If She Was On A Milk Carton, She Would Chew It Up

I am concerned about Pupsie. She is missing. Without Jack. That is suspicious. 

The dogs are usually together, except when Jack chases a squirrel to the woods, and Pupsie comes back to the porch for a treat. Even then, she goes to fetch him before coming to the kitchen door. Apparently she thinks I have mad capture skillz and can wrestle her to the ground like a calf roper.

Anyhoo... it's been almost a week! My days are all mixed up because of my rumpus/leg pain. I can't remember the days I went to town and stayed home. But it was a day that Farmer H went to his SUS2.5. So Friday/Saturday/Sunday. When I left for town that day, only Jack was there. Same when I came home. I asked Farmer H if he'd seen her. He said before he left for his SUS2.5, both dogs were here. But around 10:00, I had only heard Jack barking in the front yard, and not Pupsie's shrill bark.

I have not seen or heard Pupsie since. Nobody in our enclave has put her picture on Facebook. You'd think if she was hanging around at somebody else's house, they would be quick to complain. I can't imagine Pupsie running away to choose a new family. Not even if they had fresh, unchewed lawnmower seats, never-ending poop boxes on their front porch, or tasty plastic children's toys in the yard. She always brings stuff like that home, except for the lawnmowers.

Nor do I suspect that somebody has dognapped Pupsie. She won't even get close to US. She's a regular contortionist when it comes to shying away from the hand that feeds her.

I'm sad that Pupsie is missing. Not despondent. It's not like when problematic Scarlett was given away without 24 hours notice! Scarlett was a pet, even though she didn't ADORE me. She was happy and pettable. I am fond of Pupsie, but she's more of a freeloader permanent stray than a pet. She always seems happy, wagging her tail, dancing just out of reach. 

I am holding out hope that she will return. But I fear that she has come to no good end.

Freedom Restricted, Once Again

I planned Tuesday around my trip to town. With school starting, I wanted to leave during a specific window, to avoid the bus-waiters right after dismissal, and get out before the setting sun was low enough to blind me.

I was really proud of myself, running right on schedule, with actually 10 extra minutes of nap time before my shower. But wait! As I was heading into the master bathroom, I heard thunder! The sky had darkened! I went to the living room to see if any channels had a radar map in the corner of the screen, or any warnings scrolling across the bottom. Nope. At least not in the 30 seconds I was allowed to look, because THE SATELLITE WENT OFF!

That's generally not a good sign, you know. Rarely it's just cloud cover between the Mansion and the orbiting satellite. Usually it means heavy rain or snow. We all know that snow wasn't the culprit in these 98-degree days.

When I got out of the shower (after three scares from flickering lights), I heard rain. The satellite was still off. I called Farmer H to see where he was. Getting gas over by the Devil's Playground. I asked him to bring me some scratchers, because I didn't think going to town was a good idea. What if the rubber stopper on the end of my cane SLIPPED on the floor of the Gas Station Chicken Store? Better safe than sorry.

I asked for my crosswords, and a $10 ticket, either gold or silver. Those are the ones that are newest. Farmer H said he'd get them at Casey's on his way home, which is the other store I'd been planning on getting tickets.

The weather cleared off right after Farmer H got home. I said I might have been able to go anyway, if I had known the rain would stop. Farmer H said it had poured when he was getting gas, and then the tickets. He had called The Pony, who said there was not a drop of rain at his house.

Farmer H was playing around on his phone, and said that a drive-in theater had been destroyed by straight-line wins, in a town over past Newmentia. It's 20 miles from here. Where Farmer H sometimes goes to the auction.

I'm glad I didn't go to town. My crosswords won nothing, but the silver ten that Farmer H brought me won $30.

The Functioning Idiot

I don't like to call Farmer H names, unless it's in jest, in an over-the-top exaggeration (as opposed to an insufficient exaggeration). He knows a lot of technical stuff that I can't fathom. But when it comes to common sense, Farmer H is sorely lacking. I often question how he has survived into elderlyhood, with some of the antics I've observed.

Tuesday morning, Farmer H started down to the basement at 6:00 a.m.

"While you're down there, would you bring up my old red Crocs? They're in my office. Just knock the dust off of them."

Farmer H did as asked. There's a small victory! Baby steps.

"You can set them anywhere. I'm going to wash them in the sink. The ones I have on have been hurting my heels."

There's my mistake. I should never have told Farmer H to put them "anywhere." I thought he would set them behind the short couch, where my other shoes are. But no.

Farmer H put my old red Crocs by the glass case that holds my grandma's two sets of dishes she gave me. The red depression glass, and the china. That case is at the end of the piano in the hall that leads to the boys' bathroom. At the area where the living room turns into the kitchen. There's nothing there for me to hold onto to balance myself while leaning over precariously to pick them up. Or even to step into them, if I hadn't been planning to wash them.

"Um. That's not a good place. I don't want to fall into that glass and break it. Maybe you could set them in the kitchen, by the wastebasket."

Farmer H went off to the kitchen. I didn't turn to watch. After he'd left, and I was ready to go take my meds and wash dishes (BEFORE the Crocs, of course!) I saw where Farmer H had put them.

ON THE CUTTING BLOCK!

That's right. Filthy Crocs that had been in the basement for three years, soles black, dust bunnies attached, sitting on the paper towel I use to dry my hands, on the cutting block.

Farmer H is a functioning idiot. That's all I have to say.

So THAT'S Where My Luck Went!

I was riding a winning lottery wave at the time I mysteriously injured my rumpus/leg while sitting on the short couch. Not wild jackpots, but I had two days in a row with $100 winners, and also two days in a row (one overlapping) with $50 winners. That stopped when I took several days off. I haven't been shut out, but my wins are on the low side of my usual return percentage.

August 6 was the day of my unfortunate incapacitation. The start of my not-winning streak. Even when I ventured back to town, my scratchers were not producing much. On August 13, I got a text from Genius. You may recall that he just bought his dream home, and had a month to get moved while waiting for his apartment lease to end. During the transition, Genius and Friend moved a few items at a time, every night after work.

