Pupsie Pupses Some More

That dang Pupsie! She has continued to dig the water out of the water bowl every day, at least once. And Farmer H has continued to not put a jagged rock in there like I suggested. Something she won't pick up with her mouth to chew on, which might break up the reflection if that's why she's digging. Meanwhile, we still put water in the old bowl beside it, which she doesn't dig in. But three dogs drink a lot. Especially big ol' Copper Jack.

Anyhoo... on Thursday, Farmer H came home and got in POOLIO with two new pool noodles. He had just descended the ladder, and was mounting his noodles, when I saw a tail-wagging Pupsie go around the porch to the water dishes. 

SCRATCH SCRATCH SCRATCH!

"HEEEYYY! YOU GET AWAY FROM THERE! Hollered Farmer H in a gruff voice.

"PUPSIE! NO!" Hollered me from inside the house.

Pupsie slunk away, back to the back porch by the kitchen. At least she looked a bit ashamed. I have a feeling that she was confused by Farmer H's dog-talk, but responded to mine. I've hollered at her before, catching her in the act just outside the laundry room.

About a half hour later, Pupsie went back around to the water bowls. No scratching. I saw her peeking through the porch rails at Farmer H on his noodles, tongue dripping. Like she actually cares about him, and what he's doing. She was rewareded when Farmer H turned around, saw her, and gruffed, "GET OUT OF HERE!"

Farmer H needs to be more consistent with his messaging. 

Mrs. HM Is Grounded

No town trip for Mrs. HM on Wednesday. Such a punishment! The Universe might even feel a bit of sympathy, with no way to lure her into devious schemes that could be chortle-inducing.

Not sure what's going on, but my better knee is acting up. It started around 6:30 a.m. I was sitting on the short couch, Farmer H having just left for town. When I'd try to move my left leg, there was pain. It didn't want to move. Something was amiss with the top of the kneecap area. Let the record show that I had done nothing to provoke it!

I'd been up at 4:00 a.m., putting some clothes in the dryer, getting water in my metal bottle. I settled back on the short couch to watch TV. Dozed off. Woke and talked to Farmer H. Watched TV. Dozed another 30 minutes. When I tried to stand up, that knee was SO PAINFUL! No redness. Maybe a little swelling.

I could hardly walk, even clinging onto furniture and stair railing and door jambs and piano/bench on the way to the bathroom and kitchen. I balanced myself to wash dishes. The knee might have started to feel a little better. I went back to the couch, watched TV, called The Pony, played Wordle. When I got up again to move to the kitchen table and HIPPIE, the knee was very hurty again.

Lucky I had a bag of ice already in the door of FRIG II's freezer. I put that on for 30 minutes. It seemed to help a bit. But you can't leave ice on a knee forever.

As I type this, it's 1:25. I'm an aspirin and an ibuprofen in for pain relief. It's not much of a relief. Town is not a priority, even though those scratchers aren't going to purchase themselves and come find me.

GassyG Jr Is In The Doghouse

Figuratively. Not literally. You can't put a gas grill inside a doghouse, unless you want to burn up your Mansion. Not to mention the doghouse. 

We've had GassyG Jr for several years, ever since the original GassyG stopped working/rusted out/fell out of favor with Farmer H. Much delicious food has been grilled on GassyG Jr, from burgers to pork steaks to hot dogs to regular steaks to bratwursts to chicken to sausage patties. Never a problem. Farmer H enjoys grilling, sitting in the metal mesh chair on the side porch, sipping an adult beverage, talking to the dogs.

NOW there's a problem. At least according to Farmer H. He brought in the hamburgers and sausage patties on Sunday, proclaiming

"That grill is so hot! It burned the hair off my arms! That's crazy! Next time, I'm gonna get my griddle working, and I can just put stuff on there."

Of course. Because it's a new (to him) gadget, so Farmer H must use it. He brought it home a while back, and put it on the porch, against the house, on the garage side. He has not yet tried it. Has not yet seasoned his griddle. He assumes it will work, once he hooks up the propane tank to it.

Farmer H said the problem was that there were so many sausage patties, and the fat flamed up. Obviously GassyG Jr's fault, heh, heh! So now he'll experiment with the griddle.

I'm pretty sure Farmer H has one of every gadget imaginable. Or is still actively looking for the handful he might be missing.

Blame Has Been Shifted

Everything bad that happens around the Mansion grounds has lately been the fault of Pupsie. According to Farmer H. When I questioned why some of the porch boards look skinned up, "Pupsie." Or why part of the hand rail at the side porch has been chewed, "Pupsie." Then there's the issue of the lawnmower seat and the Gator seat. "Pupsie." And just the other day: "That darn Pupsie has chewed the head off my duck that I had in the fish pond!"

I know Pupsie is no angel. She's the age where chewing is a priority. I believed she was doing all the chewing. After all, the evidence is all over the driveway and yard. The cow skull, the cow pelvis, assorted plastic soda bottles that are not the brand Farmer H drinks. Sections of plastic pipe. It's hard to refute circumstantial evidence.

Monday afternoon, Farmer H entered the kitchen all in a tizzy.

"We gotta kill some squirrels!"

"Okay. Why now? I've been telling you they're a problem for years."

"LOOK at this! I took a picture when I parked my truck."

"Um. I'm not sure what I'm looking at..."

"Up there! The siding! Up at the top of the garage wall! Them squirrels have eat the boards!"

"Well, I'm pretty sure you can't blame this on Pupsie."

"The Veteran said he'll come out, and we can pop them with 22s."

"I don't care. I just don't want to get shot."

People shoot squirrels all the time. People eat squirrels. I watched my dad skin many a squirrel after a hunting session. My mom fried up a mean squirrel. Tastes like chicken! Not that I plan on cooking any. But I have no objection to getting rid of squirrels. There will be plenty to take their place. Maybe it will thin their herd for a little while.

"I told you, it's the dog food. You leave it there, and the squirrels come to eat it. They're thriving."

"I only give the dogs enough for them to eat!"

"You have that SELF FEEDER! There's always food."

"No. I put some in every morning. Just enough for the two of them dogs."

I beg to differ. Why use a self feeder when you only put out food EVERY MORNING, just enough for two dogs? It's not logical.

Anyhoo... at least my little Jack is not getting blamed for everything these days. I remember way back,when he was just a pup, and Farmer H's whipping boy. Like the Olds Toronado pooping incident...

The Clueless Is Still Without A Clue

I came out of the garage on Saturday evening, three bags of groceries on my arm, and was shocked to see Farmer H sitting in the chair on the side porch.

"I didn't know you were here! You can at least take these bags in for me."

"I'm just drying off. Your dog has been going crazy running around looking for you."

Farmer H got up and took the bags towards the kitchen. He was wearing his Spongebob Squarepants boxers, which he uses for swimming. He got POOLIO ready this week, and had apparently taken his first dip.

"She's not looking for me! She's looking for Jack. She won't come get her treat until Jack is there."

In fact, Pupsie ran up the steps as I was trying to climb them.

"Look at you! Your feet are all wet."

"MY feet? I've been in the pool!"

"I'm not talking to you! I know your feet are wet. I'm talking to Pupsie. Probably been splashing all the water out of the drinking bowl again."

Really. Why would I bother to tell Farmer H that his feet were wet? And surely he knows that Pupsie doesn't give an obese rat's patootie where I am. She is needy, and wants Jack for companionship.

Once Again, The Actions Belie The Sentiment

The Pony and I went on a shopping trip for a 4th of July BBQ. Except we're having it on the 6th of July, because Farmer H must have his SUS2.5 open on the 4th. 

Anyhoo... as we were leaving Country Mart, I suggested we go out the pharmacy door, since it is closer to the handicap space where I was parked. The Pony held open the door for me. A lady had just parked there in one of the other four handicap spaces, and was starting in. She had a handicap placard. She was perhaps late 50s, graying hair, walking along okay.

