apply. Nothing on the door, or the wall inside, or on the ice-making unit itself. No metal plate like inside the stove. But the refrigerator side had writing on the wall!

"It says there's an optional icemaker kit, Model JSI-26."

"No. That's not it."

"Or there's a model number FFHS2611PFAA."

"Just a minute. Let me ask this gal for a pencil. Okay."

"Model number FFHS2611PFAA."

"You don't have to have an attitude!"

"So you called to ask for the model number, but you didn't even have something to write it down?"

"Don't talk to me like that! BYE!"

Yes, I'm sure my tone conveyed my annoyance. But that's no reason to hang up on the person who got up to read you the numbers you asked for.

Farmer H came though the kitchen door a half-hour later, NOT carrying a filter for FRIG II's icemaker.

"That's no way to talk to me! The Lowe's gal heard everything you said, and I had the phone up to my ear!" [Said the man who is deaf, with his phone turned to maximum volume, so I can hear every word in the kitchen when he has it to his ear in the living room.]

"I just gave you the model number. TWICE! You're the one who hung up on me."

"I did not hang up on you! I said BYE!"

"So you went off to buy a filter for the icemaker, but you didn't write down the model number?"

"I looked at it this morning!"

"Then why did you have to call me?"

"I didn't have the number!"

"I thought you looked at it this morning. But you couldn't even tell me where it was."

"I TOOK A PICTURE of the refrigerator this morning!"

"You didn't even look inside?"

Farmer H threw up his hands and declared that it wasn't worth talking to me! He went to his recliner mouthing that I should just go get a divorce. Then he stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door. Because, you know, him going to bed without supper is the worst punishment he could ever give me!

Don't take it out on ME because you were unprepared to buy a filter for the ice-maker. WHO takes a picture of the OUTSIDE of a refrigerator to use as a reference for buying a specific part??? (Except maybe Blog Buddy Kathy's HeWho.)

Farmer H is the one who should be embarrassed about what that Lowe's salesgal thought of him. Not me. She's never seen me. Who gives a fat rat's rumpus what she thinks of me, from hearing my frustrated voice read Farmer H the model number that even a legally-blind person could have found inside FRIG II before going off to look for a part.

The Mansion Is Falling Down Around Our Ears

You may recall that I was having stove problems. Nothing has changed. Farmer H bought a thermometer to check and see if the built-in oven thermostat is working right. But it sits on the counter. I'm not doing the experimenting. That's Farmer H's job!

Now FRIG II's icemaker is on the fritz. I have been telling Farmer H about it for at least five days. From the very first day I noticed. It had been in a frenzy, making lots and lots of ice, which was just fine with me. It would stop when that little lever thingy was resting on the pile of ice built up in the bin. When I'd use ice, the lever would go down, and a new batch of ice would form and be spilled out.

I told Farmer H that the icemaker didn't seem to be working. He grunted. Didn't do anything. I told him a couple times on each of the next few days. He would swear that he just heard a batch of ice dump out. Since there was still a supply of ice in the bin, it was hard to tell. But I did NOT hear the usual humming and grinding and popping noises that the icemaker emits.

Finally I took out the bin on Friday evening, and chopped out a small iceberg, and returned the usable cubes to the bin. Grumbling all the while about how I guessed I'd just buy a bag of ice every day to put in the bin. I'd done that before when there was a malfunction. Farmer H came to the kitchen about an hour later, and peered into the freezer. He said he would go by Lowe's on his way home Saturday evening, and get a new filter. I think that's what he did before to fix the problem.

Farmer H asked if I was still able to get water out of the door spout, because if I could, the filter wasn't the problem. No. I don't get my water out of the freezer door, but out of the kitchen faucet. Did Farmer H try to get water, to see if it worked? Nope. I guess he's just going to put in a new filter anyway. I hope that's the issue. We DO have hard water and no water softener. So very likely it could be mineral deposits in the filter.

