Sometimes I Think Farmer H Does This On Purpose

Farmer H does not communicate in a manner that I find logical. He will make a statement that leaves out pertinent details, and expect me to know what he's talking about. This week he had to fix a leaking sink for one of the elderlies at the Senior Center. He was telling me about it that morning.

"Yeah, we'll go by and fix the sink for the 88-year-old gal. Then I have to put in a garage door for Agnes [not real name]."

"Who in the Not-Heaven is Agnes?"

"The old lady. The one who bought the QuickFlip house. But she's paying me for that."

"You can put in a GARAGE DOOR?"

"Yes. It's just like any other door. A door in her garage."

"You mean like a people door?"

"Yeah. A door to go in and out of her garage."

Well of course. Because any time I hear "garage door" I automatically think of a regular door going in and out of a garage. NOT. That's why in my boring tales of my travels to town, and my adoring fleabags, I always specify "people door" when I talk about the entrance/exit to the garage, rather than the big segmented door that raises and lowers to allow T-Hoe egress and ingress.

I swear Farmer H does this on purpose, so he can tell me I'm wrong, and I don't know nothin'. Then again, maybe he just thinks everybody's brain works like his. What a scary thought!

If This Tune Sounds Familiar...

It's because Mrs. HM wails this song every other month. Feel free to tune up your world's smallest violin and accompany me. A rousing jam session. Just one more service Mrs. HM provides. Unlike THE ELECTRIC COMANY, which lately seems to provide very little in the service arena.

Once again, the electric bills for our flip houses have gone awry. You may recall that in January, all three bills arrived in a timely manner. Two of the payments were received in a timely manner. But one went missing. Missing for several weeks. It was paid online on the due date. Then the check arrived a week or two after that. So we double-paid, but got a credit on the next bill.

Yes, the February bills came on time. All three of the flip house electric bills in one giant 8 x 12 white envelope. Different from the two electric bills for Farmer H's storage unit stores, and the two bills (Mansion and BARn) for our home, which come in regular business size envelopes, always on time. I don't know how there can be such an issue so often. 

On Friday, Farmer H sent me a text. He'd received an email that the Bargain House electric bill was due on April 3. I did not get such a notice, though I get them on all other of these seven accounts. I went online to pay, since we didn't have a bill. I checked through my checkbook register, and saw that I had also not paid the other two flip houses, because we never got a bill! Bills for these flips usually come between the 20th-22nd of the month, all due on the 3rd. I paid those two online as well.

Monday the 31st, we got the three bills for the flip houses, all in one giant white envelope. Our mail comes in the afternoon. The earliest we could have mailed back a check would be April 1st. Hoping for it to arrive and be credited by April 3rd. I'm pretty sure that would not happen.

These statements are dated March 13. So it took 18 days for the electric company to get these bills to us. I seriously doubt that was a problem of the USPS. The February payments were mailed on the 20th, and received by the electric company on the 26th, with a weekend in between those dates. Something is fishy about the way the electric company is sending out these bills. It's like they are hoping to charge people for a late fee.

Yes. I know my song is a broken record. No. I will NOT allow the electric company access to my bank account to draw out money for automatic payments. I'm not about to try dealing with that when we sell these flip houses, and want to stop automatic payments. It's a giant hassle of trying to get a real person on the phone at both the bank and the electric company, and then HOPING they do their job right.

I'll just keep singing this song, next verse, same as the first, and making a "guest" payment online when the bills don't arrive. I really prefer a check, for record-keeping purposes, especially on these flip houses. If the electric company can mess up paper statements, a billing method which has been used for decades, who's to say they won't mess up their electronic data as well?

One Way Or Another, I'm Still Pretty Sure

For a short time, I thought maybe the efforts had stopped. That perhaps Farmer H was NOT trying to kill me. Nah! I'm pretty sure he's just developed more subtle tactics.

Thursday I bought the lunch treats that Farmer H likes to take to his SUS2.5 (Storage Unit Store 2.5) on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. They are little slider-size sandwiches that come in boxes, as part of the 5-for-$25 deal at Country Mart. Farmer H likes all three kinds: chicken, spicy chicken, and cheeseburger. You never know which kind will be available. Sometimes all three, so he gets a selection. For the past two weeks, I could only find the plain chicken. But this time, the cheeseburgers were available.

These little sandwiches are wrapped two to a pack, inside the box, in clear cellophane. The cheeseburgers come three packs to a box, the chicken contains four packs. Anyhoo... boxes take up a lot of room in the freezer. So I take out the packs and wedge them into space between other foods.

I opened up a box of cheeseburgers at the cutting block, to put them in FRIG II's freezer in the kitchen, rather than the mini chest freezer in the laundry room. As I reached down into the end of the box, to get the last pack, the flap caught my arm. That was a mess!

I felt the stab, so I noticed right away, and found a bandaid so I didn't get the leaking blood all over my town shirt. It's not like I needed a tourniquet. I was in no danger of exsanguinating. It's just annoying and messy.

Also, I have been dealing with healing this bruise on my other arm. I whacked it on a doorknob about a week ago. I really hate to go to town in short sleeves lately, heh, heh!

When he built our Mansion, Farmer H put French door handles on all the interior doors. You know, the long kind, with a little curlicue on the end. Not something practical for a household with a 2-year-old and a soon-to-be born baby Pony. With a regular round doorknob, you can at least put those plastic covers over them for child-proofing. But not with a lever there to be yanked. Anyhoo... Farmer H sometimes does not open the bedroom door completely against the wall when he comes out in the morning. So in the afternoon, when I come out after showering for town, I misjudge that partially open door, and whack my arm on the handle.

Good thing I'm not still taking that devil-drug Xarelto, the blood-thinner they gave me after my blood clots incident. Aspirin is bad enough, but I might actually exsanguinate from these Farmer H-caused injuries if still taking Xarelto.

So crafty, that Farmer H, seeing into the future and setting his traps 27 years in advance.

Hillmomba Takes A Pounding

We expected rain on Sunday. Farmer H would have gladly grilled some of our leftover frozen sausage patties. But I told him I saw rain was forecast. So we put the grilling off for a few days, in favor of meat loaf. We don't regularly watch the local news and weather. If Farmer H has some work planned on the outside of a flip house, he checks his phone in the morning for the forecast. So we had no idea that actual STORMS were headed our way.

I was sitting at the kitchen table with HIPPIE around noon. The sun was shining. I even took a picture of Farmer H's newest addition to the back porch. Scarcely had I sat down from doing so than the skies darkened. The wind picked up. And HAIL STARTED POUNDING ON THE MANSION!

This was a bit scary. The trees were whipping around, and the sky got dark as dusk. I did NOT want to open the kitchen door when I saw that the hail was coming down at a 45-degree angle. That hail was the size of hazelnuts. 

There it is, on the back porch outside the kitchen door. Sorry for the view through the window shades, but I was not opening that door.

When I looked out the other window at POOLIO, the water was churning like a bubbling hot tub! So much hail.

That's an even worse view, but you can see hail on the porch rail, and lining the edge of POOLIO. It apparently did not hurt the frogs who currently reside in that location, peeping and peeping all the live-long night.

When I left for town around 4:45, later than usual, having waited for the storms to pass, I saw remnants of the hail, even though the temperature was 75 degrees.

The road to town was covered with twigs and bits of pine needles. The trees took a beating from that hail. It smelled wonderful, though, the scent of pine. 

The skies were darkening again. I only made two stops for my scratchers. No grocery shopping. It was starting to sprinkle before I returned to the Mansion. Our power went off FIVE TIMES between 5:30 and 6:00. Thankfully, it kept coming back on, though making us reset the microwave clock, and wait for the DISH satellite to reload its info so the TV could play. The electricity had only gone off once during the noontime storm, and came right back.