I know it takes me a long time to walk out pushing a cart. I was not yet in front of the door. The Pony motioned for her to go in. I told her, "Go ahead."

"No. You go ahead."

"I'm fine. You'll be faster."

"No. Go ahead."

"No. It takes me a while to get over the threshold."

That woman sighed. She came in the door, acting all pissy. How is it a hardship for her to walk through a held-open door ahead of me? I TOLD her to go ahead, as did The Pony. If she really wanted to be nice and helpful, she would have just DONE IT. Not stood outside arguing, while I stood waiting longer than if she'd just strode on in.

 

I guess she was only wanting to SEEM NICE by trying to make me go first. If she really cared, she would have just come through the door and said thanks for letting her go ahead. Not played a game of chicken with me, then acted exasperated when I didn't want to try and rush just to appease her do-goodedness.

I really do appreciate people being polite, trying to help me. REALLY. But sometimes, it would be easier if they just left me to my own devices.

The 'Splainin' That Was Actually Insulting

Oh, how short-lived was my happiness at T-Hoe's oil change! I should have known better. Farmer H is a crafty one. Pretending that I don't know nothin' and can't understand his words. He knew exactly what he was doing. I guess he didn't count on my interrogation skills.

After changing into my comfy clothes after the town trip, I walked past Farmer H in his recliner.

"So you got my oil changed at the Devil's Playground, just like A-Cad? They didn't reset the CHANGE OIL thingy. So we'll have to do that."

"No. I put two quarts of oil in. It only needed 1.5."

"Then why did I have two identical receipts? The exact same amount, on two consecutive days, both including an oil filter?"

"I got the oil changed in my truck. I just added oil to yours. I already had the oil."

"I've been asking you to change my oil for over a month! And then you did A-Cad on Tuesday, and SilverRedO on Wednesday!!!"

"Well, the CHANGE OIL message came up when I started to town in the Acadia. So I had to get it done."

"Mine has been on for over a month! You knew that! And then you took your truck the very next day???"

"It said it needed oil."

"For over a month???"

"Probably."

"Huh. Why don't you just take your Olds Toronado that hasn't been driven in 15 years? And maybe the engine out of that Chevy truck that you've been going to rebuild for 25 years. Because, you know, my car can surely wait as long as you want for an oil change."

"I'll have to see when I have time. Maybe next week."

This is just not right! Should I stop buying groceries and feeding Farmer H for over a month? It's not like I feed everyone else but him. Surely he can find room in his busy schedule to take care of projects at home. LIKE MAKING SURE MY CAR DOESN'T BREAK DOWN!

A Tricky Bit Of 'Splainin' By Farmer H

I had just typed up yesterday's post about Farmer H and his oil-changing proclivities when Farmer H himself walked through the kitchen door on Wednesday afternoon. He gave me a receipt from the Devil's Playground, a receipt from the pool chemical store, and said:

"I put oil in your car."

Sweet Gummi Mary! All I had to do was put a criticism of Farmer H on hold to post the next day, and he got an oil change for T-Hoe!!! I felt a little bit bad. Considered adding an update to the bottom of that post. But then I figured I could do a whole separate apology for my Sweet Baboo. So I let that post stand, to hit the innernets without an update.

I recorded those receipts in my checkbook ledger. Couldn't believe my precious T-Hoe had been serviced with only a month of nagging. Took a nap. Took a shower. Such a joyous occasion.

I went out to the garage for my town trip. Happy with the knowledge that T-Hoe would be fine, now that he'd had an oil change that the warning system had been clamoring for. More kudos for Farmer H! He had parked where my door would open fully, and not hit a 2x4 stud on the garage wall. Nor had he moved my seat! It was exactly how I like it. And the radio station was unchanged. Could the day get any better?

No. It could not. In fact, it could only get worse...

Farmer H Has Some 'Splainin' To Do

Farmer H might as well start renovating my Sweet, Sweet Juno's old doghouse. He'll want to be comfortable in there, you know. Because that's where he's headed. I don't have a curb to kick him to, and my knees aren't up to kicking. So a sojourn in that doghouse will have to suffice.

Tuesday, Farmer H made a trip to Illinois to get merchandise for his SUS2.5 (Storage Unit Store 2.5). He left home a bit later than usual, which was okay. I was watching one of those how to murder your wife shows, as I call them. The true crime re-enactment shows that tell how people almost got away with their crimes. Farmer H stayed to watch until the end of the episode. Which is probably NOT a good thing!

Anyhoo... he had asked if there was anything I needed from the Devil's Playground. 

"No. Nothing I can think of right now. Are you going there for something?"

"No. I just figured I could kill a little time there before I go to my doctor's appointment, and head to Illinois."

I did not suggest that maybe he could have stayed in bed a little longer. Because that involves logic, a concept as foreign to Farmer H as comedy is to a man born without a funny bone.

When Farmer H returned home that evening, he put a receipt on the kitchen table. It was from the Devil's Playground. The purchase?

AN OIL CHANGE FOR A-CAD!

"I thought you weren't going to the store! And what's this OIL CHANGE? I've been telling you for a month that T-Hoe needs an oil change! And now you do it for A-Cad?"

"I'm glad I did. I got in the car, and the CHANGE OIL light came on. So it was time I did it. I didn't want to break down over in Illinois."

"Mine has been on for over a month now! I don't want to break down in town. You never answer your phone. I don't want to get stranded in this heat."

"HM. I can't help it if my phone don't get reception in my unit, or in the house. I can usually get a text."

"Yes, but sometimes the text doesn't come in until the next day. I'd rather just be sure that T-Hoe has oil so I don't need to be rescued."

"I'll have to see when I can do that. I don't want you to burn up the engine."

So here we go again. Mrs. HM is last on the to-do list.

The River In Egypt. Not Long Enough For Farmer H.

I'm pretty sure I've complained about mentioned this issue before. Farmer H cannot seem to tear off a paper towel without contaminating the entire roll. He finds it necessary to hold onto the top with a filthy finger. As if he can't tear off a paper towel without doing so. Funny how I manage to do it all the time. You just start at the top, by the perforation, and yank a little at a time. I usually have something else in my other hand, so I know this is possible.

Well. The paper towel roll was fine on Monday night. Fine, even, on Tuesday morning. Yet when I returned from town Tuesday evening, that paper towel roll was NOT fine.

Can you see it? Farmer H pretended not to, when I called him in to complain about show him this contamination.

"I didn't do that. I haven't gotten a paper towel in I don't know how long. I used my old one last night for supper."

"I don't know how this dirty fingerprint got here, unless you were the one getting a paper towel. I sure don't leave dirt on the paper towel roll."

"That ain't nothin'." Farmer H then proceeded to RUB THE DIRT DOWN INTO THE ROLL with his thumb.

"You're just making it worse! Now it's even deeper."

"It don't affect nothin'."

Sure. I guess. If you don't mind filth on the end of a paper towel you might be using to wipe the kitchen counter, or wipe your mouth, or dry your clean hands...

Good thing the roll is about half used already. So there's only half the chance I will be poisoned from whatever was on Farmer H's hands.

Some Kind Of A Magician

It's no secret that Mrs. HM and Farmer H keep separate hours. He's an early riser, leaving the Mansion around 6:00 a.m. Mrs. HM has not been an early riser since college, when she had to have the desk clerk unlock the dormitory doors to let her out for a 5-mile run at 6:00 a.m. 

I've always been more of a night owl, even when living at home during high school. Everyone else would be snoozing upstairs, while I was wide awake, watching The Avengers on PBS around midnight. That's the original series, with Diana Rigg as Emma Peel, and Patrick Macnee as John Steed. I loved that show!

