The Cost Of Being Stupid

Mrs. HM committed a lottery faux pas last week. It was a boneheaded move, and Mrs. HM's bonehead was about to explode from the repercussions.

I was in 10Box, purchasing not only my personal scratchers, but also a good quantity of $5 tickets that I give as gifts at the annual Christmas Eve gathering at the home of my sister the ex-mayor's wife. I had already gotten a selection from the machine on the left, and a few from the machine on the right. That done, it was time for my own tickets. For this I used cash from my lottery allowance, rather than the Christmas fund I'd been setting aside all year.

There was a lady lurking at the little stand-up podium thingy that holds blank forms you can fill out for draw tickets. I don't like people behind me. She had been there the whole time, fiddling with something. I wasn't sure now if she was waiting for this machine, or watching to see what I was getting. Either scenario was no reason for alarm. Yet I was preoccupied with her presence as I inserted my twenty. When the screen popped up with the ARE YOU 18 YEARS OLD question, I automatically reached up and tapped it to continue. Except I tapped the NO bubble!

Sweet Gummi Mary! How stupid can I possibly be? I know I'm older than 18. I wanted take-backsies. A do-over. But no. The machine told me it was printing a refund ticket.

Oh, well. No big deal. I'd just scan it and proceed, making sure to answer that question correctly this time. Right? That's simple enough. Except it wasn't. The machine kept telling me INVALID TICKET. After three times, I took a closer look.

I could not scan that slip to get my money's worth. To the machine, I was a ne'er-do-well! A young'un trying to buy lottery tickets while underage. The machine can't give cash back. And it couldn't give me credit, because I was TOO YOUNG to play the lottery, which is all the machine sells.

Oh, well. I could come back another day, when I wasn't in a hurry. Or I could have Fave redeem it for me over at the Gas Station Chicken Store. BUT WAIT! Upon reading closer, I realized that I needed to get in line at one of the registers. Due to that message:

MUST be redeemed TODAY in this store.

Ain't THAT a kick in the ol' bonehead! I got in line for the checker who always talks to me about lottery. It was busy. Somebody had left a cart (empty) on the aisle by the line for that register. I commandeered it to use as a walker. I'm not good at standing to wait, with nothing to lean on. Finally it was my turn.

"I don't have anything to buy. I just did the stupidest thing! I told that machine I wasn't 18! Are you able to give me my refund for this ticket?"

"Oh, no! I'm sorry. But I can't. You'll have to wait for a manager to come back."

Well. I knew what that meant. To "come back" said they were out of the store. Perhaps on a dinner break, perhaps on a bank run, perhaps just smoking or shooting the breeze on a break. If there was a manager IN the store, the checker would have called them to the front. They do that all the time. I am familiar enough with their personnel. I had seen the skinny little manager-person on her way out the door as I was getting in line. No way could I stand around and wait. I thanked that checker, and went on my way.

Oh, yeah. The cost of being stupid is $20.

Don't Make Me Get A Choke Collar!

I am not sure if sending Farmer H to the dog house is enough to encourage him to change his ways! Stronger tactics might be necessary. Not only did Farmer H leave a heavy scratchy wreath on T-Hoe's hood, and use my ice-hacking butter knife to butter his biscuits... but he committed an even more egregious atrocity later in the evening, after my previous post had been sent to press!

I was happily ticket-scratching at the kitchen table, listening to music on HIPPIE. Farmer H had been back to the kitchen to bring his plate, and get dessert. I stopped my music, because that man purely LOVES to interrupt while I am trying to remember numbers and letters in my head on those lottery tickets that take more than a few seconds to match numbers. Finally he was out of my hair. 

Between tickets, I glanced over to the counter beside the sink. Something was missing. Something out of the ordinary. Oh! I did not see Farmer H's bowl, my round Chinese Tupperware, that had held his cheeseburger mac. I figured he'd put it in the sink with cold water. I hate when he does that. He's heard more than one lecture about cold water on greasy plastic.

When I got up later to warm my own supper, which was actual Chinese food in one of those Chinese Tupperware containers... I did not see Farmer H's bowl in the sink. What in the NOT-HEAVEN! He was really going to get it if I found out he had left it in the living room beside his recliner! He does that with his empty soda bottles, and snack bowls, and only brings them to the kitchen the next morning.

Then I saw it! 

MY CHINESE TUPPERWARE BOWL WAS IN THE WASTEBASKET!

Oh no he didn't! That's as bad as the uninvited guest brought to Farmer H's retirement BBQ by a teenage relative, who threw away my small fork, which required me to dig through two bags of BBQ trash. I still think that was on purpose, she having specifically asked for a metal fork, though everyone else was using plastic cutlery.

Anyhoo... I rescued my Chinese Tupperware bowl. They are quite handy, you know, for storing leftovers and warming them. I interrogated Farmer H the next morning.

"WHY did you throw away my Chinese Tupperware! I use them over and over."

"I didn't throw it away. I left it beside the sink."

"No. I looked all over for it, and found it in the trash!"

"I know I wiped it out, like you tell me. With my paper towel. I thought I put it by the sink."

"Nope. You put it in the wastebasket. With the paper towel in it."

"I told you I wiped it out!"

Baby steps...

Move Over, Jack! Farmer H Is On His Way To The Dog House!

One step forward and two steps back today, in the training of Farmer H. At first I was elated! I thought I had been getting through to him, making my message clear...

Farmer H sent me a text at 8:57.

"When you go outside you will see a Christmas wreath on your hood I forgot to bring it in with me."

Okay. That's good! Farmer H was notifying me so I wouldn't freak out about yet another unexplainable object appearing on my way to T-Hoe for my town trip. But probably he just didn't want me to drive off with the wreath balanced on the hood of the car.

Indeed, there it was, by the windshield where the passenger would be looking out. I grabbed the edge of it, my purse arm braced against T-Hoe to steady myself. My plan was to set it over on A-Cad. That quickly changed. It was a HEAVY wreath! The pine needle fronds (fake) were wound around a circular wreath (that seems redundant) of overlapping wires. Something made a screeching noise. Nope! I couldn't just pull it off the edge. I had to LIFT that awkward wreath. It was about two feet in diameter. I put it in a plastic bin that was on the garage floor. I couldn't tell what else was in there, and didn't particularly care. It was better than scratching A-Cad with the wreath.

I figured that Farmer H meant well. In the past, he would have just let me discover that wreath for myself. Which would probably have been as I was going up the driveway.

I had already made Farmer H's supper. It was the store-brand Hamburger Helper that is cheesy macaroni noodles in a sauce that makes it taste like a cheeseburger. I had put it into three Chinese containers, the round ones, so they could just be microwaved later, and I wouldn't have to dirty a pan.

When Farmer H was ready for supper, I made him some biscuits to go with it. I set out a paper plate, figuring he could set the round container on it, with his biscuits around one side of the plate. I set out the tub of margarine, Country Crock brand, because we only use real butter (Kerrygold) for holiday meals. I laid out a paper towel for his buttery (margarine-y) biscuit hands, and a fork. He always uses the fork to get the margarine out of the tub, even when I lay out a knife for him.

Anyhoo... I called Farmer H to the kitchen. I reminded him that he likes to grind black pepper over the top of it. I was headed back to HIPPIE on the kitchen table when I saw

FARMER H USING MY ICE KNIFE TO DIG INTO THE MARGARINE!

"Oh. Well. You always use your fork, but now... oh, never mind."

"Did I use your knife? I didn't even think about it."

"Well, it's in your hand with butter all over it. So I'd say you're using it. Can I not have ONE THING that's my own around here? Is it too much to ask that I have a knife to jab at the ice when it sticks together? Not a single thing to call my own!"