Farmer H said that probably a tree limb got blown onto a wire in the first round, and then when the wind started up again, it kept shutting off the power, but whatever system the electric company has as backup (I don't always listen to Farmer H's details) allowed the power to come right back on.

We will have to check our metal roof for damages. Not a good thing, since Farmer H just switched our homeowner's insurance to a new company a month or two ago. If we have a claim, they might raise our rates to the same as our insurance company of 35 years. I was against this change to begin with. I hope it doesn't bite us on the rumpus.

A Tentative Plan For Pupsie's Very Special Operation

Pupsie is barely any tamer than when Scarlett first stole her. Pupsie WILL come close to me, and will sniff the back of my hand, and allow my finger to tickle her jowl. That's it. Well. She will snatch a half-slice of bread from my hand. Not a dainty eater, that Pupsie. She shies away from Farmer H, but will also snatch bread from his hand as well.

Pupsie is probably five or six months old now. She needs her very special operation. The problem is CATCHING Pupsie to get her to the vet. Of course you need an appointment for that. Farmer H stopped by the newest vet this week. The office is only five miles from here, just past Mick the Mechanic's shop, on the road going to the bowling alley.

"I went in and told her the problem we have catching Pupsie. I asked if she had some kind of medicine I could buy, to give Pupsie so she wouldn't be nervous. Like a tranquilizer. The vet said she had some, but didn't think it would work well enough. Said it might just make her a little drowsy. I said I could probably catch Pupsie with a fishing net and get her there in a pet carrier."

"Well, that's not good! She'll be scared to death. She'll probably bite, trying to get away."

"Yeah. And tear up my fishing net! Anyway, I made an appointment for May 8th. I have to get Pupsie there by 7:45. Maybe by then she'll let me pet her. I thought about getting some good meaty treats."

"Between now and then, you need to spend 15-30 minutes a day sitting out on the porch with Pupsie and Jack. Have the carrier there. You can't just bring it out on the day you want to catch her. She'll be suspicious. So you sit out there on that chair on the side porch, petting Jack. Pupsie will hang around. I'll get some hot dogs and cut them up. Every now and then, you feed a piece to Jack. Pupsie will come over snooping around. Don't try to feed her out of your hand! Drop it real close to you. Have that carrier with the door open, where you can slam it shut on the day you need to catch her. Toss a piece of hot dog in there. Even if Jack goes to get it, Pupsie will be greedy, and try it herself when she sees nothing happens to Jack. Does she have to not eat before her operation? Maybe you can toss a hot dog in there on that morning, and slam the door when she's inside. That's all I know to suggest."

"It might work. We'll see how it goes. I might go back to the vet and ask for that medicine to try."

"It's not like you can catch Pupsie the night before and keep her in the carrier. She'll be too scared, and she'll have to pee and poop in the carrier. Too bad you can't take Jack along to the appointment. That might calm her down. She gets frantic if he's out in the back yard when I come home and it's time for treats. She wants Jack up on the porch with her. She runs out to get him."

"I could try that."

"You'd probably need Old Buddy to help you. Jack is not good at walking on a leash. I don't think you could handle both of them, with Pupsie in a carrier. And Jack might pick a fight with other dogs there. Make sure you tell the vet people that Pupsie will probably be scared and bite. So they can put a muzzle on her."

"We'll make something work. Maybe not the first time..."

How do you solve a problem like our Pupsie?

The Pony Is Back!

Around 2:00 on Friday, I got a text from Farmer H:

"Pony wants to meet so he can use my phone to get one ordered so be late coming home"

That was good news. Around 4:30, when I was in town, I got a text from our phone service provider:

"You have successfully linked this phone number to your [phone company] ID. If unauthorized, call xxx-xxx-xxxx. This phone number on your billing account was linked to your ID. If this charge was unauthorized, call or log in to adjust your line permissions."

Well. I would think that with our three phone numbers being on this same account, we would all have permission to use it. I know that I've added Farmer H and The Pony to this account before. I don't know what that gave them permission to do. Get a SIM card, I suppose.

Anyhoo... 45 minutes later, I got another text that me or my authorized user had entered into a finanancing agreement that may impact my monthly bill. And to call if it was not authorized. That's the thing. There are better bargains if you pay monthly rather than buy the phone outright. I don't like that. We have always preferred to get it over with, and not drag it out. Genius used to order our phones, and "jailbreak" them, and get them set up.

Anyhoo... five minutes later, I got another text that a SIM for The Pony's number had been updated. That was curious, but I knew they were dealing with the phone, so didn't worry.

Turns out The Pony had ordered the new phone using Farmer H's. Farmer H drove The Pony over to Bill-Paying Town to get the phone from the phone store. The Pony needed a new SIM to get his to transfer all his data. Usually we have that done in the store, but The Pony said he could do it at home, setting the two phones side by side. It took about 90 minutes, so I'm glad Farmer H didn't have to wait in the store for the staff to do it.

ANYHOO... The Pony has a new phone! We had a 15-minute chat Friday evening. Such a relief that we are now back in the communication loop! As with his last phone, The Pony will pay us monthly for his portion of the bill. All is well in Hillmomba once more.

The Universe Deals Sharply With Mrs. HM

What in the Not-Heaven? Mrs. HM is a pretty good egg. If you were to take a peek at her permanent record, you would see that she has never been a ne'er-do-well. In fact, she's been a mostly-do-well. She gives to charity. Holds her tongue. Is polite even to people who don't deserve it. She may not give the shirt off her back to somebody (no one wants to see THAT), but she has been known to give a dollar here and there to 10:00 a.m. alcoholics, and afternoon vapers. Short of refusing to be bullied by that soda-buying grouch into giving up her rightful place in line at the Gas Station Chicken Store, Mrs. HM's behavior recently has been exemplary. For her altruistic efforts, The Universe rewarded Mrs. HM by

SLICING OPEN HER RIGHT INDEX FINGER ON MONDAY NIGHT!

All I wanted was some microwave popcorn. Blast-O-Butter. It's delicious. Takes 2.5 minutes to pop. A nice treat after a week of working on taxes, and paying seven electric bills, and figuring out The Pony's share of flip house expenses. Not to mention making supper for Farmer H, and washing dishes by hand.

I put the bag of popcorn (seeds) into the microwave. Set the timer. Stood and watched, because what else can you do for 2.5 minutes besides lay out Farmer H's vitamin for the next morning? I watched the timer count down. Heard the popping slow. Opened the microwave door, and opened the bag to pour into my bowl. Mrs. HM is not an animal! She does not eat the popcorn right out of the buttery bag.

But no! That bag wouldn't open! I held it by the opposite corners as usual. They wouldn't pull! I tried the other two opposite corners. Nope. I needed to do something fast, before that popcorn burned in the hot bag. I saw a little crack along the top seam. I put my right finger in that slit to widen it. I knew to be careful, because hot steam (as opposed to cold steam, heh, heh) was coming out.

OUCH!

I thought I had burned my finger on the steam. I tried harder, and made a little (bigger) opening. Then the corners worked when I pulled them apart. I poured my popcorn into the bowl. My finger was really smarting. I looked. There was a CUT across my fingertip. Perpendicular to the nail. Blood seeped out. I grabbed a Puffs With Lotion off the counter to staunch the flow.

Do you know how painful it is to eat popcorn with an open cut on your finger? I hope you never find out. The Universe rubbed salt in Mrs. HM's wound! Actually, I rubbed salt into my own wound. But I really wanted that popcorn. I didn't so much want to wash dishes the next morning, or run my damaged finger through my shampooed hair, but I did. Still hurt. As does typing on HIPPIE's keyboard. None of which give me as much pleasure as that buttery popcorn.