I had asked if Genius was getting his mail okay at the new address, and he said he was.

"I've read your letters, but there's a stack of lottery tickets here on the kitchen counter. We don't have any coins to scratch them! We don't carry money, and the coins are back at the apartment."

Anyhoo... on August 13, I got a text from Genius:

"Holy cow! Won $1000 on a lottery ticket this morning! It's labeled CH. It's one of the 50X. Not sure exactly when it's from. I was 4 weeks back on these from when we moved."

"That's from the Gas Station Chicken Store. Those red tickets, that Dad bought the $1000 winner from that guy at his store. And Dad's friend won $100 on it twice, and then I won $100 on it. Congrats!"

"I'll get these mailed back soon! Haha. I actually went 3/4 on the tickets this morning. Won a total of $1015 on the four tickets."

So that kind of explains it. My luck is in Pittsburgh! I was fortunate to have my moderate winning streak, what with this big winner lying on a kitchen counter in Pittsburgh!

Farmer H's Rumpus Must Be Breathing A Sigh Of Relief

Hopefully, Farmer H's rumpus has one less check to cash. You may recall when he got a bit mouthy about the "nuisance" notice he got from Sis-Town about the state of The Pony's yard, and trees growing in the gutter. Farmer H had a phone "discussion" with the guy from the city who wrote the nuisance letter. And went to city hall and asked to speak to someone in the street department, and was turned away. Then he left a message for his councilman to call him back, with no response.

Well. Farmer H tricked the mayor!

The regular monthly meeting for the city was last week. Farmer H presented his report on the apartments for the elderlies, including his lock box plan. The rest of the meeting continued. The mayor spoke last. As she closed the meeting, Farmer H said, 

"Do you have a minute so I can ask a question?"

She said of course. So Farmer H said it was about his property over on Pony Street, and the nuisance letter he had received from the city.

"I ended up mowing the yard that same afternoon that he wrote the letter. I don't have no problem about the weeds out front between the sidewalk and the road. I cut them as soon as I got the letter. My problem is with them trees growing in the gutter. He said I'm supposed to clear them out. I'm not going to cut those trees out of the gutter."

There were murmurs from the "crowd" of other city officials."

"You shouldn't have to do that."

"That's not your job to maintain."

"I talked to the guy who wrote the letter. He said he would talk to the street department and see. I never heard anything back from him, even though I called him. I went to city hall, and they said I should go out to the street department myself to talk to them. I also called my city councilman, and never got a response."

The mayor said that this guy HAD been out writing nuisance letters, so Farmer H wasn't the only person who got one. But the mayor also said that removing those trees in the gutter should not be Farmer H's responsibility. That she would drive by and have a look.

Whether she did or not is unknown. We'll see if Farmer H gets another letter. He is quite proud of himself for his cunning.

"I knew if I asked her right there in front of everybody, she'd have to listen to me, or look like a jerk. And when them other people said I shouldn't have to cut those trees, she agreed with them. Maybe I'll get an answer now."

Mrs. HM, The Scavenger

When I parked in my rightful handicap space at the Gas Station Chicken Store on Friday, I saw a scratcher on the pavement beside T-Hoe. It was face-down, and looked like a big one. My eyes weren't good enough to see the gray denomination number that's on the back. I was guessing it could have been a $20, $30, or $50. People don't just drop these tickets. They toss them out when they're losers!

Anyhoo... with my back/rumpus in recovery from the shooting pain, I had no intention of bending over to get it. In fact, a man was walking past me from the FREE AIR hose, and I pulled T-Hoe's door closed to let him pass. He stepped right over that ticket.

When I came back out after my purchase, that ticket was still there. So I balanced precariously with my cane, and picked it up. As I expected, it was already scratched. But the bar code had NOT been uncovered. It was a $50 ticket. So I scratched off the barcode, and entered it into my MOLOTTERY app.

As I've said before, I don't often enter my ticket points, because there haven't been any good prizes to buy with them for many years. Now all we can get are obscure gift cards, or a coupon for a ticket. Since I don't have a working printer, and the clerks don't seem to know how to scan it off a phone (from when I've seen other people ask), it's not worth the time for me. The app is time-consuming, and awkward to move around in. I use it to scan and make sure I don't miss a winner, but you have to do it all over again to enter the points.

Anyhoo... I DO scan in points for special drawings, like the one they have monthly for the "big" tickets like the $50s and $30s. I occasionally buy a $30, and The Pony likes the $50s. That's how "we" won $300 in a drawing last year.

I like to think of my act of scavengery as being selfless. I was picking up litter, you know!

Here We Go Again, With The Tickmonger Deigning To Take Responsibility

I made it to town for errand day, an abbreviated outing to baby my rumpus/leg nerve. The Pony rode along with me to the bank, and pumped my gas after I paid, so that I didn't have to rush back across the parking lot before the pump shut off. I took my cane, and felt better than I expected. 

During this outing, I kept feeling an itch on my left side. It was about midway down my ribs, a little past the midline, towards my back. It was in a convenient spot for my thumb to reach and scratch. Watching TV later that night, while Farmer H was downstairs in my Old People Chair, watching a different show, I pulled up my shirt and sweatshirt to get a good scratch, nail to skin. I couldn't see that area, but I felt something. Something I didn't want to feel. Something flippy.

It was a tick. I got a grip on it, with my thumbnail and finger. Ripped it out of my flesh, and smashed it, then mummified its remains in a Puffs With Lotion. 

Dang Farmer H! When he came upstairs to watch the next show with me, I informed him of my attack by a parasite he has once again brought into the Mansion.

"I don't know why you always blame ME. You get 'em from the dogs. That's where I get 'em. It's not my fault."

"Seriously? I walk from the house to the porch to the garage. I never step on grass. I've only been to town a few days this week. I only pet Jack, for about a minute when I leave, and a minute when I come home. I don't hold him. Just a hand on his head and chest. But YOU are out on that mower for hours. You walk around the pool messing with the filter. You walk around the trailer, loading the mower for town, where you MOW MORE GRASS! You go out in the yard to pick up Pupsie's trash. But I'M the one bringing it ticks???