"Huh. I'm sorry. I just didn't think."

Nor did he think when he picked up his food to take to the living room. His buttered biscuits on the plate, and the hot Chinese container of cheeseburger mac on his other hand. He defies logic, that Farmer H!

To be fair, it WAS a butter knife that he commandeered. I've never seen an ice knife, heh, heh. But Farmer H and The Pony and even Genius KNOW that the knife on the cutting block is for ice emergencies.

Snackin' 2, Another Treat For Jack, WooHoo!

With still a week until Christmas dinner and more glorious bacon grease, Jack needs a daily treat that is not just sliced bread. That turkey carcass is now a memory. What could I find for little Jack? My standby of old pepperoni slices that I buy to supplement Farmer H's 5-for-$25 mini pizzas that come four in a box was out. Because I was out. Of the pepperonis, having previously fed them to Jack.

Wait a minute! Deep down in the lower box of FRIG II lies a sausage. A summer sausage, we call it here. It had been given to Farmer H one Christmas. Not THIS Christmas. And apparently not last Christmas. It's been there a while. Farmer H has to know it's there. He puts his weekly shot medicine down there, the box lying atop this sausage.

I took it out for a look. Farmer H would never know if I started feeding it to Jack...

Farmer H's sausage was small, heh, heh! Only 5 ounces (141 grams). Too much to feed to Jack all at once. But a nice treat nonetheless. I hacked off three slices. That's when I noticed the expiration date.

I think there's no harm in "stealing" Farmer H's sausage to feed to Jack. It's 2 years and 9 months past the expiration date! Sure, we might feast upon it with abandon if the Apopadopalyspe comes. But I'm pretty sure it won't be missed by Farmer H right now. I'm doing him a favor, really... preventing him from food-poisoning himself.

Snackin' With Jack

My little dog Jack has been livin' high on the hog since Thanksgiving. I had a pile of half-slices of stale bread that had been dipped in bacon grease. The grease from cooking the roasted vegetables draped with bacon. I had prepared that bread for Jack when putting the vegetables in other containers for FRIG II. Then every evening after warming some, I put more bread in the bottom of the pan to sop up the grease. 

It takes a little dog a long time to eat a half-loaf of bread and grease! Don't wanna over-feed him. Sadly, Old Mother HM's grease pantry has run dry. On Tuesday, Jack was the recipient of a TURKEY CARCASS for his treat. There was no way to hack it up to last several days. I didn't want to touch it much. It's been in a giant baggie in the bottom of FRIG II, saved especially for Jack. I didn't want to give it to him on those freezing cold days. So when the temp reached 50 degrees, I laid it out on my way to town.

When I got back, I gave the carcass to Jack. He was waiting patiently outside the open kitchen door. He's very polite. Doesn't run in like that ingrate Pupsie, who would romp in like she owned the place. I know Jack could smell that smoked turkey carcass on the counter. He's a DOG, by cracky, with a DOG NOSE! Yet he waited. When I set it down on the porch, Jack took one sniff. Then grabbed it by the back, and trotted around the corner of the porch. It was half his size.

Farmer H got home a few minutes later. I asked if he saw Jack and the turkey carcass.

"Yeah. He's standing on the brick sidewalk eating it."

I guess Jack still has PTSD about Pupsie, and Copper Jack, and previously my Sweet, Sweet Juno running up to steal his food, and wanted to be in the clear to see any marauders approaching.

Mrs. HM Finds A New Way To Injure Herself

I have recovered from the injury to my sciatic nerve while simply sitting on the couch. 

I am no worse-for-wear after knocking my noggin on the bathroom door two nights ago. 

I didn't plan to tell you that one, but consider it a bonus. 

I was lurching across the living room hall, past the piano, to the boys' bathroom. I leaned forward and put my left hand on the doorjamb. I do that all the time as I cross the threshold. But this time, my hand slipped, and my left forehead slammed against the open door! Not on the crazy temple part, but just above it. Thankfully, I was not knocked unconscious, and no bruise or knot appeared. It would have been terrible for Farmer H to be blamed for something that happened while he was across the Mansion, asleep!

Anyhoo... my latest injury occurred on Saturday, while The Pony and I were making Chex Mix. The Pony had brought me the ingredients for the second batch, and was in Farmer H's recliner, watching The Kitchen on the Food Network. I reached my hand down into a box of Rice Chex, which is the top layer of the mix, just before adding Worcestershire Sauce and vegetable oil and garlic powder and garlic salt. I don't like tipping the box to pour the cereal out, as that lets tiny crumbs into the pan, which like to burn to the bottom. Instead, I put my hand in and drag/scoop out the cereal, leaving the crumbs to settle down in the bag.

I felt a pain as I reached in...

OH NO! The box flaps gouged my papery-thin elderly skin!!! I called for The Pony, who got me a paper towel to blot it. I was able to finish putting ingredients in the Chex Mix, and The Pony whisked the pans into the oven. Then I washed off my arm, blotted some more, and got a picture. Because who doesn't want to see a fresh Chex Mix injury?

The next day, it was starting to heal. The gouge crescents were distinctive.

If Mrs. HM was a litigious person, she might attempt a personal injury lawsuit against the cereal company! There are no warnings on the box that say it might CUT YOU! No crazier than suing over a burn from spilled coffee, heh, heh! That will never happen. Mrs. HM would never do anything that might raise the price of Chex! She relies on it very year. It's her bread and butter for Christmas gifting.

Jack, A Literal Watch Dog

We've had a couple packages delivered to the Mansion this week. One was a bag with clothing, which came by FedEx, and was delivered while I was in the shower. I don't think the delivery people even bother to knock anymore. Or perhaps they try ringing our doorbell, which of course does not work. All it needs it a battery, but Farmer H has let it go for years. So I don't see a doorbell in my future. Not that I want one.

The FedEx drivers take a picture for proof of delivery. That doesn't mean they can't just reach down and take a package back for themselves. I've seen that on the news! But I doubt this driver would have wanted women's clothing. Here's the picture FedEx sent:

Little Jack looks so sad! No pack with which to rush the delivery person while barking and tail-wagging. Pupsie and Copper Jack are missed.

Farmer H had some sheets of metallic backsplash material delivered on Thursday. They came in a box. FedEx was again the delivery service.

There's little Jack again. He's quite the WATCH dog. Watching strangers come and go from the Mansion porch.

Is That A Lumberjack Chef, Or Mrs. HM

Since last year around this time, I have been using a topical pain cream on my sorest knee. The Pony gets it for me, without prescription, at a dispensary for such items which are now legal in our state. He suggested it because he knows I have such pain, and there is a slight possibility that I might have complained a teeny bit about my previous solution, over-the-counter Hempvana, working fine for other soreness issues, but not for my knee.

Anyhoo... the kind The Pony bought back then was good. It was unscented. Contained nothing like lanolin, to which I am allergic. I DID get a rash once when I used this cream twice a day instead of once. It says not to apply to broken skin, so I backed off on scrubbing it away roughly in the shower, and went back to once a day. The issue resolved in a few weeks.

Anyhoo... I've told The Pony that I'm running out. The cream comes in a little screw-lid jar, smaller than the size of a tennis ball. 

"I'm scraping it out of the corners of my jar, Pony. I'll be out in a couple of days."

Let the record show that I had mentioned my need for more pain cream several weeks before. The Pony was planning to pick it up, but forgot, or wasn't going over to Bill-Paying Town, or I had something else to do, or sickness kept us apart. 

Anyhoo... Errand Day, The Pony was planning to pick up my pain cream that morning, and give it to me that afternoon. Except the regular dispensary was out of it!