Anyhoo... Farmer H goes to bed around 8:00. Mrs. HM doesn't even sit down on the short couch to watch TV until about midnight. She often dozes off there, then interacts with Farmer H before he leaves the next morning. She doesn't hit the sack until afternoon, before her town trip.

Farmer H must be some kind of magician. Like one who can pull the tablecloth off, leaving the dishes intact. Only Farmer H uses the sheets and blankets on the bed, rather than a tablecloth. I have never liked a top sheet. It seems superfluous. Just give me a blanket or comforter, and I'm good. My dislike is probably due to so many years of Farmer H pulling that sheet up over his face. 

Yes. Isn't that an odd habit? Farmer H uses a breather at night. So it's like he's daring The Universe to knock him off. As in, "I have this breathing machine to keep me alive, but I'm going to cover my face and thwart the atmospheric oxygen, just to show that I can."

Let the record show that Farmer H even did this BEFORE the breather. No matter what the weather. It's not like we were trying to survive in sub-zero temperatures on the tundra.

Anyhoo... somehow Farmer H gets the top sheet pulled all the way over on his side of the bed. But the blanket is all the way over on my side of the bed. How is that possible? Sure, it gives me my wish of only having a blanket on top of me. But that sheet is annoying. Just enough of it on my side to cling to me, while trying to pull up the blanket.

Farmer H is a man of many talents.

It Was A LOTastrophe, I Tell You!

Mrs. HM was not in the best of moods after the entitled pizza-eaters usurped her rightful handicap parking space at the Hillmomba Casey's on Saturday. She proceeded to 10Box, with a purpose of buying two $5 crossword scratchers, a $10 ticket, and a $3 crossword, which was destined for Fave next Thursday.

I was only buying from the left side machine, because I had won $20 on a crossword from the right side machine the day before. I scanned in a $3 winner. Then inserted a twenty-dollar bill. The machine showed a credit of $23. I touched the screen for my $5 crosswords. Selected the TWO option. They were ripped off and deposited in the tray. I touched the screen for my $10 ticket. Selected the ONE option. I heard the ticket tearing, but it was an extra-long tear sound. Then the machine froze. 

I waited. My credit in the machine showed $3. I was just waiting on that $10 ticket to fall into the tray. But it didn't! I figured it might be stuck. When the screen returned to normal, I selected the $3 crossword, and chose the ONE option. It showed on the screen, but I heard no tearing. IT FROZE. After waiting about five minutes, because these machines often start working again after freezing, I turned to the cashiers, and said,

"This machine is acting up again."

One of them said that yeah, they do that, you just have to wait. But another said, "She's already been waiting a while." They called for a manager. Not one I was familiar with. She heard my description of what happened. Then tried to open the machine. She was not exactly friendly. She tried every key, and finally made the front cover open. She was having a lot of trouble figuring out what to do, and called over the lady who is so nice, and always gives me a cart when she sees my drive up.

Cart Gal talked her through the steps. But still, they couldn't solve the problem. That dang machine would not show my credit for the $10 ticket I never got. New Gal acted like I might be lying. She didn't know how to see the record of what that machine had just done, like the last time it happened and the manager could tell exactly what happened.

"I can't give you a ticket out of here. And I can't give you a refund, because it only shows a $3 credit. I CAN give you the $3. But for the rest, you'll have to come in on Monday and talk to a manager."

"That's a little far off. They won't have any idea what I'm talking about."

"We can leave a note."

"That will take a long time. It's not worth it to me to stand around for 30 minutes. Somebody else might as well use my $10."

I was not trying to be a smart-rumpus. I had already been standing there for 30 minutes while this was going on. I knew it would take at least that long to try and explain and get resolution TWO DAYS LATER! I took my $3 she refunded, and got my two crosswords out of the tray. Then I put a twenty into the right-side machine, and got a ten, and two five dollar tickets that I would send to Genius this week.

I'm not mad at the workers. I told Cart Gal, "Anywhere else, I would just walk away and forget it, but everybody here is so nice, I don't mind imposing on you with a problem!"

She said, "Oh, it's no problem! This machine acts up all the time, especially when the weather is cloudy."

Which seems right, because it was rainy the last time this machine betrayed me! Still, I don't hold it against the workers. The New Gal even started acting really nice once I mentioned how nice everyone (but her!) are in this store. I figure these things happen for a reason, and if somebody can get a win off my $10, then they needed it more than I do.

The Universe rewarded me for my trouble. After barely being able to hobble out to T-Hoe, and getting home 30 minutes late to make Farmer H's supper, I scratched those tickets. One of my crosswords won $25. And the $10 ticket won $30.

Aside from making my knees hurt extra more... it was not such a LOTastrophe after all.

The Action Does Not Belie The Sentiment

Imagine Mrs. HM's dismay fit of pique on Saturday afternoon, when she pulled onto the lot of the Hillmomba Casey's to buy her scratchers, and found a minivan with two kayaks on the top in her rightful handicap parking space. No plate, no placard signifying handicap status for this vehicle.

I parked on the other side of it, even farther from the door, and began my slow hobble along the sidewalk. A woman came out, walking towards me, carrying a pizza. It smelled delicious.

"You have a blessed day, Ma'am," she said as she opened the door of the minivan.

"Thank you." I'm pretty sure my face showed more of a grimace than a smile.

HOW DARE SHE wish me a blessed day, while parked ILLEGALLY in my rightful handicap space!!! Is that supposed to relieve her conscience? Does she even have a conscience? Would she have wished me a blessed day if I was standing there taking a picture of her van in front of the HANDICAP sign that proclaims a $500 fine for parking there without verification?

When I came out, the van was still parked in the handicap space. The two women inside were eating their pizza. You know, because there is nowhere else to park to eat pizza, other than the single handicap space that other differently-abled people such as Mrs. HM might need to park in, to satisfy their gambling addiction.

Let The Hardheadedness Continue

Farmer H bookended our casino trip with another bout of hardheadedness. It also involved the Love's Truck Stop. He always stops there on the way home, for a bathroom break, and to get a soda (and candy bar). The Pony usually goes in to get me scratchers out of their lottery machine. I give The Pony some of my casino bankroll for tickets for both of us.

This time, The Pony had been napping in the back seat. I asked Farmer H if he was stopping, and he said yes, to get a soda. So I woke The Pony. Which was harder than you might imagine. The Pony said he didn't really want to go in this time, so I said okay. 

I didn't want to get out and hobble in, either. 

Besides, all I had in cash was $100 bills. Farmer H said he was out of twenties, from the casino. I would have no problem giving The Pony a hundred, to spend $50 for each of us. I'd had a good day at the casino! But I didn't want to give Farmer H a hundred. He's so judgmental, and I definitely wasn't letting him buy tickets for himself. The machines don't give change back. Then I remembered I had put my winners from the day before into my gambling purse. Still, there was the problem of Farmer H's lottery literacy.

As Farmer H was going up the exit ramp by the Love's Truck Stop, I said,

"Well, I know better than to ask YOU to get me tickets. You can't remember what I ask for. I'm not giving you a hundred, and you don't know how to scan in tickets."

I figured that was that. No big deal. I'd just go to town when we got back home.

THEN Farmer H said,

"I don't need no soda anyway."

AND KEPT ON DRIVING PAST THE LOVE'S TRUCK STOP!

"I don't know why you have to be like this. I wasn't even asking you to get my tickets. Go ahead and pee yourself and die of dehydration and starve to death from not getting your afternoon candy bar! You're not punishing ME any by skipping that stop."

Because really... why would Farmer H change his plans instantly? No reason I can think of, other than to show me he's the boss. If he'd been alone, he would have stopped for pee/soda/candy. If The Pony was going in, Farmer H would have stopped. So I really don't see the purpose of driving right by, unless it was an action directed at ME.

Farmer H does many things right, and he's basically a good guy. But it's things like this that really hurt my feelings. It's a wonder he even has a nose left, after years of such spiteful behavior.