I probably got it from the bed. That's the side I lie on. My left side. You don't even take a shower at night anymore. Your shoes sit right there in front of the recliner. You brought me my phone from my jacket one day when you had just come in. And you carried my jacket to the kitchen for me another day. My jacket never goes outside anywhere around the dogs. AND you said you've had several ticks this summer."

"You're full of it. It's not MY fault. I just got one off my leg yesterday."

Farmer H was doing nothing to prove his innocence! His statements could be used to prove MY case! In fact, in the wee hours before he woke up the next morning, I found ANOTHER tick! It was on my left arm, inner elbow. I could see this one, and dispatched of it the same way. They were both small, maybe half the size of a pinhead. Both on my left side.

Clearly, these parasites were introduced to the inner Mansion by Farmer H. They either went from the sheets to my jacket when I laid down for my nap, or from Farmer H to my jacket when he touched it, twice. I don't think the ticks migrated across the carpet and climbed the couch. I think they were on my jacket, and finally worked their way to my flesh. 

That river in Egypt is Farmer H's favorite body of water... There's nothing to be done about it after the fact, but Farmer H could at least take responsibility for bringing the ticks into the Mansion.

Evidence Of More Pupsing

I don't think I revealed the latest antics of Pupsie. Not because there were more interesting things to share. We all know that not much happens around here. More like it's a subject I don't like re-living. If I already told this one, skip on down to the latest Pupsing...

Last week, Farmer H stepped out on the porch to take a pee. At least it was dark. Almost. He came back inside and put on his camouflage Crocs.

"What are you doing?"

"Going out in the yard to pick up what that stupid dog tore up now."

He came back with a trash bag containing small pieces of paper/cardboard. Said it had my name on a piece, and that it was a POOP BOX! Don't get me started. I did not order a poop box, I did not WANT a poop box, I tell that to my NP who I haven't seen since December, and I avoid answering the million calls I get from Humana. No poop box for Mrs. HM, ever since I did it and insurance didn't cover it and it cost me almost $700 out of pocket. PLUS I never even got my results. At least this one was a nice "present" for Pupsie. 

Funny how you can get a package delivered that you DIDN'T order, but not half of the packages you ACTUALLY order!

______________________________________________________________

Anyhoo... Farmer H stepped out on the front porch again Wednesday evening. 

"Look what that stupid dog has NOW!"

It WAS somebody's doll. Lest there's any question of the identity of the perpetrator, I direct your attention to Exhibit A during the evidentiary proceedings. She's right there in the photo! 

Farmer H brought it in, waving it around, but I think he threw it back out! I don't remember. I was preoccupied with the last half hour of the 90-minute Big Brother episode. If he did throw it out, rather than putting it in the trash, I guess he figures Pupsie will finish eating it, and not leave particles on the porch, sidewalk, or yard.

I caution you not to look at the bottom edge of the picture. NOOOO!!! I warned you! Nobody needs to see Farmer H's toes, despite his monthly pedicures.

HOW Has This Guy Survived Into Elderlyhood???

Despite my stabbing rumpus/leg pain, I made supper for Farmer H on Monday. It was burritos, and I took some shortcuts. Rather than standing at the stove frying hamburger, I used some fajita frozen chicken in the microwave. Still, I performed other tasks that were taxing with my mysterious injury.

I opened a can of refried beans to warm in a saucepan. I diced an onion, poured shredded lettuce and shredded cheddar from bags onto a plate. Set the salsa and sour cream on the cutting block, with a spoon for each. All Farmer H had to do was pick up a paper plate from the stack on the counter, get two large tortillas out of a bag beside the paper plates, and start building his burritos. 

I thought that would be easy enough for him, as I leaned on the counter, telling him where things were. You know, because he's apparently a stranger to this kitchen, and blind.

"You'll have to get a plate. And your tortillas out of the bag next to the plates. I hope your hands are clean!"

Farmer H declared that he had washed his hands when he came home, in the bathroom and not the kitchen. He picked up his plate, and opened the microwave.

"I don't know what you're looking for. Your chicken is right there on the stove. I already took it out."

"The tortillas." 

"Over there, where I told you!"

Farmer H stepped back to the other side of the stove, the direction of the paper plates, and picked up A BOX OF INSTANT OATMEAL PACKETS!

"What in the Not-Heaven are you doing? Does that look like tortillas? They wouldn't even fit in that box! They come in a BAG! Right there beside the paper plates!"

Again, Farmer H picked up that oatmeal box.

"NO! What is wrong with you? Look at the plates! Right there!"

"Oh."

Maybe I should have let him open up that box of oatmeal packets, and see if he tried to put his ingredients on them! It just shows how much I do for him that he takes for granted. I'm surprised he didn't starve to death while I was severely down in my rumpus for the previous five days.

Once Again, The Mail Makes Deadbeats Of The Hillbilly Family

I'm sure you won't be shocked to hear that Mrs. HM is past due on her bills again. Through no fault of her own, mind you! There is plenty of money in the coffers. We just sold a flip house(s), you know! Got all our investment back, and more. Nor is Mrs. HM a scofflaw who thinks she deserves something for nothing. When she gets a bill, she pays it. Usually that same day, or the next.

Saturday evening, Farmer H brought in the mail. That was August 9, you know. It included an oversized square envelope with the return address of our insurance company. Not the one we've had for over 30 years, but the newest one that we use for the Bargan House flip, and our Hillbilly Mansion, since Farmer H switched our coverage for our home in January. He said the old company's rate was too high, and our agent agreed, but said he couldn't change it, and was losing a lot of customers.

Anyhoo... we left all our cars insured with the old company, out of loyalty. And also The Pony's house and the Double Hovel flip house(s), though they were through separate companies associated with the old insurance, only for rental properties. Let the record show that we always paid our Mansion and Pony House annually. When Farmer H changed our policy to the new insurance, he put it on a 2-pay plan. He went to the agent's office and paid him with a check in January. I made a note of it in the checkbook register.