"We can try the one out by Save A Lot, after the bank. I've never been in there, but I'll look online. I can put in the order, and we'll stop to pick it up. Oh, no! They don't have that brand. They have something else that should be just as good, but I don't see it in unscented. Do you still want it?"

"Yes. I'm running out any day. What scents do they have?"

"You have a choice of Lavender, Menthol, or Cedar and Black Pepper. I'm guessing the Menthol will smell like BenGay."

"I hate Lavender. Don't want that. I really like Cedar! But I don't know if I want to go out smelling like Cedar. I put it on right after the shower, before I start to town. At least if it was Menthol, people smelling it would know what it was, that I was achy. But I really like Cedar! I guess they have the medicine-smelling version, and one for women, and one for men. But I don't care! Get me the Cedar and Black Pepper!"

The Pony trotted out of the dispensary after a few minutes, with my pain cream in a bag. We took off the lid. Mmm. Smelled like Cedar! I haven't tried it yet, but I'm optimistic. The Pony used some for a sore back while we were making the Chex Mix. I'll have to ask how it worked.

Our Superfluous Thanksgiving Birds

When I found a fully-cooked smoked turkey for Thanksgiving, that left me with four frozen Cornish Game Hens. This week, Farmer H and I ate two of them. He had a whole one on Tuesday night. I had planned on the same, but changed my mind to a half. Once cooked, it looked bigger than in the package.

I dried off the skin, and rubbed those hens with lemon pepper. Baked them, uncovered, at 375 for 1 hour and 15 minutes. The last 10 minutes, I raised the oven to 400, to crisp the skin. Farmer H had some generic Stove Top Stuffing with his. I don't care for it, and opted for BBQ slaw.

Here's my hen. A view from the top:

It was juicy and tasty! I actually used a knife and fork to hack away the leg and wing, and cut off the breast meat. Not that I'm ashamed to use my hands to eat chicken. I DID pick up the leg and wing. But holding the rest of the bird to gnaw on it would have been too messy.

There's the side view. Jack enjoyed the remainders, though I removed the tiny pointy bones.

And here's my BBQ slaw:

It's just some slaw mix shaken from a bag, to which I add BBQ sauce. I like the crunch, and the flavor. I often have it as a side dish. It's easier than making a salad.

We still have the other two Cornish Game Hens in the freezer. Probably won't get to them until after Christmas.

The Waiting Room Is The Hardest Part

Friday was the long-dreaded day of my annual doctor (nurse practitioner) appointment. I hate anything that disturbs my routine. I hate being around sick people. I pretty much just hate being around PEOPLE.

Farmer H dropped me off at the door. It's only the second time I've been to this new facility. Of course Farmer H said he remembered how to get there. It's just behind the old facility that was connected to the hospital. Funny how I had told Farmer H the street name. Yet he still drove past it, and pulled into an apartment complex EXACTLY like the last time he took me, and had to turn around. 

THEN Farmer H drove past the turn into the parking lot of the new facility. Even though you could see the road, and all the cars in the lot, and the building. Luckily there was a half-circle area past it, like half of a cul de sac turnaround.

"I'm sure they put this here just for YOU!"

"Maybe. Or everybody else that drives by looking for the entrance." [Yeah, right]

At least the patients were not elbow-to-elbow in the waiting chairs. I checked in, and only needed to hand over my insurance card for a picture. I sat down and balanced my cane while waiting. I got there at 8:40 for my 9:00 appointment. Had time for the bathroom before check-in. I got called back by 9:00, and was weighed and vital-ed by a wonderful young gal who said she'd been working there for four months. Said she's the one who answers requests for the NP on YourChart. Which made me feel more at ease, knowing there's a real person who does that.

I might as well have had a drive-thru appointment. NP, while his usual friendly self, did not spend any extra time on me. Listened to heart, lungs, and belly. Not even a scope up my nose or in my ear! He DID agree to set me up with a KNEE APPOINTMENT, which I asked for in March. I don't wanna be dealing with it in snow and ice and cold. Then he pointed me to the lab scheduling area for bloodwork.

I was given a little slip of paper with my name and birthdate, and sent back out to the waiting room to schedule my lab. It's a separate desk. A man was in front of the two gals sitting behind computer screens.There was a lady behind him. She shuffled over to the side, and I hobbled around to get behind her. She was pecking around on her cell phone. The man left to sit down and wait. That Lady just stood there. Looking at her phone. 

After a bit, I went around her. I looked at her, to ask if she was in line, but the look on her face did not encourage communication. She was busy with that phone! The gal behind the counter looked at me. Looked at That Lady. Said, "Ma'am, are you in line?" That Lady came to life. "Yes. I am." 

Well. I guess Mrs. HM is the rumpushole here. To save face, I said, "I THOUGHT she was in line, but she didn't move. I guess I'll just walk back around behind her again." And hobbled, leaning perhaps a bit too heavily, on my cane. Far be it for Mrs. HM to let a good opportunity for passive-aggressivism go to waste!!!

Turns out Phoney couldn't be bothered to wait. Upon being told she had 7 people ahead of her, she said she would reschedule, because she had to get to work. So I had 7 people ahead of me instead of 8. Except that was a low-down dirty lie! I sat there time after time as the lab door opened up, and assorted workers called individuals by their name, adding "...for the lab." 

I was ready to spring up out of my chair after the 7th person had been called. But no. It was not until after the 13th labby had gone back that I finally got my turn. She was young, friendly, and a WONDERFUL phlebotomist! I didn't even feel the needle poke in. It made a strange gurgling sound as the tube started filling. I hope I don't have an air bubble waiting to kill me! But the stick was painless, no blood on the gauze, no knot. I told her how great she was, and she said, "Thank you. I get a lot of practice here!"

I was released to sweave back home with Farmer H. But for some reason, I have my next appointment in 6 months.

Rumpusholes Also Come In Assorted Forms

Mrs. HM does not shy away from calling a rumpushole a rumpushole. While the guy I encountered on Tuesday in 10Box might not be a textbook-variety rumpushole, something about his behavior led me to pointing the rumpushole finger.

I got out of T-Hoe and walked across the front doors of the store, to reach a cart that somebody had left on the sidewalk. It was closer than hiking to the cart corral inside the store. A guy walked down the sidewalk in my direction, carrying a baby in a car seat. I first thought he might be heading for the cart I wanted, but he grabbed another one closer to him, farther down the sidewalk.

As sometimes (annoyingly) happens, I encountered that dude at the end of every aisle. He was mid-20s, in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. The baby looked around 6 months old. A smiling little thing with a head of dark hair, holding some toy and putting it in his/her mouth. Here's the thing...

That adorable baby was sitting in its car seat in the main section of the cart. Facing the child seat and handle of the cart. But The Dude was pulling the cart from the front! What kind of psycho does THAT? It's awkward as Not-Heaven! Hard to drag that cart around corners. NO INTERACTION AT ALL WITH THE BABY!

What was this guy's problem? Does he think shopping and taking care of a baby is woman's work? I assume it was his baby. Why else would he have one? Especially since it seemed to be an embarrassment to him. How can you ignore a happy little baby? At least let the baby watch your face, and be reassured that you are there. Don't let it glide along in the cart, seeing only ceiling and assorted shelves, wondering where its caretaker is!

I guess we should be glad The Dude didn't leave that baby in his truck.

Do-Gooders Come In Assorted Forms

I've been shopping for Christmas supplies this week. I don't want a big list to buy all at once. That is too much effort for my not-nimble knees. Every day or two, I stop by Save A Lot or 10Box for a few things. I have a nice bone-in Brown Sugar Baked Ham. And all of my Chex Mix fixin's. And enough Oreos and mix for three cakes. The perishable foods have to wait.