The Saga Continues On Finding The Pony

The Pony was last heard from Monday evening, on Facebook, by Farmer H. He was going to come out on Wednesday morning at 9:00 to use my phone to order a new phone. That's because it had to be done through a text that would be sent when placing the order. A text. Which The Pony's phone cannot currently send or receive.

I got off the short couch earlier than usual. Didn't get my regular snoozing done when Farmer H left the Mansion at 6:15. I washed the dishes and turned on HIPPIE and waited. And waited. I thought maybe The Pony was running late. Had overslept, maybe. Or stopped for gas. At 9:46 I called Farmer H.

"The Pony still hasn't arrived. I guess he's okay."

Thinking, you know, that maybe Farmer H could hop in SilverRedO and drive less than two miles from Bargain House to Pony House, just to see if The Pony's car was still in the driveway. Maybe knock if it was, in case he was still asleep. I know The Pony really wants to get this phone issue solved, and Wednesday is his day off to do that.

"I'm sure he's okay." Said Farmer H. 

Back to waiting. At 10:18, I had to take a bathroom break from all that waiting! On the way, I heard my phone get something. I figured it was just a junk email, which I'd been getting all morning, along with two scammy calls I didn't answer. When I returned to the kitchen, I checked my phone. 

There was an email from The Pony, saying that he'd sent Farmer H a message that hadn't been read. And that he remembered his phone could still email, and it would go to my phone. The Pony had a migraine, and didn't feel like driving out to the Mansion. 

That was a relief, to know what was going on. Except that the email was sent at 9:48, and didn't get to my phone until 10:18. I called Farmer H, and told him that apparently The Pony had sent him a message that he hadn't bothered to check. Farmer H said he didn't hear it come in. But was relieved to know why The Pony was missing.

At 10:32 I got a text from Farmer H, saying his message just came through.

"Our phones are crap! But at least they're better than The Pony's!" 

To which Farmer H agreed. 

The Pony Once Was Found, But Now He's Lost

Imagine my relief on Monday evening, when I was getting Farmer H's supper ready, and my phone rang. It was The Pony! I could hear someone talking in the background.

"I came to the phone store to see if they could fix my SIM card. First the guy tried taking it out and putting it back in, like I did. He tried all the same stuff as me. Then he finally gave up and put in a new SIM card. He said to make a call and try it, and I wanted to call you!"

"Wow! Good to know that I'm your one phone call, heh, heh! I guess I'd bail you out. So it works now. If you need to go, I understand."

"No. The guy heard me talking to you, and gave me a thumbs up, saying 'It works! You're good.' So now I'm in the car."

"Are you going to have supper while you're over there?"

"Probably. Where should I go? I can't decide. Steak N Shake? CiCi's Pizza? That Chinese buffet I like?"

"I can't decide for you. If it was me, it would be Chinese. But you order that a lot. You really like Steak N Shake. But at CiCi's, you can have pizza and pasta and salad and dessert."

"Yeah. I've had Steak N Shake the most recently. So I guess I'll toss a coin for the other two. I can send you pictures of what I have."

"Okay. That sounds good. I'm so relieved that you got your phone fixed!"

Oh, how lovely was that scenario. Until...

Farmer H got a message on his phone about 15 minutes later. 

"It's Pony. His phone ain't working again. He has to get a new one, but to order one, he has to do it through a link they send in a text. He said he'll have to use one of our phones, and walk us through it."

"I don't know why! He's on the account. He should be able to do it himself, on his own phone."

"He cain't do that! His phone won't get texts! He can look it up and pick out a phone, but he can't order without having a phone to get texts. I cain't believe that store don't have phones in stock."

"Maybe they don't have the kind of phone Pony wants. He's had this one about four years now. They're not going to stock a phone that old."

"Pony says he'll come out Wednesday morning and use your phone to order one it that's okay with you."

"Okay. I'm always here." 

So now we're still waiting for The Pony to return to the land of communication. He can message on Facebook, but can't call or text. Good thing cell phones weren't used to put men on the moon...

Missing The Pony

All day Sunday, I kept meaning to send The Pony info on the sale of the QuickFlip House, to have for filing taxes. The Pony also got a check at closing last year, and needs his half of the amount we spent on renovations to include against the profit. I never did get around to it.

Farmer H came home from his SUS2, and said

"I tried to call The Pony, but the line was busy. Every Sunday on my way home, I call and talk. But I couldn't get through."

"Line busy? Does that happen with a cell phone? I can't imagine The Pony talking to anybody. It wasn't me. He doesn't like to talk on the phone. Even to order things. He does it online. And goes by the doctor's office, rather than calling. His generation is like that."

"Huh. This is The Pony now. He messaged me. Said he's not ignoring me, but that his phone has been acting weird today. It won't make or get calls. And it won't get texts. It keeps saying "NO SIM CARD." I guess he sent me this on his computer. He says he'll keep trying to fix it, but he might have to wait until Wednesday and take it to the phone store down in Bill-Paying Town."

Well. At least I knew that I probably couldn't call The Pony on Monday morning at 6:00. 

I tried. Went straight to voice mail. I told Farmer H.

"How did you get a busy signal? Mine just went straight to voice mail."

"Oh. Yeah. That's what mine did when I tried to call."

Poor Pony. He uses his phone all day during work. At least he has the work scanner to communicate with the office, I suppose. I don't know the details. He sent Farmer H another message around 6:10, saying that if he was still home, to tell me not to worry, that he was up and getting ready for work.

I don't like being out of touch with The Pony.

Something Triggers Nightmarish Couch Dreams For Mrs. HM

What in the Not-Heaven? I nodded off Sunday morning after Farmer H left for his SUS2 business. I was sitting on the short couch. I'd already been up and taken my thyroid medicine. Looks like my NP did indeed lower the prescription with my refill request. I'm not sure if that's what sent me into Nightmarish Land, or something totally unrelated. No food or drink since the night before.

First of all, I was a senior on a school trip. We were put into groups randomly, and assigned different cars to ride in. My assignment was the back of a motorcycle! With a daredevil blond gal driving! And she was doing wheelies on the highway!

Next, I was teaching in a classroom. A classroom with tables instead of desks, in a U shape. Two boys at the back left kept putting their heads together. I knew them! Old students of mine who were not very compliant. They were both wearing hoodies. Two boys on the front right kept talking over me. The Hoodies would snicker about something private, and then a cloud of smoke puffed out around their heads! I was pretty irritated, and hollered at the group to shut up, and I used the word friggin'. Which I figured would surely get me fired.

From there, I went into a bar. Only one other customer: a Hoodie kid. Behind the bar, tending, was an old colleague of whom I was not too fond. She greeted me politely, and I realized they were having a trivia contest, which I really love playing. I momentarily thought of staying, burying the hatchet with Hoodie, but then decided, aw Not-Heaven no! So I left.

Once outside, I had help hailing a cab from a tall Slender Man character dressed like Uncle Sam. I set my purse down to get into the back seat, assisted by Uncle Sam. When I turned to reach for my purse, it was gone! There was a family of three, with a little girl about ten. I could see a bulge under her coat. "You took my purse, didn't you! Give it back!" She shook her head, but my purse fell out. Her dad picked it up to hand to me, saying "It's all cracked anyway." Then I saw The Pony standing there on the curb waiting to get in. He just shrugged his shoulders, like he hadn't been watching my purse.

And that's it! Not a lot of terror, but the stuff nightmares are made of. I had a real nightmare a couple nights ago. I was standing high up on a little platform jutting out from an old rock wall. Below was a flat Olympic-size pool of water, but it was inside in a courtyard. A big crowd was looking up. Other people started jumping from their platform into the water. I was afraid. I hate heights and water. I threw off the performance. They were giving me a three-minute countdown to jump. I thought the water wasn't deep enough. I jumped, but then was immediately "backstage" looking for my fancy ball gown. I kept getting turned away from every room. Like they were stalling, and not giving me my dress, because they were firing me from my job due to not jumping. The worst part? I was following Megan Markle around, and she was beautiful and kind! That is NOT how I think of Megan Markle! I think she's a scammer who told lies about the royal family, and I question whether her kids are even real!