Back to Saturday evening, when I opened the insurance envelope, thinking it was the bill for the next six months.

IT WAS A CANCELLATION NOTICE!!!

That was quite a shock. Unsettling. Embarrassing. We pay our bills! IF we GET them! 

I do not contemplate paying a bill six months down the line. I have other things rattling around in my head. I figure I'll get a bill when I owe something. I'm not setting up autopay for a twice a year bill that is thousands of dollars. 

Anyhoo... the letter said that the payment had been due by July 31. And that unless payment was received, the policy would be cancelled on August 17. Thank the Gummi Mary, the mail had been on time with this cancellation notice, having been sent on August 6, arriving on August 9. Well. There's no way to pay that bill on a Saturday night. Or Sunday. But Monday morning, Farmer H was at the insurance office, with a check made out for the amount we paid on January 31.

I didn't know if that was the right amount, because sometimes there's a few cents difference, or there might have been a late fee because we missed the deadline. I told Farmer H that I doubted that would keep them from accepting our check, and that if it was more, he could just pay that portion from his pocketful of cash he uses when he finds a bargain.

The Agent is a young guy. He told Farmer H he'd been watching our account, and saw that it wasn't paid. He had thought of calling, but he didn't. I WISH HE HAD CALLED! Farmer H explained that we hadn't been getting much mail. Sometimes days without it. He is missing a package. And our separate financial statements that always come at the same time did not, with mine arriving five days before his this month.

The Agent said he understood, and took the check. Heh, heh! He probably ran right to the bank with it, lest we stop payment, or not have the funds. I wouldn't fault him for that. His living depends on a percentage of his policy payments.

Farmer H came home with the big envelope, but not the cancellation notice! Of course he got a chewing-out for that.

"It had all the policy and account numbers on it! How am I supposed to keep a record of this? What if it happens again? How am I going to find out the details?"

"He kept it! He attached our check to it. He give me that receipt."

"This receipt is the size of a Post-It Note! It just has the amount and his signature. No policy or account numbers or dates of coverage! I don't know why he needed that notice. He has all the numbers in his records."

"I don't know, but that's all he gave me."

I guess we're lucky that the policy didn't get cancelled on July 31. The way my luck has been going, the Mansion might have been struck by lightning on August 1.

A Bad Day At 10Box

Mrs. HM does most of her everyday shopping in 10Box. It's conveniently located in Hillmomba, the workers are really nice, they have most of what I want, and the produce isn't rotten. Even when the left-side lottery machine rips me off, I'm not TOO discouraged, because it's my own fault. I know that machine is glitchy.

Saturday was not a good day. Only my second day to venture out after my couch-injured rumpus started giving me shooting back/rumpus pain and a numb ankle/foot on Tuesday. I went in 10Box for a large bottle of acetaminophen tablets. While there, I got some cookies for Farmer H. No, it's not a plan to try to kill him. He will find sweets without my help.

Anyhoo... as I was cart/walking to the checkout, the newest checker was closing up her lane at the end, the one I prefer. She's an older lady, with a helmet of gray hair. Looks like she might have once been a professional bowler. She's all businesslike, and not nearly as friendly as the other checkers. The checker who always asks me about scratchers was going off duty. I had just seen her outside smoking, and now she was buying a big jug of sweet tea. Helmet Hair had already put her CLOSED sign on the conveyor, as well as having her light off. Of course she agreed to ring up the tea for her colleague.

Only one more lane was open, with the Young Guy with strawberry-blond hair. He's a pleasant fellow. I wheeled over there, and was second in line. A couple was buying what looked like a month's worth of groceries. Most was already at the end, with the skinny guy bagging it and putting it back in the cart.

This is when other people decided they had to check out RIGHT THEN. Behind me were two girls, maybe 21 or just under. They had one item in their hand. No cart. I only had three items, so I didn't feel a need to let them go ahead. They were young, on four good legs between them. One had out her phone. They were giggling. Talking about guys.

Those Gals kept getting closer to me. There was no need for that. People behind them had to curve down the main aisle anyway. I turned to give them the stinkeye, and Gal One put her phone down. Gal Two giggled. That made me suspicious. Were they FILMING ME? I don't know. Didn't think so, from their conversation. But they'd shut up when I turned around, and put the phone down. SO ANNOYING! Most people would catch on that such a look means to GIVE ME MY SPACE. Not Those Gals. I could have been holding one on my left hip like a toddler, she was so close. 

I was getting more steamed by the minute, because Those Gals wouldn't back off. So I quit turning around and fumed silently. The customers ahead of me had all their groceries rang up, bagged, and in the cart. The lady took out her phone. Oh, no. Here we go again. A Save A Lot replay. Maybe she was using her store coupons from the app. Or trying to pay. She made many attempts to do something with her phone. Then the skinny guy came around and used her phone. Then he took out HIS phone. Whatever they were trying to do didn't work. So he took out a card and paid.

While all this was going on, Hemet Hair was flitting around, watching, and BAGGING TRASH. Seriously? You see a bunch of customers backed up, nothing moving, and you can't leave that trash for 10 minutes to help Strawberry Blondie get caught up? Shame on you! She even caught my eye. Which was NOT a welcome glance in any way.

Finally I got my turn. It was quick. I got away from the giggle girls. Went to the right-side lottery machine. I'll be ding-dang-donged if Helmet Hair didn't come over there and hover. It looked like about five tickets in the wastebasket between the machines. I moved my cart/walker so she could get around, but she just hovered. Distracting me. I was scanning in winners to play on. I always wait to see the worth, and make sure I tap the selection for using it in the machine, and wait for it to show up in the total. 

Well. Helmet Hair shook her big trash bag, which she was using for dumping in the smaller bags. Leaving the bags in, just shaking out the trash. I scanned three tickets, and tossed them in the wastebasket. Helmet Hair said, "Excuse me, I'm just going to dump this wastebasket." She came around the end of my cart, dumped the trash, and went on looking for more trash.