Anyhoo... on Monday I pulled up to 10Box, first handicap space to the right of the door. A man was standing out front. Kind of lurking. Maybe smoking. He looked like Smokey Lonesome in Fried Green Tomatoes. Like a guy kind of down on his luck. Just a scroungy kind of man, though not giving off any menacing vibes, or begging. 

"Your lights are on!"

I was sliding out of T-Hoe.

"Your lights are on, ma'am. Your lights are on!"

"Yes. They'll go off in a minute. I have those daytime running lights. I can't turn them off! They come on every time I start the car, and go off on their own when I turn it off. But thank you!"

"You're welcome. I just didn't want your battery to go down."

Such a nice guy, trying to help me avoid undue hardship.

On Tuesday, as I wheeled my cart/walker full of cereal and nuts and garlic salt and garlic powder to the checkout, and old man was approaching from the other side. I wasn't sure if he was coming across the front aisle, or headed for the register. I had been the length of the store. He had only been through produce and cereal and canned goods. I didn't know if he was done shopping. I proceeded to get in line. He got in line behind me. Then another man got in line.

"Here, you go ahead me," said Old Man to the Other Dude.

"No, that's fine. I'm okay."

"I don't mind. God has blessed me with this day, and I'm spreading the joy."

"Really, it's okay. But I can go ahead if you want. And if they call someone else up, you can jump over and be first."

So a compromise was reached, neither taking advantage of the other. Indeed, a young man WAS called to the front, and Old Man moved to that register. The Universe's reward, I suppose. He bagged his groceries alongside me, and followed me out the door.

"Isn't this a beautiful day?"

"Yes! I'm really enjoying the sun. I'm afraid it's not going to last long!"

"It might not. But we have today. God bless you ma'am."

"And you too."

I don't particularly care for people showering me with their religion, but I'm not going to complain about it. Old Man was strong in his beliefs, meant well, and wasn't hurting anybody.

Not every day is full of rumpusholes.

Things Are Back To Normal Around The Mansion

I was starting to feel like I am living in Fantasyland, and not Hillmomba! Farmer H got T-Hoe fixed. He brought home a heated water bowl and bag of cedar shavings for Jack. He put new batteries in my garage door opener and T-Hoe's clicker. He gave me that giant box of chocolates for our anniversary, plus a card with a handwritten message!!!

Last night, that gravy train came screeching to a halt. The phonograph needle scratched the record. The other shoe dropped. The party is over.

I was getting Farmer H's supper warmed up. It was BBQ pulled pork on hot dog buns, with a side of potato coins. So simple. You might imagine that even a hick could do it... 

I know better.

The potato coins were in the oven at 425 degrees, almost ready, just crisping the edges. The BBQ pulled pork was in a glass bowl in the microwave. I set out a plate for Farmer H on the cutting block. I set the package of hot dog buns on top. Surely I don't need to do EVERYTHING for him! I didn't want the buns to get stale sitting on the plate. I had drained three flat pickle slices. They were singly a little short to fit on the bun, so I cut the third one in half to fill in.

"Hey! Will you want the ketchup? In a ramekin, or will you put it on the plate? Will you use a fork, or your hands?"

Farmer H said he'd put ketchup on his plate, and that he'd use a fork for the potato coins. I laid a fork across the top of the bun package, and set out the ketchup bottle, along with a paper towel. I heard Farmer H groan in getting up from his recliner.

"My eye itches! I'm going to put in my eye drops."

"Okay. Then you can some get your buns ready."

Welp! Here came Farmer H directly to the kitchen!

"What are you doing here? I thought you were putting in eye drops."

"Oh. Well. I was going to. Didn't you say it's ready?"

"Yeah, I said AFTER your eye drops. But you can go ahead. I just had another 30 seconds on the BBQ." 

I turned the microwave on as Farmer H stepped up to the cutting block. Over my shoulder, I heard something hit the floor.

"What was that?"

"My fork. I didn't see it on the buns."

I resisted the urge to ask, "ARE YOU BLIND?" Because he is. In one eye. I saw Farmer H put the package of buns away. Baby steps! As I turned sideways to take the potato coins out of the oven, I saw Farmer H's plate. It held one bun, and two half-buns. Ripped in half, across the middle.

"What in the Not-Heaven?"

"It tore when I was getting out my buns."

"I guess I need to do EVERYTHING for you! Next I'll have to cut up your food and feed it to you!"

"I can get my food, HM. Just not the way YOU want me to."

"Just not the way a NORMAL person would do it, you mean..."

I used my oven mitts to take the glass bowl of BBQ pulled pork out of the microwave and set it on the cutting block beside Farmer H's plate. He was busy putting one flat pickle on his regular bun, the other flat pickle on the big half of his torn bun, a half flat pickle onto the small half of his torn bun, and the other half flat pickle into his mouth.

"This bowl is HOT! It will burn you. DO NOT touch the bowl."

Farmer H looked at me like I was crazy.

We all know I saved him from a trip to the burn ward.

Mrs. HM Feels Bamboozled

I have a yearly doctor appointment later this week. Now that I am older and decrepit-er, and have less insurance, I am suddenly healthy enough to only be seen annually, rather than twice a year! Fine with me. I'm pretty sure they called to schedule this appointment with me way back in mid-summer. I said that was pretty far ahead and I'd forget, but the gal assured me I'd get reminders.

Anyhoo... I got my reminder, even though I remembered the day, since it happens to be Genius's birthday. I was within a half hour on the time. The thing that annoys me about the reminder is that I had to log into YourChart to see the actual date and time of my appointment. C'mon! Don't tell me that's the safest way to do it! Medical records get hacked all the time. I don't see how emailing me the day and time of an appointment is so dangerous.

Anyhoo... I logged into YourChart. I have to do that on HIPPIE, not my phone, because they always want something else. Like to complete an eCheck-In before my appointment. You know Mrs. HM. She toes the line. Follows (most) laws and instructions. So HIPPIE and I spent 45 minutes, on 5 screens, updating information and e-signing forms. Whew! That was almost as stressful as an appointment.

With a sign of relief, I clicked that final button. And got the message that I might be asked to complete additional paperwork when I arrived.

Horse Pills For The Pony

After switching Errand Day from Thursday to Friday, due to frigid temperatures, I was looking forward to seeing The Pony. Alas, The Pony was feeling under-the-weather, and declined my standing invitation.

"I have a really bad headache that won't go away. My head is stuffy, and my poop stomach is upset. I don't feel like going. Maybe I shouldn't have tried that new spicy food yesterday."

I went on about my business, not wanting to shame The Pony into going along. I was sure I could pump my own gas before the paid-for pump shut off. I'd just have to use a different Casey's bathroom before going to get gas. Or go before paying, which usually doesn't work out, because a giant line seems to form while I'm out of sight of the previously empty counter.

Anyhoo... The Pony was sorry to leave me in the lurch. I got a text the next morning.

"Mystery solved. I'm sick with something. Sore throat this morning and a bit of cough. Phwegh."

Of course I called The Pony. I don't have my helicopter working, but T-Hoe has been refurbished. I offered to drop off some vitamins that Farmer H and I take, which have seemed to keep such ailments away. We prefer the gummy version which includes elderberry, but they are out of stock. The Pony had some, but used them up a month or so ago. Now all we have are giant horsepill capsules. The Pony eschewed them back then, but now said they were worth a try. They have Vitamin C, Vitamin D, Zinc, and Quercetin. 

"I'll give you seven days' worth. Take one at night and one in the morning. We just take one a day, unless we get sick. Which Dad has before, and said he got over it in three days when he doubled up on the vitamins."