Let The Hardheadedness Begin

Can you guess who I'm talking about? You over there, with your hand up. Yes! You are correct! This tale is indeed about Farmer H. I see a future valedictorianship in your future.

Wednesday morning, we left for the casino. As with all trips to our favorite casino, the first stop would be McDonald's about a half hour into the drive, when we get to the interstate highway. The Pony asked if we could actually stop instead of just utilizing the drive-thru, because a bathroom break was needed.

I asked Farmer H if he would go in to get the food, or just use the drive-thru after letting The Pony out for the facilities. We eat on the road, to save time. It's a 90-minute drive to the casino. Farmer H said he didn't think this McDonald's had a restroom inside for customers. It's adjacent to a Love's Truck Stop, and the bathrooms are in that part of the building. So he'd let The Pony go in there, and order food at the drive-thru as usual.

Is it just me, or would you think that Farmer H would stop in front of the Love's entrance, let The Pony go in, and proceed to the drive-thru once The Pony came back out? Doesn't that make the most sense? 

Farmer H got directly in the drive-thru line when we entered the complex. He was stunned when I asked what he was doing. "I'm getting the food, then I'll drive The Pony over to the other door."

"That's kind of backwards. The Pony has to go. And probably wants to eat the food when it's hot in the bag, not wait until after the bathroom."

"I'm fine, Mom. It's okay."

Well. It was not okay with ME! You guessed that, didn't you? I'm all about logic. There were already four cars in the drive-thru line. Usually we are the only one. I guess we hit it at the morning rush.

Then we saw the car ahead of us at the pickup window hand their bag back through the window to the worker. To me, that meant they had been given OUR food, and gave it back. Indeed, our bag looked crumpled at the top, as if it had been opened and re-closed, when we pulled up to receive it. This irked me, even though The Pony said it didn't LOOK like the sandwiches had been unwrapped.

Anyhoo... Farmer H drove over to the entrance to the convenience store side of the truck stop. The Pony went inside. I told Farmer H that I would have given him his Sausage Egg and Cheese McMuffin while waiting, instead of eating while driving, but The Pony had set the bag way back beside his seat, and neither one of us could reach it.

Serves him right! Farmer H always insists on doing things HIS way. Which is often the least convenient, with no rhyme nor reason.

If PigPen Was An Old Man In Hillmomba, And Not A Peanuts Cartoon Character

I appreciate all the chores Farmer H does around the Mansion. He takes care of a lot. I also have chores. They mostly relate to cleaning up after taking care of Farmer H. I don't get to ride around on a cute little machine while doing chores outside. I am inside, on my own two feet, in stinky bathrooms. Or in the kitchen that refuses to buy food, cook it, and clean up after itself.

Wednesday, we were taking a trip to the casino. The Pony was coming out to meet us for the drive down there. I figured I'd clean up a bit in the boys' bathroom that I use most of the time. Tuesday night, Farmer H went to bed around 7:30. I know it was still daylight, and the sun had not yet set over the front yard/field. I gathered some paper towels, a bag for trash, some spray cleaner, and went into the boys' bathroom to tidy up. It smelled fresh and clean. I was pleased with myself. The sink sparkled, and the floor had been wiped within an inch of its life. 

Wednesday morning, I was showering in the master bathroom when The Pony arrived around 8:45. Farmer H had been outside mowing when I got in the shower. I heard them both talking when I came into the living room. We left for the casino.

When we returned home after 5:00, The Pony left. Farmer H went to visit The Veteran. And I went to town for scratchers. Upon my arrival back home after town, I went into the boys' bathroom. WHAT A SIGHT! There was dried grass all over the floor. I can only assume that Farmer H had used that bathroom when he came into the Mansion after mowing, before leaving for the casino.

You'd think somebody would notice that they left grass all over the floor. And maybe CLEAN IT UP. What's it going to do, take root and grow a green carpet in there? Will it disappear? Farmer H may only have one eye, but he's not blind. Just hard-headed. I suppose he thought I should clean that floor.

I do not concur...

Psych!

Way back in junior college, I had an introductory psychology class. I spent a lot of time looking at the small windows along the top of the wall, wondering why anybody would design a building with such useless windows that couldn't be opened and wouldn't let you see anything but sky. Perhaps I was not the most motivated student, though I DID learn a lot that semester, perhaps by osmosis.

Anyhoo... I remember the teacher pointing out that people are self-centered, and that often conflicts arise because people want different things out of an interaction or relationship. That the only thing important to you at the time is "what you are controlling for." It's an odd phrase, but it just means what you are wishing to happen, and consciously or unconsciously trying to make happen. It's not necessarily a bad thing. That's only when people are obsessed with controlling other people.

Yeah. That's kind of boring, right? Makes you want to look out some windows.

Farmer H came home Monday afternoon, unhappy with The Pony.

"I must have been there for an hour mowing The Pony's yard, and he never once came out and offered me a drink of water or a soda."

"Well. The Pony might have thought it was Old Buddy mowing the yard. That's who usually does it. I doubt The Pony even looked out."

"Still. It's really hot. I cain't believe he didn't even check on me."

So Farmer H was controlling for recognition for his lawn mowing, and evidence of caring about his health in the heat, and a quenching of his thirst. The Pony was probably controlling for some ZZZZZs in a nap, or relaxation in the jetted bathtub, or more likely a win in a computer game. They had different expectations. Farmer H was hurt, and The Pony was oblivious.

Just a mini psychology lesson. One more service Mrs. HM provides.

___________________________________________________________________

Here's a bonus that's a little more interesting. My psychology teacher told us the best way to respond to a liar. Just say, "Well, imagine that."

"Former students come up to me all the time. They tell me about their life since they graduated. Some of them stretch the truth a little bit. Like one gal who told me about her little girl. Said she was the smartest thing. That her first words were, 'May I have a cookie, please?' I smiled and said, 'Well, imagine that.' And we both left with a good feeling about the interaction."

Be Careful What You Look Forward To

For days I had been planning Farmer H's suppers, waiting for an opportunity to treat myself to something different. Of all the weeks for him to be contrary (okay, that is generally the norm, but you know what I mean), he picked this week to be "not hungry." So foods that I had planned for our meals were lolling about in FRIG II, needing to be eaten. Such as the bacon left from the roasted vegetables on Sunday. And then some fried chicken and chicken tenders that I bought on Thursday.

Because of Farmer H's lagging appetite (most likely due to too many sweet snacks between meals), I was forced (FORCED, I TELL YOU!) to take up the slack and eat chicken and tenders longer than planned. Finally, Farmer H was down to his next-to-last meal of bacon. That's fine. He loves bacon. Bacon will last a while. And he makes his own sandwiches when he's ready, having already required me to freeze some of those delicious roasted vegetables. 

With the clock no longer ticking on the leftovers, I could finally make what I wanted for supper. It was NACHOS! Super nachos! Oh, how I'd been looking forward to them. They take about 45 minutes to make. I fried some frozen hamburger that morning, so I could have the pan washed, and the meat just ready to sprinkle onto my nachos.

Farmer H of course had a chore for me to do that evening, concerning his business and a form that needed a mailing envelope. I was quite late in starting my supper. That's okay. I'm a night owl. It gave me even more time to anticipate my delicious nachos. It was after 10:00 when I started preparing them.

I made some cheese spread to put on my super nachos this time, with melted Velveeta and salsa. Farmer H likes it as a dip, and I figured it would go great with my other ingredients.

I put down a layer of tortilla chips. Half a bag of shredded lettuce. The Velveeta/salsa. The warmed hamburger. Sprinkled on some Frank's Original Red Hot Sauce. Added my usual shredded sharp cheddar. A small diced onion. Some salsa. Dollops of sour cream. Topped with black olives.

They were BEAUTIFUL! I couldn't wait to dig in. My stomach was rumbling. The long-awaited super nachos were ready!