When I turned to make my selections, I saw that my total was not what I expected. One of those tickets had scanned to show me the amount, but had not added it to my total! That happens sometimes on all the machines. I either did it too fast, or the screen didn't recognize that my finger was a living appendage. Normally, I would pick my tickets back up and scan them again, to find the right one and apply my winnings. But I couldn't, because my just-scanned tickets were in Helmet Hair's big trash bag. It was a $15 winner!

No way was I going to try finding that ticket. My rumpus was acting up. I just had to eat that loss. Of course I blame Helmet Hair, but if I had been feeling my normal self, I would not have been rushing, and would have had no qualms about making her wait to get my trash.

It was just a bad day at 10Box.

Another Attempt, I'm Pretty Sure

Farmer H grows craftier with each attempt to kill me. So many (possible) accidents, so little time (before I naturally kick the bucket).

I don't remember if it was here or elsewhere, but I revealed that Farmer H was stung by a wasp in POOLIO last week. It was right on the chest. He whined over it for a couple days. Kept picking at it, saying there was a stinger in it. I didn't feel or see a stinger. You know if there was, with all his picking, it would have squeezed more venom into him. Anyhoo... I guess it's better.

It was the day before, or day after the POOLIO sting that I told Farmer H there was a wasp nest over the kitchen door. It's a favorite place for them. I used to go on a killing spree every summer, then knock down the nest. With less mobility, I am loathe to write that check that my rumpus can't cash. I don't want to try running from angry wasps if my first RAID doesn't get them all. I have never had an allergic reaction to a wasp sting before, because I have never been stung by a wasp. But my dad was allergic, and had to carry an epi pen when he was a telephone lineman. That's back in the day when an epi pen wasn't really a thing.

Anyhoo... Farmer H supposedly sprayed that nest while I was in town. I cautioned him not to use too much, because it would drip down where the dogs lick the porch after a treat.

Indeed, when I got home, there were no wasps sitting on the nest, and the porch was dry. I didn't think anything else about it.

Today (Sunday) while sitting at HIPPIE at the kitchen table, I saw a wasp buzzing around the window. I had seen him yesterday as well, and meant to ask Farmer H if maybe he should spray again. Being preoccupied with my back/rumpus pain, it was not a high priority.

Anyhoo... as I was watching the wasp flit around, a chill went down my spine, stopping short at my rumpus nerve. The wasp was on the other side of the mini blinds, but on THIS SIDE of the wooden window pane trim. The flitting was INSIDE THE MANSION!

But wait! It gets worse! The wasp was on the window by the kitchen door. It would fly/crawl up so far, then get a wing caught on the blinds, and fall to the sill. Next thing I knew, I heard that bumping/buzzing/bumbling at my right shoulder. The wasp was at the window beside me, where I look out into POOLIO! It's pacing along the top of the bottom window. The part where the locks are.

I have contemplated using Farmer H's grabber from his back surgery to poke it to death. I fear that it might slip and break a hole in the window pane. Or that the wasp will not take kindly to my attempts, and come after me. Or what if I only wound it, and it falls into my gambling purse that hangs on the back of a chair. I think this is a job for Farmer H.

He must have "accidentally" let the wasp in this morning as he left for his SUS2.5. It was not in the Mansion yesterday.

Surely Farmer H is not crafty enough to make a wasp sting him in POOLIO, and then let one in the house a few days later, so if I succumb to a possible allergic reaction to a sting, he can tell investigators: "We've been having a wasp problem lately."

A Wanker And A Yanker

Mrs. HM has been homebound since Tuesday, with a sharp shooting pain in her rumpus when she walks. With around the clock alternating ibuprofen and acetaminophen, and walking bent over to assuage the agony, there has been limited improvement. Tears only a couple times a day.

Friday, I took a chance and ventured to town. The hardest part was getting from the Mansion into the garage. I took my casino cane out of A-Cad, just in case. In fact, I used it at the Gas Station Chicken Store. There was still pain, but I felt more secure, because my balance has been off from the leaning walk, making other muscles stiff.

Anyhoo... before I went to the Gas Station Chicken Store, I stopped by Save A Lot to get a couple giant baking potatoes to go with Farmer H's BBQ pulled pork supper. I also needed bananas. There's a scratcher machine just inside the door, too! 

My rightful handicap space was open! And there were two carts in the return corral next to it. I figured that was a good sign. As I slid out of T-Hoe, a lady came pushing a cart to the corral. 

"I'll take that, if you don't mind." 

"Sure." She even turned it around and put the handle where I could grab it.

The bread and produce are right up front. I don't like buying bananas there, but it's not as bad as the other store. I got the bananas, and buns, because the baking potatoes were smaller than a regular potato that comes in 5 and 10 pound bags! So I didn't get any. 

All I had to do was wheel my cart/walker to the closest checkout, the only one open. There was just one guy there, with something in his hand. Not even a cart. I got in line. That's where my luck ended.

The guy was in shorts, with a cap, kind of reminded me of Kid Rock, only in his 20s. He paid for his items. I think it was a 4-pack of something like Gatorade. A colored liquid in plastic bottles. Maybe something else, because his bill was just over $9. He handed the checker cash, and pocketed the change. Then he told the checker guy that he also needed three packs of something. It was behind the counter. Some kind of tobacco product. That bill was $11-something. 

Kid Rock got out a card and tapped all his info into the scanner. Meanwhile, the line was backing up. Guy Checker called a lady up front to check. She asked me if I wanted to move lanes, but I told her it was easier for me to wait. She said, "I totally understand how it's easier not to move!" The lady behind me with a full cart followed her. I SHOULD HAVE!

Checker Guy said, "For some reason, your card is declined."

Kid Rock stood there a minute. Fished around in his pockets. Then said, "Oh. I have it locked." More fishing in his pockets. Took out his phone. Seemed like he typed half of War and Peace in there. Tried again. Declined. Told Guy Checker he was sorry. More pocket-fishing. Tried another card. It worked.

By now I had been standing there about 10 minutes. My rumpus was angry about that. At least I had my cart/walker to lean on. In fact, as I started setting my bananas and buns on the conveyor, I asked Guy Checker...