So off I went to take horsepills to The Pony. Who was having a hard time deciding on what to disguise them with for swallowing. The considerations were peanut butter, jelly, pudding, ice cream. I'm not sure which was chosen, and if it was a success.

A Near-Hit At The Sis-Town Casey's

What's with people referring to a near-miss accident? Like two planes almost colliding mid-air, or two cars almost crashing into each other? What they really mean is a near-hit! If it was truly a near-miss, then the collision would have happened!

Anyhoo...we're not talking about planes. And only partially about automobiles. We're here to play the world's tiniest violin in sympathy for Mrs. HM, who was the victim of a near-hit at the Sis-Town Casey's on Friday.

The cold weather put my errand day on hold until Friday. The Pony couldn't go. The Pony, perhaps, could have saved me from this near-catastrophe. 

Casey's was a bit busy, but Pump 3 was available. I parked T-Hoe, and began the trek across the parking lot to pre-pay. I usually have The Pony walking along beside me, consciously trying to rein in those long strides. I was halfway across, in no-mom's-land, when a lady got into a small black SUV that was parked in the handicap space, to the left of the handicap striped walkway to the sidewalk ramp.

Lady started backing out, swinging the rear of her small black SUV in my direction. AND SHE KEPT BACKING! I stopped, but she kept coming! I'm not a fast-enough hobbler to rush across before being hit. I was afraid I would fall. I tried backing up my own self. Still slow, but it feels better to my knees. I was getting really worried. I made it backwards about 5-7 steps.

Good thing it was a small car. The rear bumper was about six feet from me when she stopped, put it into DRIVE, and went forward to leave the lot. Such a relief! I can't believe she didn't even look before she started backing. Either her backup beeper wasn't working, or she just didn't care! This small black SUV was newer than T-Hoe. It might have even had a backup camera. A-Cad has one, and A-Cad is a 2016 model.

Anyhoo... that little adventure got my heart racing. I was imagining myself flat on the pavement, with tires running over me.

Sometimes A Sung Hero

You might think I do a lot of complaining about Farmer H. That's because I DO! You might also think that a fraction of these complaints are valid. THEY ARE! But there are also times when Farmer H is an unsung hero to his buddies he helps for free (and seemingly donates entire trailers to, heh, heh). And to the elderlies in the senior apartments when he answers his phone 24/7/365 to go let them in when they lock themselves out.

Thursday night, Farmer H became my sung hero. I'm singing his praises here now.

You know I've told Farmer H for years that my garage door opener doesn't work. It takes up to 10 squeezes to make that door open sometimes! He always brushed me off with "It might have a bad battery." Yet would make no effort to get me one. Or even pry that thing open so I could see what it needed.

This week, T-Hoe's clicker has been cantankerous. I figure some of it might be the weather. I've been bringing the garage door opener in the house, rather than let it linger in the below-freezing temperatures in T-Hoe's garage lair at night. But my key clicker is always with me. Inside. Warm.

I told Farmer H on Wednesday night about it. Along with several other things that were vitally important then, which I can't remember now. How I was going to get locked out of T-Hoe and freeze to death! He kind of chuckled. But said he thought they both took the flat watch-style batteries, and he had a bunch of them at his SUS2.5. He was going to Illinois for business on Thursday, but said he'd bring batteries home when he passed by his store on the way back.

Thursday was so cold that I put off errand day until Friday. I didn't want to get stranded if Farmer H was in another state. I DID go to town, just for my scratchers. T-Hoe's clicker took several tries, but worked.

Farmer H came home with the batteries. I said he didn't have to put them in right that moment, because I was starting my tickets. He said he was going to run a hot bath. Temps were dropping from the low 20s into single digits overnight.

Farmer H made his own supper after the bath. A generic Hot Pocket filled with pepperoni and cheese. Because he ate a big restaurant lunch on his trip, and wasn't very hungry. He came to the kitchen for three desserts. Good thing he wasn't hungry! He had a marshmallow cookie, a Drumstick, and a handful of Payday mix that I keep refilling until the candy corn runs out. He was just in his tighty-whities after the bath. Meanwhile, I was sitting at the kitchen table in my regular sweatpants, shirt, sweatshirt, socks, and Crocs, with my under-table heater going, freezing to death.

Shortly after 8:00, Farmer H returned to get the batteries and my clicker and garage door opener from the kitchen table. He took them to the living room, where I heard prying, and the plastic of the battery package. About 20 minutes later, Farmer H was back in the kitchen, 

PUTTING ON HIS SWEATSHIRT!

"Wait! What are you doing?"

"I'm goin' out to make sure these work with the new batteries."

"LIKE THAT??? You'll freeze to death! The temperature is about 14 right now! If you fall down, I can't rescue you! You'll die!"

"I'll be fine."

Off he went. Bare legs and camouflage Crocs and a non-hooded sweatshirt! The arctic blast as he shut the door set me to shivering.

About five minutes later, Farmer H was back. "The garage door works. But your clicker don't. I'll take it apart again and see if there was a back on the battery."

There was not. But he hadn't pushed the battery all the way down, so it wasn't making a connection. Farmer H WENT BACK TO THE GARAGE to test T-Hoe's clicker again. This time it worked.

Good thing he tried them out. Otherwise I would have been fumbling around with freezing hands, using a key to lock and unlock T-Hoe.

Farmer H is my hero. Albeit a not very smart one when it comes to possible hypothermia.

Farmer H Can't Feed Himself

Farmer H has had no problem with eating some form of ham for supper every night since Thanksgiving. He loves ham. Now it's almost the weekend again, and I have put off the weekly errand day because of the frigid temperatures. I asked Farmer H if there is anything he wants from the store.

"No. Not really. Nothing I can think of."

"You never think of anything. Until the day after I do the shopping. You're out of the little sandwiches you take to your store for lunch. Do you want the cheeseburgers, or the chicken, or the Buffalo chicken, or the sausage patties?"

"I like them all. It don't really matter. But I wonder if you could find some Hot Pockets."

"I'm sure I can find them. But they're not on the 5-for-$25 deal."

"They can't be THAT expensive."

"Everything I buy at Country Mart is about $2 more than what I could get it for at 10Box. I'm pretty sure 10Box and Save A Lot also have Hot Pockets. But I'll get you some tomorrow at Country Mart. Just this once! What kind do you want?"

"I think they have pepperoni. Or ham. I like both."

"Okay. I'll look."

"I have trouble eating my lunch. I'll warm it in the microwave, but then a customer comes in, and I don't get to eat it. And I always forget the chips, because there are people coming in. My buddy said I need to go out to the truck for 30 minutes, just to get a lunch break. Or lock the door."

"Yeah. You could lock the door, with a sign that says what time you'll be back."

"I could do that. Or I won't get a chance to eat some days."

We all know that Farmer H is not a logical thinker. At least he has people telling him how to eat lunch.

Bringing Home The Bacon

Roles were reversed here at the Mansion on Tuesday evening, and I ain't talkin' about Sister Schubert's! 

When temps were not rising on Tuesday to melt the snow, I stayed home. Farmer H said he'd bring me lottery tickets. YAY! I was happy to relinquish that daily duty to him! I was also happy when Farmer H declared that he would just cook himself some eggs for supper Tuesday evening!

After all, I had brought home the bacon (before Thanksgiving, when I got two smaller packs, but then found the thick-cut kind I use for the roasted vegetables). And also, I had bought another dozen eggs on Monday, and some biscuits, thinking Farmer H might like them with some ham for a supper this week.

Here's the thing. I don't fry eggs. I don't like them that way. I will scramble or boil, but if you want a fried egg around here (or three), you have to do that for yourself. I offered to make the (canned) biscuits for Farmer H, but he said no, he didn't need them. He couldn't decide on ham or bacon. When I said I had two extra packs, he picked bacon.