Anyhoo... be glad you're not living inside Mrs. HM's twisted head!

Like A Dog With A Bone, I Tell You

Again with Farmer H and his stories. This one is not so much a story as another instance of his confusing way of giving directions or explaining locations. He keeps trying to make it happen. Won't let go.

Farmer H was going to a new auction Saturday night. He didn't know if he would come home for supper first, or just go there from his SUS2 after 5:00.

"Where is this auction? I haven't heard you talk about it before."

"It's in Sis-Town. Across from the old drugstore."

"Um. That is the apartment building with the coffee shop on the ground floor."

"Not that building. The one next to it."

"The municipal parking lot is next to it."

"Past that! It's the old Shriner's building."

"I've never heard of a Shriner's building."

"Maybe the Masonic Hall."

"You mean the building where that alternative church meets?"

"It's the building next to your credit union. They have church in the basement, and use the top for events."

"Oh. You could have just said the building next to my credit union..."

"Well, it IS across the street from the old drugstore!"

"I guess my credit union is, too."

I hope Farmer H never has to call 911 to get emergency help for me, and give them directions to my location!

How Has This Man Survived This Long

You'd think I've run out of ways to be puzzled by Farmer H's behavior. But you'd be wrong. Every day is something new. Some weird detail that a normal person would never imagine to use in daily life. Especially a normal person of Farmer H's years.

Thursday night, we had chicken tenders for supper, picked up at Country Mart on my errand day. There were seven chicken tenders in the clear plastic deli box. I told Farmer H that I was warming four of them for him, and then I'd have the other three later.

I made some spicy mustard sauce in a ramekin for Farmer H. The Pony showed me how when he first moved back from college. It's delicious! Garlic aioli, brown mustard, mayo, yellow mustard, horseradish. The first two ingredients are equal parts, but the other three vary every time I make it. I don't measure, just put in enough to fill the ramekin. Then stir it up with a fork to mix everything. Mmm!

Farmer H also had some slaw with his chicken tenders, but didn't want anything else. When he brought his plate to the kitchen, he held the ramekin under running cold water. Duh!

"Just set that in the sink and fill it with water! It's not going to rinse clean. It has MAYO in it! I'll use hot water later, or wait until I do the dishes."

Of course in doing that, Farmer H managed to get pieces of the batter that fell off in the dipping sauce rinsed down into my sink drain for me to clean out. But THAT is not what surprised me. That's an old trick that Farmer H won't unlearn.

"I couldn't eat all of them. Do you want me to leave this one for you?"

"If you couldn't eat four, I don't think I'll eat four. Just put it in a baggie."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Farmer H getting the baggie from the bottom corner cabinet next to the sink. I wasn't really paying attention. I was still scratching my lottery tickets. This was around 6:30.

At 8:30, I got up to start making my own delicious spicy mustard sauce. I turned on the oven to warm it for my chicken tenders. And I saw, sitting beside the sink, that lone chicken tender in a baggie!

"What in the Not-Heaven? WHY would you put that extra chicken tender in a baggie, and LEAVE IT ON THE COUNTER?"

"Huh. I guess I just forgot."

How can he get so distracted, from putting a tender in a baggie, setting it down, then turning to go directly to FRIG II for his nightly dessert of a Little Debbie Fudge Round? It's not like an emergency called him away. He was headed to FRIG II from the sink. 

I don't know how Farmer H has lived this long without poisoning himself, or being murdered by someone he tried (or didn't) to poison!

Recollections May Vary, Especially When Farmer H Points The Finger

A domestic war nearly broke out in Hillmomba on Wednesday night. I was talking to Farmer H about putting The Pony's house payment in our credit union, and his half of the flip expenses in our bank. I reminded Farmer H that he had not yet given me the February list of cash expenses he pays Old Buddy for work, and the "bargain" materials he gets.

"I gave it to you! On Sunday when The Pony was here to grill steaks! You was sittin' at the table, with Pony drinkin', and I laid it down. You got all mad and moved it!"

"I don't remember that at all! If I moved it, I would have put it in the box with all the house stuff. I just looked through that this morning for taxes, and all that was there was the January list."

This went back and forth, with Farmer H having a fit that he's out all that money because he can't remember what he spent. And me having a fit that we need those records for the house and future taxes. Farmer H huffed off to bed after The Amazing Race. I went to look again in that box. Nope. Not in that box. Not in the other box (we have a lot of documents from our flips!) on the chair.

Then I got to thinking about Sunday, and when Farmer H got home. I sure let him hear about it Thursday morning.

"You could not have given me that February list the way you said! I was not even sitting at the kitchen table when you came in. I was halfway through the kitchen, on my way to the bathroom. The Pony said, "Oh! Dad's home!" and I said, "NOOO! He's too early!" That's when you got mad and asked me what I meant about too early. I said we had just gotten done with his checks, and didn't have any time to talk yet."

"No. I put the list on the table, and you complained about it being on the end, so I moved it over to the other side."

"I don't think so. Because I would have put it in the box. That's where I always put the list. Why would The Pony have announced that you were here, if I was sitting right there and could see you come in?"

"I don't know. But I put that list on the table."

"Did you move it, or did I move it? I wasn't sitting there!"

"Yes you were."

"No. I was on my way to the bathroom, and I hollered to Pony, "Make your dad's drink." And when I came out of the bathroom, you were sitting in your recliner, and The Pony was handing you a drink."

"I cut out that list from my tablet with my knife. In the truck. And I brought it in with my list for my business. I took it down to the basement to leave it with my stuff there. And you went back to the kitchen and moved the list then."

"So you saw me from your recliner? You can see out the back of your head and around the corner, to see me moving a list you left on the table?"

"Well, I was in the basement."

"I don't know if you went to the basement or not. All I know is that I did not see you put a list on the table, and I don't remember moving a list off the table, and at the time I came out of the bathroom, you were sitting in your chair."

"I could have been. It don't take me long to go down in the basement and come back."

Farmer H went to search the basement. He came up with his business list. Then he went to search the kitchen. He returned with the February list!

"It was right there!"

"Where? In the box? I looked all through it! There's only January, and some insurance papers from when you switched our homeowners."

"No. It was on the floor. See? I told you!"

"On the floor where?"

"Behind them totes."

"Totes?"

"Them things! Them containers you use for Chex!"

"On the stool by the wall? Behind my chair? Why would it be there?"

"I don't know. That's where I found it."

"So my arms reach backwards? Did you see me do that while sitting in here?"

"SOMEBODY moved it! I put it on the table."

"Maybe The Pony moved it. While I was in the bathroom."

"I don't know. But I DID lay it on the table."

Farmer H is like a dog with a bone. He will not give up on a story that can only be true HIS way. I asked The Pony about it on our phone call. The Pony did not remember what happened with the list. He DID say that I was indeed not in the kitchen when Farmer H came home.

"He MIGHT have put the list on the table? But you were going to the bathroom. I made Dad's drink. I don't remember moving the list or you moving the list. But as you recall, I had been drinking rum and Coke."

Whatever. We have the list for me to deal with now. In fact, I had just told The Pony on Wednesday morning, when he dropped by to pick up his forgotten computer mouse, that I didn't have the February list yet to give him the February expenses. He made no mention of the February list at that time.

I'm not so sure that Farmer H didn't lay that list on the Chex containers when he came in, and it fell to the floor. Of course with no witnesses, Farmer H would never admit such a thing.