"Can we just put this back in my cart?"

He said okay. I moved up, where Guy Checker could just reach them over the card-scanner area and set them back into the child seat of my cart/walker. I noticed Kid Rock stepping around the end. I thought he was picking up his items from the waiting cart there. But he took the whole cart! I don't know why. He hadn't brought one to the checkout.

With that, Guy Checker grabbed the end of my cart, with my purse still in the child seat, and yanked it around to park there. Then proceeded to put my bananas and buns into the BOTTOM SECTION. My rumpus was quite unhappy! First with the yank that threw me off balance, and then having to walk a few steps to grab onto the cart again. And also with having to bend over and lift up bananas to put back in the child seat. The whole point of using my cart was so I could keep leaning on it, and have my items right there with no bending.

Kid Rock and Guy Checker are dangerous to the elderlies! One due to poor planning, the other not understand the fragility and immobility of old people. At least the woman checker he called up knew exactly what was going on with me.

Maybe I've Been Watching Too Many Murder Shows

Tuesday night, I heard Farmer H's phone ring. I figured it was a resident of his old-people dwelling units with a complaint. I couldn't hear very well, being in the bathroom, seated upon the throne, the door closed and the automatic fan running that is built into the ceiling light. Farmer H talks pretty loud, though. I thought I heard him saying he didn't know, and that he didn't want to "worry HM with it." 

As you might imagine, something didn't seem right. Mainly that he didn't want to worry me! So when I came out, I asked about the call.

"It was this guy I used to work with, asking if I'd seen your cousin. I told him no, I don't see him since I retired. He said he'd been trying to call him for several days, and your cousin don't answer. He called the neighbors, and they ain't seen him either. They said they picked up his mail, because it was falling out of the box. I said maybe try to call his sister, because I wouldn't want to worry his mom right now."

Let the record show that this is my cousin, a few years younger than me, who bought my mom's house. He's lived there since 2016, first with his wife, now alone since they got divorced. His mom is my favorite gambling aunt, who is now in assisted living. The neighbors have been there since I was in high school. They came from Croatia, and have noticeable accents. The man is a carpenter, and the wife was friends with my mom. Their house is across the blacktop road. Both houses have rural mailboxes on my cousin's side of the road.

Of course I was worried.

"Has he been going to work?"

"Yeah. The last time my buddy saw him was leaving work on Friday."

"That's FRIDAY! How much mail could he get on Friday, Saturday, Monday, Tuesday? Maybe he hasn't been staying there. Maybe he has a girlfriend or something."

"Maybe. The mail might have been in bundles, like they do ours, and it was just full."

"That mailbox is way bigger than ours. Maybe he just doesn't pick up his mail. I hope nothing's wrong with him! Should somebody do a welfare check?"

"He asked me if I had a key to that house, but I said no. So he's trying to call his sister."

That's my cousin too, of course. His older sister. She's pretty efficient. Lives in the city, works at a bank. If anybody could solve this mystery, it would be her!

The next morning, Farmer H said he had a text from his buddy that my cousin had been found, and he was okay. Nothing more. Not where he was, or where he'd been. Not really my business, but I'm curious. Most of all, I'm relieved. 

My murder shows tell me nothing good comes of an overflowing mailbox and a person who hasn't been seen for four days...

Pupsie Minds Her Manners

WHAT is going on in Hillmomba lately? Are these signs of the Apopadopalyspe (as Farmer H calls it)? Has the earth tilted on its axis? Are Even Steven and The Universe conspiring to make this the Bizarro World? Not only did Farmer H eat leftovers for five days without complaint, but

PUPSIE WAITED HER TURN FOR A TREAT!!!

It defies Hillmomba logic, I tell you!

When I came back from town last week, I stood at the kitchen door as normal, dispensing small pieces of whole wheat bread to the fleabags. I have to be careful, whatever I give out, because Pupsie rushes to grab it first. I could be tossing out ball bearings, nails, mini spiked mace balls, or razor blades... anything but medicine, and Pupsie would have them swallowed before realizing they were not for eating.

But suddenly she was minding her manners! I'd say "Pupsie," and toss a bread bit into the air, which she would catch and eat. Then I'd say, "Jack," and toss his to the porch at my feet. Puspie WAITED! Didn't shove Jack out of the way and eat his, too.

What in the Not-Heaven? For a couple weeks, I had been tossing Pupsie's treats across the porch, so she'd have to run get them, giving Jack time to eat his unmolested. Maybe Pupsie got tired of the back and forth, and thought Jack was getting more than his share.

It's a small sign of progress. Pupsie is still unpettable and uncatchable. Not so much a pet as a freeloader using us for food and shelter.

We still don't know how to solve our Pupsie problem.

It's Farmer H's World. We Are In It To Serve Him.

As you know, Thursdays are my errand day. I now have a detour due to that dastardly roundabout construction by the Devil's Playground. It sends me in a different direction, but navigating through there is not too painful. I just drive along the road beside the Devil's Parking Lot, get back on the main road going a different direction, and go two or three miles out of my way to get back to where I could have traveled through the light for a quarter-mile to get there.

I am in town for a couple hours. Farmer H is usually home before I get back. You know, unless I have groceries to carry in! Anyhoo... he was there when I got home last week.

"I waved at you but you didn't wave back!"

"WHERE?"

"By the bank."

"WHICH BANK? Our bank?"

"No. The other bank."

"Up town by the post office?"

"No. By the pawn shop. That's where I was headed."

"I thought you said the pawn shop closed, and you can't play your fake slot machines there anymore."

"It DID close! But they were selling their inventory, so I went by to get some things."

"I don't even go by there, because of the construction. Traffic is always backed up past the pawn shop."

"I was on the road behind it. Coming up from the Devil's Playground. That's where I waved at you."

"Why would I be expecting to see you THERE? Traffic is crazy, trying to avoid that construction. I was just watching out for crazy drivers."

"Well. I waved at you, and you didn't wave back."