While I lay down for a late nap, Farmer H fried himself bacon and eggs, and added three Hawaiian rolls to the meal. He was happy. I was happy. 

All I had to do was clean up the bacon grease left in the pan before washing it and the egg-encrusted plate and fork. Baby steps...

Trapped Again

I made it to town just fine yesterday. The snow was light, and had just started adhering to bridges. The roads were okay. I got a wet head because I don't have a jacket with a hood. I had to drive through the Gas Station Chicken Store parking lot, because a handicap car was in my rightful space, and a FREE AIR guzzler was in the other space. I'm not walking across the lot from the moat in freezing wind and snowfall!

First I went over to Casey's, where my space was available. I should have saved myself the trouble, because none of their tickets won. The GSCS paid back $10. And the Liquor Store gave me $25. I'm glad I didn't walk out. I waited 15 minutes for those winners!

Two women had entered as I was hobbling along the front of the Liquor Store. They had driven onto the lot, parked, and made it inside just ahead of me. I hoped they were shopping the aisles, or playing the fake slot machines. But no. They had just bellied up to the checkout. Fair and square, but I was not happy to cool my knees in line while the snow was coming down harder.

First Gal wanted smokes. The guy clerk had to go look for them. They were making small talk about her Thanksgiving. She had some kind of drink that was really good. It was in orange juice, but she couldn't taste the liquor. Which seems that she must really like orange juice, since she raved about how good that drink was. She had her customer number memorized. I think there's some kind of bonus benefits for that. She took her stuff and left.

Second Gal wanted cigarettes. A large Sprite with 3/4 ice. They have some special kind of soda here, that people are always coming in for. Since the fake slot machines now take up the wall where the soda fountain was, the clerks have to go make the soda from the one by the drive-thru window. THEN she wanted some little whiskey shooters. The clerk told her it would be cheaper to just buy a bottle.

"Oh, I'm not that kind of drinker."

Second Gal wanted five of them. I'm pretty sure she was going to share with First Gal, saying that she just THOUGHT she didn't want any after her Thanksgiving bender. I think they were headed for some kind of party/get-together, from what I heard on their way in. 

Anyhoo... then she paid with her card, but it was rejected for not being inserted fully. I was glad she FINALLY left, even though she was friendly and telling me about the weather while the clerk was getting her soda. I'm pretty sure a couple of those shooters got poured right in the minute she got to the car.

I made it home fine. More snow/ice came later. All the schools called off for Tuesday. So I didn't get out. The high temperature was 26 degrees. With clouds all day. The main roads were probably fine, but I can't stand the cold. 

Farmer H got scratchers for me. We'll see how they turn out.

Dang Forecasters

Such a career! These news "meteorologists" dress up nice and go on camera and tell us based on their scientific knowledge and unlimited electronical gewgaws WHEN we are getting snow, and HOW MUCH there will be in our area. POPPYCOCK! The Farmer's Almanac could probably forecast just as well!

How in the NOT-HEAVEN is Mrs. HM supposed to plan her day?

I checked the news Monday morning, because I'd seen online that snow was in our forecast again. I watched at 5:48 AM, and again at 7:00. Hillmomba would be okay until around 8:00 PM. I was a little worried about Farmer H coming home from an auction. But it would just be starting, and we were only in the trace/1 inch band.

At 11:00, I looked again, to be sure. I was planning my town trip for 2:30. Nothing to worry about, said the meteorologist. Some schools in the county above us were dismissing early. The radar showed that we were getting snow. She even showed the radar. "It looks like we're getting snow, but we're not. It's still to the northwest. The air is so dry that this is not reaching the ground. I just stuck my head out, and there's nothing." 

I went to the kitchen to wash some of the leftover dishes. I had cut the turkey off the thighs and wings earlier, to freeze with the white meat, for a future turkey pot pie. The night before, I had frozen some "vinchtables," and the green beans. Farmer H finished off the deviled eggs, and the hash brown potatoes. He didn't want the rest of the stuffing. So I had those containers as well.

WHAT'S THIS???

I glanced out the window, and saw SNOW! I'm pretty sure it was reaching the ground. That would explain the white coating.

It's 12:30 now. I'm trying to decide if I'm going to town. I can put off my shower and innernetting until I get back home. None of the schools around here have called off early. 

Whoopsie! Farmer H just called and said the auction is cancelled. He SAID the schools are calling off, but I find no evidence of that on the closings list. 

GOTTA GO!

Suddenly, I'm More Persuasive Than Usual

During the frigid weather and windy snow on Saturday, I looked out the laundry room door window, and saw ICE covering my little Jack's water bowl! It wasn't solid yet. A cracked layer on top. The thing is, it's a HEATED water bowl! And it was plugged in.

There had been two heated water bowls. Unplugged, for summer. When we got Lucky (the still missing rescue dog), I told Farmer H to take one of the water bowls out to his house. That's because Farmer H said that on one day, Lucky had stepped in his water bowl and turned it over. These have sloped sides. Not easy to tip over. Even when Pupsie (the still missing dog Scarlett [the happily re-adopted Australian Shepherd] had stolen and brought home) used to dig all the water out with her paws.

Anyhoo... I told Farmer H in a text. He replied that he'd have to take a look at it and see why it wasn't working! Well. That would do my little Jack no good when he was thirsty! The fake fish pond has had ice on it for a few days, never thawing during the day in the shade. So he couldn't drink there.

Also, I'd been telling Farmer H to put more cedar shavings in the doghouse outside the kitchen door. It used to belong to my Sweet, Sweet Juno. But both The Pony and Farmer H said they'd seen Jack come out of it. He used to prefer sleeping in the haybales over on Shackytown Boulevard during cold weather. Maybe he wants to stay closer to us, now that his companions are gone.

Anyhoo... Farmer H had been putting me off. Saying, "I'm pretty sure I have part of a bag in the garage." Yet he never brought any out.

I told him by text:

"Please get cedar shavings and a water bowl! I'm worried about Jack in the cold."

AND HE DID!!!

On the way home Saturday, Farmer H stopped by Rural King, and indeed came home with a bag of cedar shavings, and a new heated water bowl.

I wish I knew how to be that persuasive all the time! I think Farmer H might feel a bit of guilt for not yet getting me another dog.

The Never-Ending Day

Sweet Gummi Mary! This day seems 72 hours long! It's Saturday. As forecast (for once), our snow showed up in the wee hours this morning. It took Farmer H 45 minutes to get to his SUS2.5. Surely you didn't think he'd stay home! On his way out the door, he said,

"I probably won't do much business, but my people will be there!"

We were supposed to get two inches. I could see that when daybreak came shortly after 7:00, being delayed by the gloominess. By 9:00, I could see where the squirrels had scampered away part of the snow on the porch rail. At 11:00, a melt was in progress. Now it's 1:21, and there's still a bit of snow on the grass, and on the porch deck.

Even worse, it's now RAINING! Not a lot. Just enough to be sloppy. The temperature is up to 38. But I'm NOT GOING TO TOWN! The wind is gusting to 33 mph. I'm cold just sitting here with my undertable heater. I had planned for this scenario. I got some extra scratchers yesterday, and asked Farmer H to pick me up some crosswords and Christmas Lights tickets before he comes home.

I would survive a trip to town. I'm pretty sure the snow is melted off the pavement. T-Hoe has been refurbished. I regret missing one of Fave's days at the Gas Station Chicken Store, since they were also closed on Thanksgiving. But I don't want to get wet. I don't need a chill.