Be careful what you look forward to, my friends. 

My super nachos were not all that good... Too salty. I blame the Velveeta. It threw off the balance. I know many of the other ingredients are salty, but they generally are balanced by the shredded lettuce and sour cream. I still ate about half of this feast. I'm guessing Pupsie will snarf it up later when I come back from town. She's not at all finicky.

I might try my super nachos again tonight, with NO Velveeta, and with some diced chicken I have in the freezer. I am cautiously optimistic.

Yes. I'm Pretty Sure.

The fact that Mrs. HM is still here whining blogging after 35 years with Farmer H must surely be a miracle. You'd think a handy man such as Farmer H would not be such a failure at one simple task, that being to TRY AND KILL ME in assorted, untraceable ways! You never know what form that attempted extinguishment of the bright light that is Mrs. HM might take...

Farmer H, as with Genius when he lived here, has always wanted things OTHER PEOPLE HAVE. Mainly, snacks and treats designated for others in the household. No matter how many times they might have been asked what they wanted from the store, nor how many of their own requests were filled... they just had to dip into the treats of The Pony and Mrs. HM. Without asking. Without telling. Sometimes to the point of taking the last item and leaving the empty box. Genius has moved into his own household. But Farmer H is still here!

I came home Saturday, carried in my own groceries, and greeted Farmer H as he strolled in while I was putting them away. Such timing! I offered to make Farmer H a Wild Turkey and Shasta Zero Sugar Cola, and he said yes. I asked if he wanted a snack with it. Yes.

"Do you want a little bag of chips?"

"No."

"There's a big bag of Ruffles I got for you a couple BBQs with Pony ago. You never did open them."

"No."

"Do you want some of this stuff I got myself?"

"Yes."

"How much do you want?"

"I don't know. What is it?"

"You don't even know what it IS, but you want it! Because it's mine..."

"Well, what is it?"

"This Gardetto Snack Mix."

"Okay."

Farmer H got a bowl, and picked up the bag of snack mix. He plunged his hand into the bag. I could hear clawing and scraping as he dredged up a big fistful. Then more rooting around, and another.

"Do you HAVE TO DO THAT? You couldn't just pour it into a bowl? When is the last time you washed your hands?"

"Around noon."

"At your store? You don't even have running water. And I know the Port-A-Potty doesn't."

"I used a wet wipe."

"At noon. And you didn't get anything on your hands again all day?"

"Nope."

I took a chance. I ate some of my snack mix. Which I had bought for myself. Since Farmer H couldn't think of ANYTHING he wanted from any of my 2-3 trips to the store that week. And every week.

So far, I'm still kickin'...

All's Okay That Ends Well

When I drove onto the parking lot of the Gas Station Chicken Store on Saturday, there were few cars. My rightful handicap space was open. There was a truck and horse trailer at the diesel pumps, and a truck on the other side. A van driving away from the gas pumps. And a little green truck on the upper lot. This was good news for Mrs. HM! She HATES waiting in line. Not just for standing on sore knees, but because she feels a bit claustrophobic in the close quarters of the GSCS.

As I hobbled inside, a youngster ran past me. I didn't look up. That might have thrown off my balance. I assumed it was a young 'un from that horse trailer. I could actually smell the horses.

Well. Once inside, I was sorely disappointed. A man was paying for gas with a credit card. Three teenage girls were milling around at the register. A dude with a walkie/talkie radio of some kind strung on a strap over his shoulder was going down the middle aisle. Too many people! I stood to the side, leaning on a display of beer cases, and tried to calm myself until the place cleared out.

DANG! The three girls were all buying something. They were chatty. Just taking up time. Declaring they didn't need a bag, because they were just going to eat their purchases. The Dude came back to the front, eating an ice cream sandwich. He stood by the door. Lurking. I wasn't sure of his purpose, but he seemed to be with the girls. He finished his ice cream sandwich, and went back down the middle aisle looking for the wastebasket. Then I spotted a guy holding two fountain sodas, who had come up on the soda aisle. 

The girls finally finished. I let the soda guy go ahead, even though he had appeared after I was already in line. One of those girls backed up, almost into me! That's all I needed! To be toppled over by the cases of beer! But she stopped just in time. Then said, "There's no place to stand in here!" One of her cronies finished eating an ice cream sandwich, and commanded her to go back by the soda fountain to throw away the wrapper in the lone trash can. She didn't want to, but the other gal told her to just do it. 

THEN the guy paying for the fountain sodas declared, "Just a minute. I want to get an ice cream sandwich. They look so good." And left his stuff on the counter, and went down the third aisle for his treat. By that time, the walkie/talkie dude was in line again on the first aisle. I don't know why those gals kept hanging around. Surely they were capable of walking out to the horse trailer on their own.

At least Walkie/Talkie Dude let me go next. Really. It WAS my turn. PAST my turn! So I bought my tickets, though I prefer not to have an audience of four people watching me for no reason. 

Once home and scratching, I won $90 on my tickets! It was $10 on a ten, $30 on a ten, and $50 on a three-dollar ticket. So there's that. I'm glad I didn't leave and come back later, as I often do when the place is crowded.

Thank The Gummi Mary, The Pony Doesn't Like Long Noodles

I've been reading about a food recall for the past few days. It's not a product I buy, so I kind of glossed over the various articles. The more I saw it, I grew concerned. The product is ready-to-eat Chicken Fettucine Alfredo, sold at the Devil's Playground. I think it's for microwaving, from the deli case. Or maybe frozen. Again, I didn't read the details, but realized that THE PONY LOVES PASTA!

I know The Pony shops at the Devil's Playground. I know that The Pony most often makes pasta at home, but has in the past bought the prepared deli version, like tortellini filled with cheese. Of course I had to warn The Pony! Hear those helicopter blades warming up?

"Pony! You haven't been eating Chicken Fettucine Alfredo, have you?"

"No. Why? Is there a recall?"

"Yes! It might have listeria. Seventeen people have died, and others have been sickened! Of course maybe they were elderly and infirm. Or infants. But still, 17 people have died! Or wait. Maybe it was in 17 states, and less than 17 people have died. Or MORE! Anyway, don't eat Chicken Fettucine Alfredo from the Devil's Playground!"

"Sheesh! I won't! But you don't have to worry. I don't like fettucine. I don't like a long noodle."

Well. There's that. The Pony is safe for now...

Pony Needs A New Set Of Wheels

I tried to call The Pony yesterday, but there was no answer. Only an option for voice mail after many rings. That's not like The Pony. My call is always taken. Farmer H's... not so much. I would have worried, but I thought perhaps The Pony was in the shower. So I waited.

Within 15 minutes I had a return call. The Pony had been outside, cleaning out the car.

"What? Are you going on a special trip?"

Let the record show that The Pony is a car slob. I can't imagine a reason to suddenly clean out that Rogue. Let's not forget that The Pony's Bestie, in college, got into the passenger seat and found a cookie on the floor under some old food wrappers. AND ATE IT! Even though The Pony cautioned that it was most likely a year old. Anyhoo... Bestie survived.

The Pony reported that there was no special trip on the horizon, but that Farmer H had commanded that the car be cleaned out, because he was taking it to get inspected and get it licensed. I suppose The Pony fell for that ruse, even though the inspection is not of the INSIDE of the vehicle, but pertains to its mechanical soundness. More likely, The Pony didn't want to get a lecture from Farmer H, whose SilverRedO is filled with empty bottles of Diet Mountain Dew and sundry junk food wrappers.

Farmer H reported that evening that The Pony's car needs a new set of tires, and they have been ordered. Now all I have to do is convince Farmer H that T-Hoe's warning system keeps clamoring for an oil change. That's easier than tires.