Just to let you know, all the towns connect around here. I drove from Hillmomba over to School-Turn Town, where I avoided the roundabout. Then out to Bank Town. Then back through Sis-Town. And again back to School-Turn Town to return to Hillmomba. 

Of course I should have been looking at every red truck just in case Farmer H passed me and waved, right? To point out the ridiculousness of his egotistical expectations, I counted all the red trucks I saw on my way to ONLY Hillmomba on Friday. 

It's five miles to Hillmomba. Takes 10 minutes there. 10 minutes back. I'm there around 15-20 minutes, depending on how long the lines are in the two places I buy scratchers. When I got home, I told Farmer H...

"While I was in town buying tickets, I saw 17 red trucks! Was I supposed to look in each one, in case it was you waving at me?"

"Yes. You should of."

Nevermind that two weeks ago, I actually saw Farmer H in SilverRedO, at the stoplight by the Gas Station Chicken Store, coming from Domino's with our pizza, waiting for his left-turn arrow to start home. I was coming from Casey's, and passed through the light right in front of him, waving. He was first in line at the light! Yet when I said he didn't wave at me, he just said...

"Oh. I never seen you."

Even though he was stopped, at the light, and should have been watching the traffic in front of him flowing across the intersection.

It's Farmer H's world.

To Help Or Not To Help

Monday afternoon I was standing in the Hillmomba Casey's, waiting for the new guy to get my scratchers. It's difficult when they only have the left-side register open. The scratcher display is on the right side, against the front wall. This store packs so many "last-minute" (heh, heh, at a convenience store!) items along the counter that you can't see the lottery display from the left-side register. Even with good eyesight! Also, the computer that scans the tickets, and prints out draw tickets, is against the front wall.

Anyhoo, I had handed him my winners, and hobbled over to see the numbers on the scratchers I wanted, when the front door opened. A little.

It was a 20-something guy on CRUTCHES! He was walking on one leg, as you do with crutches, and trying to hold the door open with it propped against his right arm and crutch, all the while trying to maneuver across the threshold with the other crutch and leg.

Such a dilemma! I WANTED to help Crutchy. But I know from experience that sometimes, it's just easier to do it yourself. You know your own balance, and have a plan. Somebody coming in behind Crutchy could have easily grabbed the door handle, and held it open for him. But I was inside. That would require me getting in front of Crutchy as he was trying to enter, while leaning over to push out on the partially open glass door.

I surmised that it was safer to allow Crutchy to proceed without my help. I DID feel kind of bad. 

Crutchy got inside, and was standing behind the guy behind me. It didn't help him that New Guy Clerk was being friendly with me and telling about their lack of large pizza boxes. I don't fault New Guy Clerk for being friendly. He's only been there a week, and is getting better. I've saved him twice from undercharging me.

Anyhoo... as I was leaving, the guy behind me told Crutchy to go ahead. Crutchy said he was okay, but the guy insisted, so Crutchy stepped up.

I was relieved that Crutchy got some help, even if it wasn't from me.

I Might Need To Check His Forehead For Fever

Are you sitting down? I don't want you to collapse with shock at this reveal. I will not be responsible for concussions! No, T-Hoe has not yet received an oil change. But Farmer H has been EATING LEFTOVERS FOR FIVE DAYS! And is willing to eat them for a couple more!!!

Don't think it's my subtle way of trying to kill him. That's not the plan. I bought a smoked pork loin last week at Save A Lot. Sliced it up. Well, half of it. I had Hawaiian sub rolls. Farmer H said he could eat sandwiches with pepperjack cheese. I figured I could get two days of that, maybe three. He added Ruffles potato chips on the side.

On day three, I said I could make some mashed potatoes and green beans to go with it, and he could just have slices of it, warm. No, he said he was fine with the sandwich and chips. Day four, I offered Stove Top Stuffing. Farmer H loves that stuff(ing). But no, he was fine with the sandwich. By now I have sliced the other half, since I have also been eating pork loin for suppers. Mine has been in sandwich form, first with sharp cheddar, then with mayo, then with pickle and onions, then cut up with some frozen fried rice and hoisin sauce.

We continue to pork-loin. It's not like it's going bad. Like ham, it's cured and will last. I was perfectly content to chop up some for freezing, to include in a pot pie when the weather cools off. But Farmer H is happy with his sandwiches. The next side dish will be onion rings, his request, though I'm not sure they go together.

I see another pork loin in our future. A bit more distant future.

I Doubt Pupsie Gets The Credit

Mysteriously... the DEAD smell was gone from the porch area when I left for town on Saturday. So odd! Did that corpse just decay overnight? Did something else come eat it? Did Pupsie eat it? She eats everything else, even things not meant to be eaten, like plastic bottles and wastebaskets and ceramic/resin porch ornaments.

I refuse to believe that the odor of decay was really a propane gas leak that Farmer H fixed by tightening the valve on the tank. Have you ever seen a propane tank? It's a round handle on top, like for turning on the outside water spigot. How is a DOG going to grab onto that handle and turn it just a bit? Without turning over the tank and getting spooked? 

How is Pupsie supposed to get her snout into that area, get a grip with her teeth, and just partially turn that valve to open it only enough to let out a smell? I asked Farmer H if he meant the HOSE part, because I could imagine Pupsie trying to chew it, and making a hole. But no. Farmer H said it was the handle part. I don't accept that scenario. But at least the smell is gone. Somehow.

I'm pretty sure Farmer H didn't go under the porch and scoop out a carcass and shovel it down the sinkhole. Too many steps, including driving it in the Gator up to the end of the driveway. Too much work for no reward. Even if the reward would be proving ME wrong!

Meanwhile...

Little Jack was quite happy that I lingered on the porch before town, to take a picture. Can't keep that tail from wagging! Not a flattering angle, but at least it's slimming. I love that little dog!

Pupsie Is Not A Dog At All

Pupsie is a goat. I don't mean that as in Greatest Of All Time, though she might eventually qualify for that in the troublemaking category. Nor do I mean it in the species context. Nope. Pupsie is a scapegoat. Farmer H blames her for everything that goes awry, whether she is the actual culprit or not.