Mrs. HM, Gladly Keeping People Employed By Requiring Their Services Twice A Year

It happens every year. I know there's one vital piece of information that will be required on my tax form. It can only be found at our financial advisor's office. Every year, when we go to the required hour-long meeting in October, I write down that vital piece of information. It's called the RMD. The Required Minimum Distribution. It's an amount that MUST be withdrawn from a retirement account during the year, or you'll face a penalty. It's different every year.

I always take out the RMD. A little extra, usually, to offset the taxes that I have withheld. So I don't have to worry about getting a penalty. I have a record in my checkbook register of how much I get, when it's deposited in my account. And the amount I withdrew is on the tax form I get from the investment company. But that RMD is elusive.

Oh, there are tables on the IRS website. But I don't know what kind of retirement plan I have, regarding the tax lingo numbers and letters. So every March, I make that call to the secretary for the RMD amount. She's quite congenial and efficient.

I'm helping them, really! Helping the secretary and our tax advisor stay employed! An appointment every October, and a phone call every March.

Mrs. HM is a giver like that.

Nevermind that a few minutes after I entered the requested information on my tax form, I looked in my checkbook register for property tax information, and FOUND WHERE I HAD WRITTEN DOWN THE RMD AMOUNT. You know. Because I was SURE I would be able to find it at tax time.

Mrs. HM Is Not The Brightest Bulb In The Bathroom

I was on my way to the bathroom when our power outage struck at 5:45 on Friday.

"Oh, great. Now I can't even flush. I'll save it for when I REALLY need it! Now I won't even be able to see."

"It's still light out. You can leave the door open."

"I'm NOT leaving the door open! My little flashlight is in here. Wait! It's NOT here! Where's my little red flashlight? I swear, I left it in here since the last time the power was out."

"There's this big red flashlight out here on the table."

"No! Not that one. It's huge and heavy!"

"Well, it looks pretty dim anyway. It won't last long."

"That's because you never check the batteries. That one probably takes four of the big ones."

Anyhoo... I closed the bathroom door. It's a small bathroom, between the boys' bedrooms. Not like I could get lost. I know where everything is. My business in there was simple.

When I got back the kitchen table, still with natural light coming in through the windows, with which to navigate... I saw my little red flashlight at the end of the table, behind Farmer H's Route 66 fake gas pump keyholder thingy, which he has never bothered to put anywhere else.

"Found my little red flashlight! So now I can take it with me."

This was not actually the little red flashlight that I was thinking about. The other was a bit fatter. It was part of a six-pack of mini flashlights that I got several years ago, to give at Christmas in everyone's stocking. A red and green were left. The green one is probably still down in my dark basement lair. I'll figure out where the original red one is one of these days, when I least expect it. Anyhoo... these are LED lights. They are handy in a power outage. This particular one came from our credit union, so I suspect it was a giveaway at the annual dinner one year.

Luckily, our power came back on within an hour. The next time I made a trip to the bathroom, I had regular light. That's when I looked at the sink, and saw:

A flashlight had been there all along! Just not the flashlight I'd been looking for. 

Sometimes, Mrs. HM is a bit of an idiot. And not the savant kind.

Oh, How Mrs. HM Wishes She Was Commissioner Of The Bad-Driver Police

I made three stops in town on Monday. Each one included a bad driver. What are the odds??? It's like Mrs. HM is a magnet for these rumpusholes!

When I came out of the Gas Station Chicken Store, I passed a person walking in from the direction I had parked T-Hoe in my rightful handicap space. This man was late 30s/early 40s. No sign of any affliction that would make him differently-abled. 

When I got to T-Hoe, I saw only one other vehicle on that side of the building. A red pickup truck, fairly new. It was parked BESIDE T-Hoe. That's the driving lane, people. Not a parking space of any kind. It blocks access to the diesel gas pumps, and a way out of the lot.

As I was climbing into T-Hoe, a white sedan drove around the other side of the diesel pumps, to get to the FREE AIR hose in front of T-Hoe. The guy had his window down as he pulled in with his nose towards the air hose. He was rassen-frassen to his woman in the passenger seat. I'm pretty sure it was about the rumpushole parked in the driving lane.

At my next stop, the Casey's across the moat, I could not access my rightful handicap space, because a gray sedan was parked there. No handicap plate, no handicap placard. The car was running, but nobody was inside. I parked to the right of it, even farther from the door, in front of the dumpster area. There were very few customers parked in front of the store, but there might have been, when that gray sedan parked.

I was the first person to the register. While I was waiting for the clerk to come back to the counter, some women got behind me, with several children of young school age. They were clamoring for their treats. Not to fault the kids. They had spent a day in school, and were finally free, and no doubt hungry.

Once I was back in T-Hoe, this party came out. Of course they were parked in the handicap space. I took time to write the location on the back of my tickets. But these gals were not leaving. In fact, the passenger had both front and back doors open. I suppose buckling in those three kids, and waiting to get in herself. The gray sedan was parked all cattywompus in the handicap space. I was reluctant to back out, lest T-Hoe's side mirror strike the gal who was standing at the back door. I waited until she got inside, though she left the passenger door open.

But wait! Over at 10Box, my last stop, for bananas and Vidalia onions, I was again accosted by a bad driver. I was backing out of one of my four rightful handicap spaces. Rolling. Backup lights on, in motion. But a shiny blue mini-sedan felt it was necessary to whiz past T-Hoe's rear way too fast for that driving lane in front of the door.

Common sense should dictate that shoppers may be coming out of that area, unable to see past the cars parked there. AND that when a backing vehicle is in motion, it has the right-of-way. Anybody coming up on its path should yield. But no. Common sense is a rare commodity in Backroads. 

If I was Commissioner of the Bad-Driver Police, I would throw the book at those rumpusholes! At the speed of a major-league baseball pitcher. Not to hurt them. Just to knock some sense into them.

Other People Scratching Get Under Mrs. HM's Skin

Saturday I headed into 10Box to get my crossword scratchers. There were two guys at the lottery machines. They looked like early 20s. One had on an employee shirt. His back was to me while he stood at the little stand that holds lottery stuff like forms to fill out and scan to select draw ticket numbers. He blocked my way to get to the right-side machine, because there's a big pole behind him, supporting the roof. 

The other guy was using the left-side machine. He blocked the straight-across path to get to the right-side machine. So I stood there to wait. He was getting 10 one-dollar tickets, taking his time. That's his right. He was there first.

Along comes one of the manager gals who usually talks to me, from out of the service desk. She spoke to them, asking if they had any luck. It seemed like maybe they had a little contest going. Like who can play the longest, or win the most, on a certain amount.

Sweet Gummi Mary! Manager Gal walked right up to the left-side machine as Other Guy turned to move. Um. I WAS CLEARLY WAITING FOR MY TURN! I didn't say anything. She's always been nice to me. I didn't want to show my rumpus and then be reluctant to show my face in there for a while. So I kept waiting.

Other Guy went to stand at the side of that lottery stand. Completely blocking the front of the right-side machine. So I just had to wait until Manager Gal was done. Which I did. But then I wanted a crossword out of the right-side machine, so had to wait as Other Guy turned around and scanned his tickets he'd just scratched. 

Is it wrong of me to be happy that he had losers? Because that meant he was DONE, and couldn't buy any more, and had no reason to continue blocking that machine!

I usually don't wish loss on ANY gambler. Except maybe the RumpusHole Handicap Parker. But my knees got all stiffened up while standing there without a cart/walker to lean on. At least I kept my mouth shut.

Again, the two guys were there ahead of me. My issue is with them using up space to scratch their tickets in front of the machines. And with Manager Gal cutting in front of me.

Mrs. HM is growing grumpy in her old age...