Let The Bludgeoning Begin

Last week, Farmer H came home early a couple of days, because Old Buddy was not able to work in the mornings on Bargain House. Farmer H did what he could, and then had time left over. He mowed some of the Mansion grounds. Then he said he was going to spray. Farmer H mixes his own insecticide, and has a canister and metal spray thingy that he uses while walking around the perimeter of the Mansion.

I don't know what the deal is, but we have not had an issue with invertebrate intruders until after the spraying! Sure, there are occasional spiders spotted, and flies that get in when the door is open. But we really don't have a problem with pests.

This week, I have seen TWO CRICKETS inside! I hate crickets. HATE, HATE, HATE! Not only is their sound annoying, but I despise their evasion tactics, and their bodies full of guts. The two crickets I saw MIGHT possibly have been only one, in different locations. I'm not willing to accept that theory. I must remain on guard.

Let the record show that I did not HEAR a cricket. I was in the kitchen, getting my supper ready while Farmer H was at the auction. A CRICKET walked across the floor! WALKED! Didn't jump. Just walked, creepily, its large body suspended by those jointed legs. 

I can't move quickly. I'm not good at standing on one leg. My intention was to step on that cricket, and put an end to him. As I was positioning myself with a hand on the counter so I could lift my foot, that darn cricket walked under the stove! There's no retrieving a cricket from under the stove. No way to get at it. No way to kill it. 

But wait! It gets worse!

As I was sitting on the short couch between midnight and 2:00 a.m., I saw ANOTHER cricket walking across the carpet. It came from the corner by the TV cabinet. Walking. So creepy. Walking. Across the floor, and under the marred coffee table. I could see it standing under there. I weighed my options. I cannot arise quickly from the short couch. Once I'm up, I have to get my balance, and let my legs unstiffen. I knew that cricket would be gone before I could get to it. Besides, what could I do with it under the coffee table? Take off a Croc, maybe, and bend over and whack it.

I watched. That cricket eventually turned and went back across the open floor, heading for Farmer H's recliner. I was afraid it might take a turn and come at ME. Maybe get onto the fleece throw I was covered with, given to me by The Pony when he returned home from OU. But no. That cricket walked under Farmer H's recliner.

I fell asleep watching TV. When I awoke around 4:00 a.m., I saw that cricket coming towards me. Crap! What to do? I picked up the large red metal flashlight on the TV table. It's there in case of a power outage overnight. About a foot long. Cold heavy metal. As that cricket walked, I leaned over.

BAM! BAM, BAM, BAM!

I smashed that cricket. But still, it refused to give up. It tried to JUMP and get away! I grabbed a Puffs With Lotion and covered it and squeezed. I know some guts were already coming out. I wiped up any of the goo that might have touched the carpet. SQUEEZED that dang cricket inside the Puffs. Wiped off the end of the flashlight. 

Then I deposited the Puffs in a plastic bowl that I use to hold regular Puffs if I blow my nose overnight, and throw away the next morning. I got up and grabbed the cricket Puff and took it to the bathroom for flushing.

My problem is 50 percent solved! Maybe it was the same cricket, taking a tour of the Mansion, while I had been at the kitchen table for a couple of hours. Maybe not. I have my flashlight ready.

The Main Purpose Was Probably To Annoy Me

Farmer H sent me a text on Monday that a guy would be over in the BARn field cutting down a couple of dead trees. Not actually the BARn field, but the one next to it, I figured it out when I came home from town and saw the stump. Which was three feet tall, with two surfaces.

"That dead tree you told me about doesn't look very dead."

"It was dead, HM! In a couple of places. I thought it might fall on the power line."

"If you burn all that wood I see on your burn pile, you'll burn down the woods and your BARn."

"I'm not going to burn it all at once. I have a section behind it that I burn."

"As if the whole thing won't catch on fire. It's a DEAD tree, remember?"

"It won't catch anything on fire."

"Did you pay that guy to cut down trees?"

"Yes. Well. No. He owed me money, so I had him work. You saw the tree. Did you see the fire hydrant at the end of the driveway?"

"What? No. A fire hydrant? What's the deal with that? Who put that in? Surely it's not hooked up to anything."

"I bought it. It's out by the carport."

"Why would it be there?"

"That's okay. The Pony didn't see it, either."

"I guess I'm too busy watching the driveway so I don't run over a cow pelvis or a hammer."

"Well, okay, I can see that. I just saw a fire hydrant for sale and I wanted it. I figured maybe Jack will pee on it."

"Jack has the whole 20 acres to pee on. He doesn't need a fire hydrant. I'm shocked that it's not on the porch with the 2000 other things that don't belong there."

No answer to that. I guess the Master Hoarder didn't have an excuse.

Farmer H, The Perpetual Blamer

Farmer H came home early on Monday, because he was planning to go to the auction around 3:30. He said he was going out to work on SilverRedO, to re-glue the side trim.

"Your car has the trim just sticking out. But mine flaps in the wind when I'm driving! I think Old Buddy must have hit it when he was getting in the other day."

Here's the thing. SilverRedO is a 2012 model. T-Hoe is from 2008. Vehicles age! They both have trim along the side. It's black, about 3 inches wide. Nothing really has to "happen" to that trim to make it start bending away. I imagine the adhesive gets weaker after all the years in the sun and the freezing temperatures. Not sure why Farmer H feels the need to blame Old Buddy.

I'm pretty sure that's not the correct scenario. Old Buddy is such a hypochondriac that if he'd brushed up against that trim, he would have needed the week off, and a couple visits to the ER. That's his physician(s) of choice. Old Buddy receives government health care and never has to pay a penny. So rather than go to a doctor's office, he goes straight to the ER, where a multitude of tests are performed, at nary a cost for him. There's no way Old Buddy could have bumped that trim on SilverRedO without getting checked out at the ER. Such an injury might have progressed from a bruise to blood clots to a soft tissue injury that could become necrotic and result in an amputation!

Farmer H needs to realize that everything is not about assigning blame. Sometimes, things just happen.

Pupsie Keeps On Pupsing

That dang dog! By 9:00 a.m. she had dug all the water out of both water dishes. And when I left for town at 10:30 to pick up The Pony for a Father's Day cookout, there was a new item in the driveway.

A HAMMER!

It was a full-size hammer, not some dainty lady-tool. A hammer with a metal head, wooden handle, and rubber grip. Except part of the grip was chewed off. I had just climbed into T-Hoe, and was in no mood to dismount and re-enter. I left the hammer. 

When we got home, it was still there. The Pony jumped out and got it. We left it on the floor of T-Hoe, and told Farmer H, fearing he would be quite displeased.

"I don't know where that hammer come from. It's not mine."

So much for that. I suppose if Pupsie was trainable, Farmer H could acquire a whole new set of tools. Farmer H is not happy with Pupsie, even though he gained a hammer.

My Sweet Baboo Clears The Path

Thank the Gummi Mary I looked up the driveway as I backed T-Hoe out of the garage on Saturday evening. Otherwise, I might have run over an obstacle and punctured a tire. Or flipped it up under T-Hoe's undercarriage, and caused a leak in some vital accessory.

Being forewarned, I drove through part of the yard to avoid hitting this object. I knew exactly what it was, having seen it in the yard over the course of several days.

I assume this skeletal artifact is a COW PELVIS. The latest chewtoy that Pupsie had dragged home. Of course Farmer H gives it a toss, thinking he will make it disappear. He overestimates his throwing arm. 

When I came home, the driveway was clear. My Sweet Baboo had gotten out of SilverRedO and picked up the pelvis from the driveway. Farmer H says he hung it up. I don't dare ask where! So Pupsie shouldn't be able to drag it into the driveway again.

Steven Has Been Evening

Mrs. HM had a good day scratching on Thursday. After doing the banking, she took herself to the Sis-Town Save A Lot. That's because she had just shopped at Country Mart on Tuesday, after picking up The Pony to deposit checks from the sale of the Double Hovel flip house(s). The items she wanted to purchase were available at Save A Lot, and the lottery machine was fresh.