I've done a load of laundry. Washed the dishes. Added a can of green beans to the leftovers so they'll last longer. Built and ate a delicious bacon/turkey/salad wrap. Wrote out checks to pay the Lowe's bill, and our personal credit card bill. Typed up two blog posts on still-kickin' HIPPIE with his cantankerous space bar. I'm thinking about filling out Farmer H's business tax form, to get his business license for next year. Nothing good is on TV. I conquered Wordle.

There's only about 4 hours left until Farmer H is home with my scratchers...

A Routine Thanksgiving Ritual

I'm off to town in a couple hours. On my way to The Pony's house. Once again, The Pony has forgotten some leftovers from our Thanksgiving feast. It happens every year. Some things are packed ahead, like the "vinchtables" The Pony loves. Others are gathered after the meal. There are designated containers that don't need to be returned. And a box from Save A Lot to haul everything in as Farmer H drives The Pony home.

I even went through a checklist before they departed.

"Do you have ham? Your bag of salad? Dressing? Deviled eggs? Stuffing? Your rolls? Oreo cake? The red onion, and boiled eggs for your salad? The bread? Any little pickles? Do you want pickles? Or olives?"

Yes, The Pony had everything. Quite sure. Off they went.

I called Friday morning. Because Thursday night, after reminding The Pony by text to send me the pictures of everybody's plate, I also received this reply:

"You forgot to give me a bread loaf!"

Well. It was right there in the cabinet, where we've kept the bread since we moved into the Mansion. And I HAD asked if the bread was among the leftovers packed. Silly me. Perhaps I should have presented that half-loaf of Hawaiian Bread on a silver platter!

Anyhoo... I love The Pony. And I will drive that bread over to Pony House. Along with the used-once bottle of Caesar Dressing that was forgotten on the door of FRIG II.

After all, I have them here. I don't need to fight the non-Black-Friday shoppers clogging the grocery stores, stocking up on bread and eggs and milk ahead of the supposed winter storm that might bring us 2 inches of snow on Friday night.

Mrs. HM's Work Is Never Done

It's three minutes 'til midnight, and I'm tired. Tired from Thanksgiving preparations, and tired of fighting with HIPPIE's space bar. I just finished washing half the dishes. I would have done them all, but there's not room in the other side of the sink to put more for draining. Don't you dare suggest I use a towel to dry them! The air can do that. It's enough that I hand-wash them.

I'm so tired I could lay my head down on the table and sleep right here. My heater is nice and toasty on my legs. I fear my rumpus might revolt over sitting on a hard wooden chair the rest of the night. So I'll go to the short couch to watch TV. I might make it five minutes before I nod off. I hope there's a good program on...

HIPPIE Is Dying

I fear that my loyal laptop, HIPPIE, is not long for this world. Soon he will be shooting through that invisible techno bridge, to live on a big data farm upstate.

HIPPIE has not really recovered from his near-drowning, when I spilled my morning medication water across his keyboard. A full red Solo cup!!! Oh, I thought I had drained and dried him out. But now HIPPIE is overheating. It started a couple days ago.

BLACK SCREEN OF DEATH!

Then a message on a DOS screen upon restart. I swear it said HIPPIE had reached 900 degrees! Wouldn't that set my wooden kitchen table on fire? And my lying pants? Perhaps I misread it. Seems that while I might be comfortable computing on the surface of the sun, roasting my achy knees... HIPPIE, himself, would not.

I seem to have about 2 hours before HIPPIE gets hot under the keyboard. I hear the fan running, but I suppose it's not effective.

NOW, today, HIPPIE has a new old idiosyncrasy. The space bar is cantankerous. That happened right after the near-drowning. Went away. and is back. You think you're typing right along, but then see you've created a 237-letter word. It's slow going when you have to watch what you're typing onscreen. And double- or quadruple-hitting the space bar before it works. Plus backspacing when you move on too fast.

I need to tell The Pony to bring out the "new" computer we got for me two Christmases ago.

I'll leaveyou with an exampleoftypingalong whileI think the space barisworking normally...

What Do You Give A Woman Who Has Everything (If You're Farmer H)

Farmer H came home with my anniversary present on Monday evening. He had a nice card, and even wrote something meaningful in it!!! My gift was quite a surprising sight. Not because of what it was, but because of how BIG it was!

Yes. Farmer H brought me a giant box of candy. I'm not complaining! I'm not a plant or flowers person, and I don't want jewelry or clothing. Candy is good. But maybe not quite so much...

Of course I thanked Farmer H. I DID tell him I like the gift, but that I may not open it until after Thanksgiving. You know, because I sure don't need CANDY during four (or more) days of feasting. Yes, I will share the candy. But I get first choice of my favorite kinds!

Moving that box around was like carrying a surfboard! Though I've never actually carried a surfboard. That's how I imagine it would be. Awkward. Do I NEED 33 pieced of candy? Not-Heaven, NO! Do I WANT 33 pieces of candy? Well, maybe 20, heh, heh.

Lucky for me, the back of the box shows the flavors. That's good! You wouldn't want a box of chocolates to be like life!

My favorites are the Dark Chocolate Coconut Cluster, Dark Chocolate Coconut Creme, Dark Chocolate Truffle, Dark Chocolate Orange Creme. For sure, Farmer H can have the Dark Chocolate Vanilla Creme. Everything else is pretty good for me, but those I will share. The Pony doesn't like dark chocolate. Nor strawberry. I imagine the Milk Chocolate Pecan Delight will be one of the first to go.

Thanks, Farmer H. It's the thought that counts. And chocolate is pretty good, too!

It's Been A Long Time

Another milestone has been reached here at the Mansion. I said milestone. Not millstone. I'm not sure how Farmer H might read that. 

Monday was our 36th wedding anniversary. 

I know that Farmer H remembered. Because Sunday evening, he said, "Well, tomorrow is our anniversary." That's before I said anything about it to him. And after I got him a card and a cookie-cake at Country Mart that morning, to keep hidden.

We are simple people. No grand celebration is needed. Not even special writing on the cookie. Right off the shelf. 

Farmer H loves a cookie-cake. It was a gift from the heart, not an attempt to kill him. He seeks out sugar on a daily basis, and would have gotten his allotment elsewhere if I didn't bring it into the Mansion. I used to give him a box of sugar-free chocolates, a Whitman Sampler. But he'd eat it as well as sugary treats.

The card says, "I'll love you until I croak." Heh, heh. I think that's a pretty good likeness of us on the front.

Farmer H liked it when he discovered it Monday morning.

"I haven't got your card yet. I've been busy. But I'm getting it today. It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

I'm pretty sure he meant that in a good way...

I'm Sure It Was An Honest Mistake

Pretty sure. Almost certain. However... there's a tiny bit of doubt lingering at the back of my mind.

Saturday night, Farmer H announced that he had a quantity of twenties that he would trade me for $100 bills. It's not MY money he's trading out. It's OUR money that I set aside every week, to save for unexpected expenses like T-Hoe repairs, or loads of gravel for the road, or things that go wrong with the flip houses. Plus Christmas and insurance expenditures, and taxes.

Anyhoo... Farmer H was counting up his money while I warmed his supper. He laid it on the kitchen counter when he got his plate, and I went to count it myself before setting out the hundreds.

Sweet Gummi Mary! Farmer H was $20 short. I counted that money three times! Same result. I don't think he deliberately set out to scam $20 from us. No. Surely not.

Here's the deal. When I count out money like this, I put the bills in stacks of $100. It's easy to see how much you have as you go along.

When Farmer H counts his money, he holds it in his hands and thumbs through it. He carries his "store" money in a big wad, wrapped with a rubber band. It's like the pile of bills is folded in half, and he peels back one at a time while counting: "Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, a hundred. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, TWO hundred..." etc.

I told him he was short $20. At first he didn't answer me. Then he brought his plate back.