A Rare Compliment To The Chef

Friday, I made pasta for Farmer H's next three suppers. Even though I don't normally eat it, I don't buy spaghetti noodles because I don't like them. Too hard to eat, too messy to eat, annoying to scrape off the sides of the pan they're boiled in. When The Pony was here, he liked macaroni noodles. I prefer a rigatoni, or a penne. I don't really know my noodles all that well. I just look at their shape before buying them. This time, I got mostaccioli noodles.

I don't like taking 90 minutes out of my evening time to make Farmer H's supper and clean up. So I made them during the morning. That's fine with Farmer H. Unlike The Pony, and sometimes me, Farmer H prefers his noodles without much sauce. He says they're better the second day. You know, after they've absorbed all the sauce, and are practically just moist noodles.

I boiled a whole bag of the mostaccioli noodles. Made the sauce from a jar, minced garlic, black pepper, ground beef, and canned mushrooms. Also a dab of butter, and a teaspoon of sugar. When the noodles had been drained, I mixed everything together in the pot I used for boiling the noodles. The concoction looked too dry for me. So I added another can of sauce. I put Farmer H's pasta into two large containers, let them cool a bit, and put them in FRIG II. Then I was able to wash up the pot and pan and utensils and strainer and skillet I had used for frying the ground beef.

That evening, I asked Farmer H if he wanted just one bowl of his pasta, or a bit more. He said a bit more. So I took out enough for two bowls. He wanted two pieces of (frozen) garlic toast. It was easy enough to warm his already-cooked pasta, and put the garlic toast in the oven.

Farmer H said after eating: "That was some of the best spaghetti you ever made!"

Well. Glad he enjoyed it. He's got two more days to go. Looks like I won't have to freeze any leftovers after all.

A Trite Confession From Mrs. HM

In the midst of my current scratcher losing streak, I wanted to kick myself on Tuesday for being so careless. I had gone to Save A Lot for raisin bread and salsa and the individual potato chips that I can't find elsewhere. Of course I stopped on the way in, to get some scratchers out of their machine.

First of all, there was a woman standing in front of it. Not enough to block me. She was talking to her buddy, who was playing one of those illegal slot machines next to the lottery machine. "Oh, I'm sorry. Let me get out of your way."

"That's okay. I can get to it."

She moved over, and I scanned in my meager winnings. I think I had a $5 winner, and two $3 winners. Anyhoo... the machine was cantankerous about scanning them. I had already pushed the button for one ticket, which was in the tray. I got my other winners to scan, and then pushed the same button again! I only buy crosswords or the three-dollar tickets consecutively, and this machine was not stocked with crosswords. So I was mad at myself for that. I fed in some actual money, to get two of the new Christmas three-dollar tickets. People entering the store were passing by me, getting carts from the cart corral behind me. I made sure not to stick my ample rumpus in their way before bending over to get my tickets.

The ladies continued their conversation as I did my shopping, and one was just leaving as I got in line to pay. Looked like she had bought some scratchers, because she was standing up from the tray when I looked over.

Once outside in T-Hoe, I wrote down my purchase in the checkbook register. Then I wrote initials on the back of my tickets, so I'd know where they came from. Dang it! I only had ONE of those three-dollar Christmas tickets! I guess it had been caught in the machine, having not fallen into the tray when I picked up my other tickets. I know I had used up all the credit I had in the machine, because it showed a zero balance when I picked up my tickets.

Huh. I guess that woman got my other three-dollar ticket. Not that I expected it to be a big winner. They don't win often, and when they do, it's usually just $3 or $6. I couldn't really be mad at that woman, even though she had seen me buying tickets, and had glanced over to the front of the store as I was checking out in the register closest to her.

After all... when I was in 10Box last week, two crosswords fell down into the tray as I was picking up my tickets. So there were four crosswords, when I had only bought two. I took them!!! There was nobody at the lottery machines. Nobody coming or going from the time I had entered the store. So nobody to return them to. I've tried to tell the cashiers when I've found a ticket there before, but they said there was nothing they could do. Other times, I've just left them. But these were CROSSWORDS! I took them. Both were losers.

I'd think this was the reason for my losing streak, but it was well underway before that incident.