Let the record show that Mrs. HM got a $100 winner on a $5 crossword from the Save A Lot machine. In fact, she had other winners that totaled $142. So sorry for Fave at the Gas Station Chicken Store, and Genius in Pittsburgh, for whom she also purchased tickets there. Sure, they MIGHT have won something. But the odds are against it.

Anyhoo... on Friday, Mrs. HM was a bit late in leaving for town. A surprise thunderstorm sparked up during her naptime, and the creeks were overflowing. THAT GUY who always takes her rightful handicap parking space was once again parked there. Mrs. HM hobbled through the rain, and almost fell twice when her right knee objected to the extra distance. The Gas Station Chicken Store was out of crossword scratchers! The old lady who bought 10 of the crosswords in front of Mrs. HM on Thursday had come back and bought the rest of the roll on Friday! 

Casey's had a fire engine on the lot with flashing lights. It was gone when Mrs. HM went back after a trip to 10Box, but there was a smell of gasoline in the air. At least the parking had cleared out, with the handicap space now available.

After scratching at home, Mrs. HM won a total of $10. On a $10 ticket. That's way off from her regular win percentage. Hopefully, the six tickets she bought for Farmer H to have on Father's Day will provide some winners...

Mrs. HM, Now More Careful What She Wishes For

The drive-thru at my bank has been open for several weeks now. I must say, it has been a long time coming. Since last October! I was virtually drunk with excitement upon learning this new development at the end of May. I have been utilizing that drive-thru since then.

Well. The novelty has worn off!

Thursday, I turned into the bank's entrance, and noticed a black SUV sitting behind the bank, in the area just before the three drive-thru lanes. I suppose it saw me coming, because it pulled into the lane nearest the windows. The first lane after the lane that allows cars from the ATM in the back wall of the building to pull through to the exit.

I chose the middle of the three lanes, because it's the easiest to leave and make a turn into the back alley to make my escape. I had my withdrawal slip ready. I took the canister, and put in the withdrawal slip and my driver's license. I don't know whose canister made it inside first, but the black SUV was technically there before I was.

I heard the teller greet someone. It didn't come out of my speaker. That was a few minutes later. "How would you like... oh, I see you've written how you want your bills. I'll have it in just a minute."

I thanked the teller, and waited. I heard her finish up with the black SUV. Heard the canister going through the tube. BUT WAIT! There was some problem. The black SUV lady had questions. The teller had answers. The tube made sucking and shooting sounds. The black SUV lady had thought something was sent, but wasn't. She had thought it was returned, but wasn't. I couldn't figure out what was going on. I only knew that it was taking up my time. We were the only two cars in the drive-thru.

FINALLY, after 20 minutes, the black SUV left. The teller thanked me for being so patient "...while I assisted that customer with her problem." She sent my cash and driver's license through the tube.

I would be incensed at the long wait, except that for 8 months I have been hobbling inside the lobby to stand and wait for my turn. I can sit for 20 minutes on my ample rumpus, listening to the radio. No bone fragments off my knees! The thought of standing in line waiting on this gal was enough make me tranquil though my drive-thru wait.

It's POOLIO Season

Farmer H is getting a late start on POOLIO this year. He normally starts the draining and refilling and spending billions of dollars on chemicals at the end of May. I guess he forgot to ask for help with the cover. Sometimes The Veteran comes out, sometimes it's The Pony, and I think Old Buddy has also assisted. 

I came home from town on Tuesday to find Farmer H out back on his tractor, using the scoop to lift off the cover. It was not a simple process. Looked like he was doing it in short segments. He had the black plastic cover strapped to the lift somehow, and he'd raise it a bit just over the edge, and then manipulate it a bit while standing there, so water drained out.

Farmer H had been pumping a lot of water off that cover for a week, a bit at a time in the evenings. It's an odd task that involves a big orange extension cord that is plugged in by the dogs' water bowls, with the other end down at ground level by POOLIO. I think this keeps Farmer H from having to go down through the basement and out the door every evening. Maybe he can just control it from the porch this way.

Anyhoo... as Farmer H was coming in from his tractoring of POOLIO, I heard Pupsie and little Jack scuffling under the kitchen window. It sounded like they had something, perhaps a cow skull. Then I saw Pupsie come around, as if to get a drink, and PICK UP THE ORANGE EXTENSION CORD. She stood with it in her  mouth, looking back for Jack.

PUPSIE! NO!!!

That made Pupsie drop the cord, and go back to wrestling with Jack. But then she went to the cord again, and picked it up.

PUPSIE! NO!!! 

She looked surprised, but again dropped the extension cord. By then, Farmer H was coming up the basement steps.

"Your dog is trying to eat your big orange extension cord."

"That stupid dog! I'll fix THAT."

Farmer H went out on the porch, and started pulling up the extension cord, coiling it around his elbow. I guess he got to the end where it was plugged into something, because it came loose, and he brough it into the house.

"There. Now she cain't get it. She's gonna electrocute herself."

"Well. That would solve the problem of Pupsie..."

"She's so stupid. I bet she'll jump right in the pool. She ain't like Jack. He loves the water, but he won't even come down the steps to the deck."

That's why Farmer H has a gate to block the steps to the deck. So our pets were never at risk. My Sweet, Sweet Juno used to go down and lie on the deck watching Farmer H "swim." But Jack would not.

I can't help thinking what a show it might be, if Pupsie jumps in, and tries to avoid Farmer H catching her in the water. They might start a whirlpool.

I Swear, They're Multiplying!

Once again, Mrs. HM's attempt to have an unremarkable scratcher-buying experience was thwarted by a ne'er-do-well usurper of her rightful handicap parking space at the Gas Station Chicken Store.

It was Monday afternoon, after a hard day of selling the Double Hovel flip house(s), and I wanted nothing more than a peaceful visit to my regular scratcher provider. Yet here was this car in my space. I looped around and pulled into the FREE AIR parking space. I thought this driver might be leaving. After all, her tail lights were lit up from her foot on the brake.

But no. I waited five minutes, running the air conditioning in T-Hoe. Despite looking like an overcast day in this photo, the temperature was low 80s. Maybe this gal was waiting on a passenger to return. There were only about 5 cars on the lot. It shouldn't take long. But it DID. 

Pay no attention to this gentleman striding in front of the car. He appeared while I was trying to get a picture of the license plate for shaming purposes. I first thought maybe he was her passenger, and that she'd be moving on. But no. I finally got out to start my painful trek inside.

I suppose it was considerate of this lady to be such a bad parker. I had room to cut between her car and the building, hobbling right over the handicap stencil on the pavement. As I did so, I peered inside her car. I may or may not have given her my former-teacher stinkeye. It was a white-haired old woman. Still, that did not excuse her. She had no handicap plate, nor placard, and she was JUST SITTING. Not on her phone, not doing anything. Just sitting in my rightful handicap space, with her foot on the brake.

As I rounded the corner of the building, SHE DROVE AWAY! Dagnabit! I could have had that space if I had waited indefinitely for her to leave. But wait! All she did was drive into one of the gas pump lanes! She got out with no noticeable handicap, before I even made it to the door.

I guess some people think those stencils on the pavement mean the space is a designated waiting area for those who are looking for access to a gas pump. It's not as if she had the whole entirety of the parking lot to sit in her car and wait... She didn't even have a view of all the pumps around the corner.

How Curious Is THIS?

"Let me answer for you," as I used to tell my students, who would look at me cluelessly when I asked a question about their lesson. 

A miracle must have happened! When I got home from town on Sunday evening, having passed Farmer H on his way home, the BEEP of the smoke detector had stopped. Yet I saw no sign of a ladder or stepladder! Also, Farmer H told me he didn't have a battery, but had taken down the smoke detector and turned it off.