"I counted three times. I had it all set out in stacks of hundreds. Do you want me to show you?"

"No. I counted it three times."

"Well, somehow there's a twenty missing. I can show you."

"No. You don't have to show me. I believe you. But you want to argue with me."

"I'm not arguing! I'm only offering to show you that it's short."

"Then just give me one less hundred, and them four twenties."

Alrighty then! That's what I did. I'm sure Farmer H wasn't trying to make a quick twenty. But it's funny how this has happened once before...

Mrs. HM's Strategy For Becoming A Millionaire

Kids these days! You might as well forget that plan of going to college. I have a better way to make a living than a standard 9-to-5 job. No experience necessary. Just patience. The ability to smile. And basic balance. What is this magical career that will make you rich?  

WAITING!

That means waitstaff. Waitresses. Waiters. Working in a "nice" restaurant, serving customers. Who knew it was such a lucrative gig? Not this ol' gal. Of course, you'd need the right temperament. The customer is always right. But if you can swallow your pride and sense of entitledness, to allow others to feel entitled... you can make a fortune!

We met Genius near the city on Friday evening. He's passing through to visit a college friend for a special event. In looking for restaurants, Genius found a bar and grill that serves Italian food. Of course everyone else loves it. So I said goodbye to my standard "terrible tater," and perused the menu online. At least they had SLAW!

Anyhoo... the story of our meal is on my not-so-secret blog. I'm just here to talk about the MONEY. It was quite expensive for my tastes. It's not like we were going out for elegant dining. No tablecloths, even! It's a strip mall bar and grill. At least the portions were huge. So considering how many meals we will get out of the leftovers, it's about the same as a regular meal at a restaurant or fast food around here.

Anyhoo... what I'm leading up to is the practice of tipping. These days, it's considered standard to tip about 20%  of the bill. The waitstaff in a restaurant like this is raking in money hand-over-fist! 

Our bill was $108.75. We told Farmer H to make sure he gave the waitress a "decent" tip. No need to be a cheaprumpus. She was friendly. Barely made her presence known. Brought beverage refills without being asked, checked if we needed anything, then skedaddled. Unobtrusive, yet present when needed. Farmer H gave her $25. We were fine with that. I'm sure SHE WAS, TOO! We were there about 90 minutes. She also had other tables. Think about her tips! As Farmer H said, even if people only left her 10% (which is considered substandard, or signifying poor service) she would make a bundle for the night.

Of course, it helps to be a cute young gal, on a Friday night, at an establishment that also serves alcohol. Even though waitstaff are often paid under the minimum wage, with the expectation that their tips will compensate for that... it seems like a lucrative job if you can get it!

On The Nose, With A Rubber Hose

When The Pony and I pulled into Casey's to get T-Hoe's gas on Thursday, I was happy to see that Pump 3 was open. I prefer Pump 3 or Pump 4, because they're directly across from the handicap ramp on the sidewalk.

"Um. Mom. You're not going to get gas here! The hose is not even connected! Look. It's laying on top of the pump."

Indeed. It WAS. 

"Huh. I guess maybe somebody drove off with it still in their car! I'm surprised they don't have this pump wrapped in yellow caution tape."

"Well, I guess the diesel still works. Its hose is connected."

Pump 4, and even Pump 5, were in use. So we left to do the grocery shopping, and then came back. Pump 4 was open, so I parked T-Hoe there for us to go inside and pay. A little white sedan pulled up to Pump 3 as I was getting out. Pony walked around and told the guy,

"I think you're going to need a different pump. Look at this hose." The Pony lifted the end off the top of the pump, to show the guy, who was just realizing that the handle part of the pump was not in the slot.

"Okay. Looks like it! Thank you!"

As we walked in, The Pony said, "I figured a little car like that didn't run on diesel."

Anyhoo... T-Hoe was filled with gas, and The Pony helped a person.

I'm Not Getting My Hopes Up

I have still been searching for a rescue pet. Thought I found one on Wednesday. I'd been watching her for a couple weeks. A German Short-Haired Pointer mix. Small, at 25 pounds. Around 2 years old. She's black and white. Looks really sweet. Her description says she's friendly. She's only got until the 22nd, after which time she will be euthanized PUT TO DEATH at the dog pound over in Bill-Paying Town. She only became available to be adopted a few days ago, after the stray hold was over.

I figured this dog would fit in with my little Jack. I showed Farmer H. He seemed agreeable. Looked up the phone number. Then "didn't have time" to call. When he left home Thursday morning, I'm pretty sure he didn't take the pet carrier. My hopes are lower than a snake's belly. Or should I say 'lower than Farmer H's belly,' because he does not seem like he wants this dog.

Wednesday night, I brought up that assumption.

"Well, I want to get a dog who won't run away."

"We've only had ONE DOG that 'ran away,' and that was Lucky. But I think he was stolen."

"Scarlett. Scarlett ran away."

"Not really. You GAVE her away! We had her for over a year, and she only ran twice, when you first let her go."

"We had her that long?"

"YES! And I don't know what happened to Pupsie, but she was also here for a year, and didn't take off like Scarlett. I think somebody did something to her."

"Well, I'd rather get a pup."

"We're never gonna get a pup from the pound. Everybody wants the pups. There were two really cute ones on there, and a list of people saying they wanted them."

"There's a homeless guy at the McDonalds down by my store. He pulls around a wagon with 5 pups in it. I've thought about offering him $20 for one of them."

"That sounds sketchy! You don't know how healthy they are. What says a pup wouldn't run away? What kind are they? I won't have anything with Pit Bull in it!"

"Nothing. But I'd rather have a pup. I don't know what kind these are. I haven't seen them that close. One of my customers has pups sometimes. I've been asking."

"And how's that working out?"

"Nobody has any right now..."

See? I'm trying to save a dog. I think this Pointer might be okay. Several people have pledged money for her, and another shelter will probably take her so she doesn't get an express ride over the Rainbow Bridge. Still. I think she might have worked out for us.

More Questionable Behavior From The Man With No Common Sense

When Farmer H got home Tuesday evening (without my precious T-Hoe!), he plopped down in his recliner while I started his supper. Nothing special. Just warming up two of the bratwursts frozen after our last cookout, and some waffle fries.

When he gets home in time, Farmer H likes to watch Emergency. It's an old TV series from the early 70s. As you might imagine, it's about paramedics and the hospital they work out of. I could hear the dialogue from the kitchen. 

I also heard Farmer H checking his voice mail. It was a woman's voice. I figured maybe somebody from his doctor's office, or one of the elderlies from the senior apartments. I heard her giving a number to call her back. I didn't get all the details, because I wasn't that interested, and because the paramedics on TV were going on a call. The sirens were blaring. I heard Farmer H keep re-playing that voice mail. Three or four times!

"IF YOU TURN DOWN THE TV, MAYBE YOU CAN HEAR THE MESSAGE!"

"What?"

"IF YOU TURN DOWN THE TV, MAYBE YOU CAN HEAR THE MESSAGE!"

"I just cain't make out the phone number."

"TURN DOWN THE TV!"

Just as he finally did, his phone rang again.

"Maybe that's her!"

Farmer H took the call. It sounded like somebody wanting something from his store. When he got off the phone, he said,

"That was some lady wanting to know if I have duck decoys. I have a whole bunch of them. She was trying to describe what she wanted. She said DUCK decoys, but then something about geese. And Canada. I told her just come down and look at them, and see if they're what she wants. I'll sell them to her for $2.50 apiece."

Farmer H needs to realize that he is mostly deaf. And that he needs to cut out the excess noise when he's trying to hear something. At least I've (mostly) trained him to mute the TV when I holler to him from the kitchen. Baby steps...