A New Kind Of Hillmomba Magnet

I came out of 10Box on Tuesday, pushing a cart with five bags and two 12-packs of Best Choice Diet Cola, because they were out of my desired Shasta. Lucky for me, I had the closest handicap space, so not far to go with that cart I'd had to take from the line in the outside cart return. Darn that Do-Gooder who so kindly returned the cart that had been parked directly in front of T-Hoe, just waiting for me!

Those carts were still waiting to be corralled inside. Three lines of them beside T-Hoe. I'd have to be careful when I backed out, because people LOVE to walk right into his rolling path. The magnetic pull of those waiting carts would bring even more Do-Gooders that way.

I noticed a man lurking beside the carts. Hmm. He LOOKED okay. But it was a little creepy. I only had two bags left to stow away when he walked over.

"I can take that cart for you. I know it's only a few steps, but I don't mind."

"Oh. Thank you SO MUCH! My knees are really sore today. Every step helps."

"I've lost the use of my legs twice over the last few years. So I completely understand."

"I'm glad you're getting around now. Thank you."

"God bless you, Ma'am."

That Guy took my cart an proceeded into the store.

Well. Maybe I am part of some grand experiment in the Greater Hillmomba area, where people see if I'm a grouch, or if I appreciate kindness. Maybe I am serving a greater purpose, allowing people to collect good karma for previous wrongs.

I don't know what plan The Universe has for me. Right now I seem to be a Kindness Magnet.

A Woman Walks Into A 10Box

Earlier this week, I was happy to get the closest handicap parking space at 10Box. I was also thrilled to see a shopping cart somebody had left by the door. So convenient for me, rather than going inside to find one, because the cart corral in there is not very near the entrance. You have to go past several vending machines and the hallway to the bathrooms. Can't just step in and grab a cart, like in the Devil's Playground, or most other stores.

As I was putting my phone in my purse, and taking my glasses out of the case to put them on top of my head, I saw an older woman in T-Hoe's side mirror pushing a cart towards the door. Good for her, bringing her cart back. She entered my peripheral vision, and I watched, SHOCKED, as

SHE ALSO GRABBED THE PARKED CART I HAD BEEN PLANNING TO USE!

The Universe mocks me! Mock, mock, mock! That cart was so close I could taste it! Well. You know what I mean. I wouldn't LITERALLY taste a shopping cart. But I had planned on taking that cart. It would have been SO convenient. Now I had to hobble inside, all the way to the cart corral. But wait!

Rather than seeking a cart inside, I instead hobbled around T-Hoe's rear, to three rows of waiting carts that had not yet been corralled inside. I pulled one of them loose, and went back around T-Hoe's rear toward the entrance.

The Good Deeder came out the door, headed back to her car. Little did she know how much she had NOT-HELPED me! People who walk on two good legs don't consider such scenarios. Those who don't walk on two good legs fully understand. 

A tale we shall get to tomorrow...

Pupsie, Caught In The Act

When I left for town Wednesday afternoon, Pupsie and Jack came to greet me. They've really been staying close to home, now that (sad face) Scarlett is gone. Of course, the fact that I take a scrap of bread to toss them might have some bearing on their excitement to see me off.

I was standing at the bottom of the steps, petting Jack, when figured I might be able to get a picture of Pupsie. She's quite curious, romping around, poking her head close, but not letting me pet her. I AM allowed to extend the back of my hand for her to sniff, before she dashes away.

Here's Pupsie, posed beside Farmer H's ceramic Irish Setter. She knocks it over regularly while romping, and it might have some chew marks like his Scottie Dog at the other end of the porch. Pupsie feels safe in this space. Sure I can't capture her. She's looking at Jack getting petted, wondering, "What in the Not-Heaven makes you allow THAT?"

Pupsie doesn't look so large in these pictures, but she is definitely taller than Scarlett now.

She's alert, interested. Her tail won't quit wagging. I think Pupsie WANTS to be petted, but won't allow herself to be vulnerable. She used to slink around, tail clamped to her rumpus, not making eye contact.

Oh, my. What big feet you have, Pupsie! Her fur is not as short, nor soft, as I would imagine a Short-Haired German Pointer's to be. But her markings remind me of that. She has a bit of a short ruff across her shoulders. Her spotted, coarse chest fur actually reminds me of Jack's heeler heritage. And the white/black overall pattern of a Border Collie. 

As I was getting ready to leave, Pupsie ran around to stand beside Jack. And of course snoop into my purse. It's not like there was any food inside. She's just nosy. And apparently, 

A THIEF!!!

Pupsie is taking my winning scratchers out of my purse! I only saw it through the phone screen as I was snapping the picture! Little Jack is trying to discourage her, I'm sure... nosing her away from momma's fortune! That 7s ticket was a $77 winner. Plus the other assortment. 

"PUPSIE! NO!"

Made her give me the side-eye and scurry away without the tickets. That little rascal!

The More You Know, The More You Wish You Didn't

Hey, have you all heard, Mrs. HM has a lot of pain in her arthritic knees? Oh, you have? Well, I suppose I might have let it slip here and there...

In December, The Pony picked up some medication for me to use on my knees. Medication of a kind that is now legal for all uses in our state, which does not require a prescription. It's in a little jar, an infused cream that has no fragrance. Instructions said it may take 2-8 hours to work. It may possibly cause perception to be altered, though usually not, but to try if first when not doing things such as operating heavy machinery, heh, heh! The dose did not list a daily limit, but said to apply a dime-sized amount to unbroken skin.

I tried this cream on both knees. As directed. It seemed to alleviate some of the pain, and had no other effects. In the days before and after Christmas dinner and our casino trip, my knees were especially painful, and I used the cream twice a day. It definitely kept me from waking up squirming with pain. That alone was worth the cost of almost $100 for a small pot (heh, heh) of the cream.

BUT THEN...

My knees broke out in a rash! What in the NOT-HEAVEN? The box said this cream was made with hypoallergenic ingredients. It had worked just fine for about a month. I wondered if my rash was due to using it twice a day instead of once. But more likely, it was because every day in the shower, I would scrub my knees with a nubby washcloth. I was used to doing that from when I used Hempvana on my knees. It's like Bengay. It leaves a film on the skin, and the next application doesn't work as well unless you scrub it off. I assumed the magical cream was the same way. But in scrubbing, I no doubt caused minute breaks in my old-lady skin, thus resulting in me applying that cream to broken skin.

Sadly, I had to stop using the cream on my knees. They itched SO BAD that I could hardly stand it, or refrain from scratching. In about two weeks, the rough rash went away. The itching lessened. After a month, my knee skin seemed back to normal. I had quit scrubbing them, and didn't apply anything, not even moisturizing lotion.

For our last casino trip in February, I once again applied some of the magical cream, but only to my right knee, the most painful one. Just once, that morning. It seemed to help with the pain. I was flying around the casino with my cane! The day after, I didn't use the cream. I waited to see if my skin was going to react. It didn't.

BUT THEN... 

A couple weeks later, my LEFT knee started to itch. A couple tiny rashy bumps appeared. It wasn't really even on my knee proper, but on the skin below the knee. A few days after than, the same happened on my right leg.

Let the record show that I had not handled that cream, not applied it, nor anything else to my knee area. I have no idea what is causing this, but apparently it's not directly related to the magical cream. My casino pants and sweatpants have been washed multiple times since I last had that cream on my knees.

In an effort to figure out this itch, I've been going over any changes around the Hillbilly Mansionhold. The only thing I could think of was shampoo. Our pump bottle in the shower was getting low. I had asked Farmer H to FINALLY bring in the bottle of shampoo I traded my prize for at the Christmas Eve festivities at the home of my sister, the ex-mayor's wife.