"You already knew you didn't have a battery! You said you were going to get batteries today!"

"Oh. Well. I don't have no batteries."

We also didn't have batteries on Monday. Farmer H did not buy any. We had our closing on the Double Hovel flip house(s). So I was with Farmer H all afternoon. No mention of batteries. I looked for some at 10Box, but all they had were the regular round batteries, in size AA and AAA. No 9-volt, no C, no D. At least I was actively seeking a solution to the smoke detector issue. 

Oh, and Farmer H had the nerve to say,

"There's one in the basement going bad, too."

"I TOLD YOU THAT! I SAID I HEARD ANOTHER ONE!"

"Huh. Well. I didn't hear it. Until I was down in the basement."

I suppose Farmer H went to the basement to get the stepladder. Or else it was in Genius's room all along. Which is where it likely resides now, since the smoke detector is off the ceiling, and I know Farmer H can't reach it without a ladder.

I don't know why Farmer H can't just honestly respond to a situation.

That BEEPING Farmer H

Sunday morning, Farmer H opened up the bedroom door at 5:50 a.m., on his way to water the dogs and get his lunch packed for a day at his SUS2.5 (Storage Unit Store 2.5). As he entered the laundry room to get the water, I heard an unwelcome noise from the master bedroom.

BEEP!

You know what that means. Battery going dead in a smoke detector. There it was again.

BEEP!

That's the problem with a chirping smoke detector. You know there's gonna be another BEEP comin'. It's like waiting for the other shoe to drop. All day. Waiting for the entire inventory of a combat-boot-manufacturing factory to release one boot at a time from the top floor.

"Hey! Do you hear that? The smoke detector needs a battery."

"Oh, yeah. I don't have any batteries."

"Can you turn it off?"

"I ain't got no ladder in the house."

Pardon my almost-French, but that is one Not-Heaven of a lie! We always have a little stepladder thingy in the Mansion. My mom gave it to us. Kind of a cross between a stool and a ladder. I think it has three steps. It's metal, and folds out, with black rubber on the steps.

Farmer H must have known by my sigh and look of displeasure that I was onto him.

"Let me look in Genius's room. Maybe it's in there."

He walked over and opened the door.

"Nope. Maybe it's downstairs."

Farmer H took a half-hearted step towards the basement.

"Just forget it!"

"I'll get batteries, and do it when I get home."

"Sure. Can you at least close the door so I don't have to hear it so loud?"

"Yeah. I can do that."

I'm pretty sure Farmer H will "forget" to pick up batteries today. I'm also pretty sure he will find that little stepladder downstairs in his workshop.

Mrs. HM Can't Help But Feel Guilty

Farmer H grilled pork steaks on Friday evening. They were GREAT! Well, the half of one I had was great. And the Fred-Flintstone-sized slab that Farmer H had was great, according to him. It lapped over the big rectangle section of our yellow lunchroom tray, into the round section beside it. There's another one left for Farmer H to eat Saturday night, and three more halves for me!

Along with the pork steaks, we had hash brown potato casserole that I had frozen during our last holiday meal. It thawed out well. I added fresh cornflakes on top for crispiness when I warmed it in the oven. Also, I made garlic cheese bread.

THIS IS WHY I FEEL GUILTY!

We did not invite The Pony to come out. It was just an evening thing when Farmer H got home from his SUS2.5 and Friday evening bull-shooting session with his cronies. No desserts. No salad. Just pork steak, potatoes, and bread. The Pony only likes the bread. But The Pony REALLY, REALLY likes the bread.

I made the confession when talking to The Pony on Saturday.

"Was the bread good? I bet it was really good!"

"Yes, Pony. But I feel so bad that we didn't invite you. You don't like pork steaks, and you don't like the potatoes. So it was just us. But I still have half the loaf of French bread left! I plan to use it. I might make more of the garlic cheese bread on Sunday. I could bring you some when we pick you up to go to the closing on Monday for the flip house. You could run it in your house before we go."

"OR... I could just eat it on the way!"

Heh, heh! I suppose that's an option. To show up to the closing with garlic breath! I figure The Pony can put most of it in the house, and eat one slice on the way. I made six slices from the other half. Not sure how many of the new ones will survive Farmer H's appetite. At least The Pony will get a taste.

The Embitterment Of The Falsely Accused

Here we go again. Thursday morning, Farmer H reminded me that he hasn't been paid the cash he put out from "his own" stash of money that he used for payment on items for the flip houses. You may recall that there was a kerfuffle over this topic in March, when Farmer H claimed that I "lost" the piece of paper he gave me with his billing. Back then, it was discovered that such bill was NOT where Farmer H claimed to have put it. And that it was discovered by The Pony in another location.

Anyhoo... once again, I told Farmer H that I did NOT have that bill.

"I know you don't have the one for May. It's out in the truck. But I gave you the bill for April. You even told The Pony when he was out here for the BBQ."

"No. I told The Pony that I didn't have the bill yet for April. It was not yet the end of May, so of course I didn't have the bill for May. You NEVER GAVE ME the bill for April. I don't have it."

Farmer H gave his little chuckle. The one that means I am an idiot, and he is SO superior to me.

"I gave it to you. You just cain't remember nothin'!"

"I guess I'll look for it today. But I know I don't have it. That's why I told The Pony it wasn't ready. I wasn't talking about May, because it wasn't yet the end of May."

"I gave it to you!"

"We'll see..."

Farmer H left for town around 6:00 a.m. At 6:08 I got a text:

"Ok I was wrong I have April and May in my book I'll give them to you this evening"

"But I'M always wrong."

"I said I was wrong"

"I can read. Once again you don't see the pattern of the way you treat me."

Funny how I didn't get a response. But I DID get the bills for April and May. On my laptop Friday morning, the coward not daring to hand them to me or mention them, just dropping them there on his way out the door at 6:00 a.m.

A Slip Of The Lip, Or A True Confession?

Farmer H said he would be gone all day on Wednesday, to Illinois to buy merchandise for his SUS2.5 (Storage Unit Store 2.5). That he would be eating lunch there around 2:00 at his favorite restaurant, so wouldn't need any supper. Well. You know how THAT goes. Farmer H was home by 4:00, and said he would find something to eat for himself.

I DID ask Farmer H later if he had eaten lunch, and he said, "No." When I asked why not, he suddenly remembered that he DID have lunch, at a Chinese buffet. Such a selective memory, until interrogated...

Anyhoo... I was just leaving for town, and told Farmer H that there were hot dogs in FRIG II if he wanted them for supper. He said that yeah, he would have a hot dog later. Let the record show that he usually eats supper around 6:00 or 6:30.

I was home from town by 5:00. Getting a snack to have with my Shasta Zero Sugar and lemon. I offered some to Farmer H.

"I'm slicing some of your Oberle Cheese that is six months old now. I can get some for you if you want."

Heh, heh. Gracious Mrs. HM, offering to cut the cheese for Farmer H!

"No. That's okay. I ate while you were gone."

Well. That is curious. He ate at a Chinese buffet around 2:00, but needed two hot dogs and chips for supper between 4:00 and 5:00. Farmer H is unpredictable.

Anyhoo... on Thursday, Farmer H was having hot dogs again, because he said he didn't want me to get him a big salad from Country Mart. He got home late, around 6:30, and put his hot dogs in the microwave. While he was getting chips, I heard those hot dogs sizzling and popping.

"I don't think hot dogs should sound like that!"

"They're fine, HM. I'm cooking them just like I did yesterday while you were gone. For an hour and 15 minutes. Um--"

"THAT explains it!"

"No. I meant to say for a minute and 15 seconds."

"I really wouldn't be surprised if you actually cooked them for an hour and 15 minutes."

Farmer H acted like it was a joke. I suppose he just misspoke. I was only gone for an hour that day, so I guess the evidence points to a slip of the tongue.