A few days later, I noticed our shampoo was surprisingly over half full again. I wasn't sure if the color was still reddish, or if it had more of an orange tint. I tried smelling it, but again, my test was inconclusive. Was that apple? Orange? The shampoo from Sis SAID it was coconut, but that was false advertising, as I smelled it right there in her house, and declared that it smelled more fruity, like mango or something tropical. Genius agreed, and said the label mentioned coconut water in the ingredients, but it definitely smelled fruity.

Anyhoo... on Wednesday afternoon, I asked Farmer H about the shampoo, telling him about my itchy legs.

"Where did you get that shampoo you used to fill our shower bottle? Maybe that's it. I use it on my feet sometimes, like liquid soap, but my feet aren't itchy. And now my shoulder is itchy with some bumps. And one side of my chest."

"You got that different soap than usual. I noticed that."

"Yeah, but I'm not getting itchy on the places I use the soap. It's just the kind with aloe in it instead of the hard-core Irish Spring. But the itchy places are where my shampoo could run down as I rinse. Was that my PRIZE shampoo that's been in the car since Christmas Eve?"

"No... it's shampoo I got out of Bargain House, that they'd left there. I found it when I was cleaning things out, getting ready to work on it."

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!

I don't want leftover shampoo from Bargain House!!! YUCK YUCK YUCK! 

I'm pretty sure Farmer H is trying to kill me...

A Successful Grilling

Farmer H reported that he did NOT need a whacking stick. That Pupsie behaved herself while he was grilling pork steaks on GassyG Jr on Monday evening. For a dog who doesn't seem to like us, that Pupsie sure spends a lot of time lurking around us, wagging her tail, barking all night to warn us of imagined intruders, and lying at the porch corner listening for sounds of us inside!

The pork steaks were great this time! None of the toughness that we'd experienced with the meat that last two times I'd bought them, at two different stores. Farmer H is a great griller. Just the right amount of sauce. He knows I like mine to get a little burnt around the edges.

That's three-and-a-half pork steaks. Farmer H already cut his in half (or 2/3) and ate it. I cut mine in half, and had a side of sliced onion and a dill pickle spear with it. I didn't want any of the potatoes. Not because they turned out poorly (which they DID, at first!) but because I didn't want more food with that big section of meat.

They look pretty good here, after doctoring them up while Farmer H was grilling. I had cooked them in my roaster pan, layered with onions and a little vegetable oil and pepper. THEY HAD NO TASTE! Maybe it's because I used russet potatoes instead of Yukon Gold this time, because they were on sale. 

Anyhoo... I transferred half the potatoes/onions into a casserole dish, sprinkled them with Worcestershire Sauce and some powdered Hidden Valley Ranch mix, then warmed the dish in the oven. Farmer H pronounced them delicious. I tried a bite, and they DID have flavor. Farmer H will be eating these potatoes again until the pork steaks are gone. I prefer a small side salad.

Because we are giddy with the weather and grilled meat, we have invited The Pony to come to the Mansion on Sunday for a cookout. It will be steaks and sausages then.

Farmer H Might Need A Whacking Stick

As I type this on Monday afternoon, I am anticipating GRILLED BBQ PORK STEAKS for supper! The temperature is supposed to reach the 70s today, and since Daylight Savings Time just went into effect on the weekend, we'll have sunlight until 7:00. Farmer H is a good griller!

This will be the first time he's attempted grilling since Pupsie came to live here. We'll see how that goes. Pupsie shies away from Farmer H, ever since that ONE TIME he cornered her and caught her as a wee pup. Still, Pupsie is quite agile, and has now grown taller than even Scarlett. It is not beyond the scope of possibility that Pupsie could jump up and grab a pork steak off the grill, and run away with it. Farmer H will have to be on his toes while he's sitting on his rumpus at Gassy G Jr.

Farmer H wanted potatoes to go with the pork steaks. He used to slice and wrap them in foil and cook them on the grill, but now I make them in the oven. Usually just layers of potatoes alternated with slices of onion, a dab of butter, and let them bake. They turn out like potatoes fried in a skillet, though they usually don't get a crispy portion except along the edge.

This time, I put them in my small roaster pan. Layered, with some vegetable oil to keep them from sticking, and some ground black pepper. I'm not sure how Farmer H will like this version, though it would seem to me that they'll be the same as the foil and oven versions. Of course I'll offer him a small salad to go with his meat and potatoes, but I already know his answer...

Mrs. HM Serves Up A Cold Dish Of Revenge

I was dismayed on Sunday to see the white F250 pickup parked at 10Box. I know who drives it. That RumpusHole who always parks in the handicap space at the Gas Station Chicken Store. I knew it was not another white F250. It was running! That RumpusHole always leaves his truck running. I don't know why. At least he was not parked in one of the six handicap spaces at 10Box.

When I entered, I saw that RumpusHole at the checkout. I know his face, and his gray goatee. I proceeded to the right-side lottery machine. Dang it! That machine was on the fritz again. It would not take cash! I SEEMS like it will take cash. But then makes several clicky-spazzy sounds, and spits the bill back out. No matter if you try a different bill, or a different denomination. I suppose it might be too full of cash. 

Anyhoo... I had a six dollar winner and a three dollar winner to scan. So I got my $3 tickets out of it. While I was doing that, RumpusHole pulled his cart up to the left-side machine. I didn't notice what tickets he was buying. When I've been behind him at the Gas Station Chicken Store, he  buys draw tickets and $10 tickets. He wheeled his cart away, so I moved over to the left-side machine.

As I was making my purchases, I realized that RumpusHole was back, standing at the right-side machine. I suppose he noticed that it was not taking cash. Because he just stood there, with his body turned my way. Well. I usually try to hurry up if somebody is waiting. But this time, I was careful about choosing my tickets. Contemplation, you know. I even put in more money. The money which had been spit out at the right-side machine. Then I made sure to take care when picking up my selections from the tray. You know, because sometimes a ticket will get stuck and not fall down. So I arranged them in price order, making sure I'd gotten out all my purchases.

As I was walking away, my peripheral vision saw RumpusHole move over to that machine. I really hope he bought one of the newest $10 tickets. Because it would have been the one after my $27 winner.

Pupsie Keeps On Pupsin'

Our newest dog Pupsie seems to be getting over her loss of Scarlett. She and Jack are fast friends. Pupsie has grown larger than Jack. Larger, even, than Scarlett, I think. She looks like a black German Pointer. She tries to play with Jack by slinging herself at his legs. Kind of in a submissive position, her back to him, crouching. Sometimes he plays along, sometimes he snarls and makes her yip with a snap. Pupsie grows anxious if Jack runs to the woods with Copper Jack, chasing squirrels they'll never catch, when I come home from town. She runs around barking for him, and won't come to the door for a treat until Jack is back to accompany her.

For a dog who seems to detest us and fear us, Pupsie sure does spend a lot of time barking to defend our homestead. AND she likes to lie on the porch outside the kitchen door while I'm at HIPPIE. She will take proffered food from our hands. On Saturday, I tossed out two old hard-boiled eggs. They weren't bad. Didn't stink. But I did not feel comfortable putting them in my big salad.

Jack turned up his nose at his egg. Pupsie was curious. Sniffed and then walked away. But she came back. Picked one up and went around the corner. Then came back for the other egg. She laid down with it between her paws. Nibbled a bit. Then ate that boiled egg. She is, after all, a dog who came here with no sign of regular feeding, as a pup, probably stolen somewhere by Scarlett. Pupsie likes her food.

That mentality is going to get her in trouble. Pupsie is fed morning and night by Farmer H putting dry dog food in the self-feeder. But any time I give out treats, Pupsie eats hers, and rushes Jack for any crumbs, or food he has been eating too slowly. 

Saturday afternoon, Farmer H was once again conveniently late getting home. So I had to carry in five bags of groceries. The bags of slaw mix, five pounds of potatoes, three pounds of onions, two pounds of lemons, two heads of lettuce, and two cans of biscuits, were not a problem. The tray of four large pork steaks for future grilling WERE! I kept them on my arm, and set the other bags on the metal chair on the side porch before walking up the steps.

Pupsie has not learned her manners. Every time I put groceries on that chair, she thinks she's entitled to them. She comes to sniff and nip at the bags. Numerous times, I've scolded her. She does not seem to get the message. This time, Pupsie was on my side of the chair. Trying to get the edge of a bag in her teeth. 

"PUPSIE! NO!"

Huh. It was like I was talking to Farmer H. Pupsie acted like she didn't hear. So I tapped her on the head with my fingers. 

"PUPSIE! NO!"

It took two taps. Two NOs. But Pupsie retreated to the top of the steps. Sat there puzzled. Her expression said, "What's this, then?" Her expressions take on a British accent.

We are careful not to spook Pupsie. We REALLY need to be able to catch her, to take her to the vet for her very special operation. But I cannot have a dog that gets into the groceries while I am climbing the steps. The NOs and the head-tapping seem to have made an impression on Pupsie. I sweet-talked her some more after she left the grocery bags alone.

Pupsie is a work in progress. Next, we will try to stop her from dismantling the Mansion piece by piece. She's a chewer, that Pupsie.

A Miracle Between 4:00 And Midnight

Ever since FRIG II's icemaker went on the fritz at the beginning of November last year, I have been buying ice in bags from 10Box. You may recall this saga from back then. I'm sure I had several posts about it, because Farmer H was so frustrating in his response. Yes. I realize that must be quite a shock for you to hear, heh, heh. He basically just gave up, after repeated reminders from me, and said that he couldn't find a replacement icemaker to fit FRIG II. I call poppycock! How many different dimensions can there be in a side-by-side freezer? 

Anyhoo... Farmer H's solution was to just buy a new refrigerator/freezer. I was not keen on that idea. I don't like adjusting to new things, and I don't like shelling out $1000 randomly (or more!) to get a new refrigerator when everything works just fine except the part that makes ice. So I have been schlepping in those heavy bags of ice every few days. I would get the large bag, but that's too hard for me to carry. So the small one has to do. I put half in the bin, and the rest of the bag in the mini chest freezer in the laundry room until we need it.

A couple times, I told Farmer H to stop and bring home ice. He uses it too, if he has a Wild Turkey in the evenings. Otherwise, he doesn't care, because he always drinks Diet Mountain Dew out of the bottle. I am the one who likes my ice, putting it in my metal water bottle every day. Farmer H is not the best ice-bringer. I always wrap a coat around the bag on the way home, then bring it in, drop it on the cutting block to loosen the cubes apart, then put it in the mini chest freezer. Farmer H tosses it on the floor of SilverRedO, then brings it directly to the mini chest freezer, in one solid semi-melting block. So when I break it up for putting in the bin, I don't really get cubes, but more like assorted sizes of shards and crumbs.

Anyhoo... on Thursday afternoon, I was excited, because the bag I'd had stored in the mini chest freezer was the GOOD ICE. The little hollow cylinders, not the flat squares. When I had bought this bag, 10Box had just gotten a recent shipment. So I got a bag that had been near the top of the two big stacks in the outdoor freezer. That meant the hollow cylinders had not been melted by the pressure of being on the bottom. They retained their shape, and broke apart as actual little cylinders. Not crumbs or shards.

I happily poured half that bag of cylinders in the bin. That requires sliding out the whole bin, and setting it on the cutting block. It's pretty heavy lifting it back in, but nobody else is going to do it for me! I had chopped loose some of the remaining shards on the bottom of the bin, and saved two big ones for my soda. They don't fit in the top of my water bottle. I put that little lever back down. It's the one that senses too much ice in the bin, and stops the making of ice. Heh, heh! AS IF FRIG II was still making ice. The bin won't slide in and out unless that lever is clicked up and out of the way. When put back down, the lever rested on one of my large shards, but I knew it would click back down in a few minutes when I took out the shard. Not a big deal anyway. No action in there.

Next, I squeezed a lemon into my red Solo cup. Poured in my Diet Shasta Cola. Did you know that if a lemon seed gets through the squeezer, that carbonation brings it right to the surface, easy to be picked out with a spoon? You're welcome for that new knowledge. I've really been enjoying lemon juice in my soda for the past month or so. Maybe it's because of winter. Or that I got a good deal on a bag of lemons at 10Box.

The rest of my evening went as normal. Farmer H came home and did some fiddling with T-Hoe's tire. He was on his own for supper, warming up the noodles/chicken/peas/ mushrooms for himself, with a couple Hawaiian rolls. I had mine later. Farmer H watched Swamp People then went to bed. I shut down HIPPIE shortly after 11:30, and went to FRIG II to add some of those ice cylinders to my water bottle for overnight.

I reached into the bin and pulled out a few cylinders. As I was putting them in the water bottle, I saw A CRESCENT ICE CUBE in my hand.

WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN???

I looked into the bin, and saw a couple more. AND the prongy section that spits out the completed ice cubes was moving! How did FRIG II start working "suddenly," on his own, FOUR MONTHS after breaking?

The next morning, I told Farmer H. He did not have the common decency to appear surprised. He looked in, and said, "It definitely made some ice."

"HOW does that happen, after four months, without us doing anything? You tried all that stuff that didn't work. And now it just starts again? Randomly?"

"HM. There could have been a clog in there that worked its way out."

Sure. After four months. Something is definitely weird around here. I don't know if FRIG II will continue making ice. With the made ice on top of those hollow cylinders of store-bought ice, the lever is up, signaling not to make any ice right now. I guess I'll find out tonight, when the level goes down and the lever goes back into place...

Has Mrs. HM's Faith In Humanity Been Restored?

The Magic 8 Ball needs a new plastic triangle to display on its liquidy screen. "Signs Point To MAYBE." The jury is still out on Mrs. HM's humanity faith. Thursday was a good day for eternal optimists.

I was heading into the main post office to mail a letter to Genius, three water bills for the flip houses, and an annual payment to Sirius XM for music in A-Cad and The Pony's Rogue. I'd parked in the lone handicap space, and hobbled up the ramp, bracing myself on the metal handrail. 

An older woman with a gray pixie haircut started out the door, and saw me on my way across the sidewalk. She backed inside, holding the door open for me.

At the very same time, a 40-something gal with dyed black hair, looking like a once-upon-a-time rock band groupie, was approaching from the other end of the sidewalk. 

 

"Hang on a minute! I'll get the door for you!"

"Two people helping me at once! That's okay, this lady has the other door for me."

I started inside the open door, nodded at Gray Pixie. "Thank you so much!"

"You're very welcome."

Rock Groupie was now inside the lobby, headed to the double glass doors of the inner sanctum and clerk counter. "Are you coming in here?"

"No, thank you. I'm just going to the drop box here. But thanks anyway!"

Not only those two gals, but a gray-bearded man at the Gas Station Chicken Store on my next stop waited to hold the door for me as he was coming out. Of course I thanked him. 

AND, when I started in to Country Mart before I visited the post office, a late-20s guy in a trench coat, wearing a backpack, moved down the narrow sidewalk to let me pass. He was on his phone, I assume waiting to be picked up by a friend or Uber, when he noticed me. The sidewalk there is taken up by displays out front, this time pallets of firewood, and he moved down past the main entrance so I didn't have to step out on the slanting blacktop of the roadway between the store and main parking area.

Let the record show that Mrs. HM does not expect people to cater to her. Only to show common courtesy as one would to any other equal human. Just because I am lame does not make me special. These folks deserve good karma for their consideration. Even Steven, please take note!