When I left for town on Friday, something smelled. It smelled DEAD. I noticed it as I rounded the corner of the porch behind my Sweet, Sweet Juno's old doghouse. By where GassyG Jr is parked, just before I get to the steps. Whew! What a stink! 

I was a bit worried. Pupsie and Jack had not run to greet me. They were nowhere to be seen. I thought I heard Pupsie down in the woods, barking with Copper Jack. There was a motor revving, like maybe a 4-wheeler or motorcycle. I didn't hear Jack. You know how you can recognize your dogs' barks, just like your baby's cry in the hospital nursery.

Oh, no! What if something had happened to Jack? He's getting old. Around 9 now. Or he might have been bitten by a snake. Or eaten something poisonous, like when he bit a toad and started shaking and foaming at the mouth for a day.

When I got home, I was SO HAPPY to see my little Jack standing on the carport, looking over the edge at Copper Jack in the back yard. He came into the garage with me, and got sweet-talked and petted without the annoyance of Pupsie, who was romping about on the porch.

The stink was still there, yet neither Jack nor Pupsie smelled. So they hadn't been rolling on a corpse, perfuming themselves with the fragrance. I even looked in the two big crocks Farmer H has sitting on the porch, lest a mouse or something had crawled in and died. Nothing. Maybe it was a squirrel caught up in the self-feeder.

Farmer H was mowing over past the BARn field. When he finally came in, I told him.

"Something's dead under the porch. It really stinks."

You know, because that's a Farmer H job. I figured he would find the carcass and drag it out and dispose of it down the big sinkhole out by the road. Nature's Wastebasket.

"Naw. I smelled it. That Pupsie has chewed on the handle of the propane tank and loosened it. It was leaking. So I turned it tighter."

"I'm pretty sure that's not it! Why would a dog chew on a propane tank, when she's never done it before? And propane doesn't smell like a rotting animal! Maybe there's a squirrel in the feeder."

"That's not what it smelled like to me. There ain't no squirrel caught in the feeder."

I'm not buying that. For a guy who says he can smell mold before you can see it on bread, surely Farmer H's snoot is more refined than that!

Farmer H Rises, Only To Lie In A Bed Of His Own Making

Friday, Saturday, and Sunday are the days Farmer H spends at his SUS2.5 (Storage Unit Store 2.5). On Fridays, he's usually there for half a day. He does some business, and gets things ready for the weekend. He takes a lunch with him. Then he goes to town for who knows what, and ends up at his buddy's business for the Friday afternoon bull-shooting session with his cronies.

I set out items for Farmer H's lunch the night before. He likes the little 2-packs of mini cheeseburgers, or chicken, or spicy chicken sandwiches that I get in the 5-for-$25 items at Country Mart. The cheeseburgers come with three packs in the box. The chicken has four. I keep track of that, so I know when I shop on Thursdays if Farmer H will have enough to get through the weekend. I make sure they are in the kitchen freezer of FRIG II. I set out a bag for him to carry his stuff, and a mini-bag of chips. That's the routine.

Earlier this week, Farmer H asked for some individual packs of ketchup and mustard to take to his SUS2.5, so he could add it to his mini sandwiches after he warmed them up. I said it's hard to find those unless you order about 500 at a time. He said the bottles are too tall for his mini fridge.

"Uh... couldn't you just lay them down?"

"I guess I could."

"They sell smaller bottles, you know."

"Okay. Get me some mustard. The spicy brown mustard. And maybe if you could find a pack of hot dogs that comes with just five."

"Why five?"

"Because I don't need a whole pack of 10 hot dogs down there."

"First of all, there are eight hot dogs in a pack. Unless I get the skinny Oscar Mayer kind. I think they come in a five-pack, but they're more expensive because they're brand name."

"No. Don't do that."

"Well, you know I can take hot dogs out of a pack, so you can take one or two."

"Oh. That would work."

Sometimes most of the time I don't understand how Farmer H's mind works. Last Friday, I asked him something about supper, and he said he was going to skip it, because he was full from lunch.

"From a little cheeseburger and chips?"

"No. I went to the senior center. It was Christmas dinner in July. We had turkey and dressing, and sweet potatoes, and green bean casserole, a roll, and pumpkin cake."

"Along with your lunch you took?"

"No. I can have it tomorrow. So I won't have to take a lunch. Sometimes I eat at the senior center."

That puts us back to the hot dogs. I DID buy them, and buns, and a bottle of mustard. Farmer H said he would take them on Saturday and Sunday. I figured he must have had a pack of mini cheeseburgers in his mini freezer at the SUS2.5. So Thursday night, I didn't set out anything for him to take on Friday morning.

Friday morning at 5:45, I heard a lot of rustling in the kitchen. That was odd. I had not bagged up the trash for transport to the dumpster. What was Farmer H doing?

Turns out he was getting a grocery bag from the stool by the kitchen table. And a 2-pack of mini cheeseburgers from the mini freezer in the laundry room. And a mini bag of potato chips from the pantry.

"I thought you weren't taking your lunch today! So I didn't set anything out. You said you wanted the hot dogs for Saturday and Sunday. I figured you were eating at the senior center."

"Yeah. I did say that. But I usually don't go to the senior center on Fridays. I'm taking something just in case."

Serves him right! His faulty communication style has caught up to him. I looked at the senior center menu later. 

Lasagna

Salad

Buttered Peas

Garlic Bread

Variety of Desserts

Do you think Farmer H will be eating mini cheeseburgers?

Flashback PTSD To Old Baby Blue

When Farmer H rushed in from POOLIO because the sudden rain was getting him WET, he said he was going to finish drying off.

"Finish? I thought you just sit on the porch until you're dry."

"I do. But since the rain was cold, I dried off some in the laundry room."

"Wait! What did you use?"

"A towel that was folded up there."

"Was it blue?"

"Yeah. I dried off, and tossed it in the dryer with my clothes that's runnin'."

"NOOO! That's my butt-towel! The towel I put on the kitchen chair as a cushion! I just washed it the other day!"

"I didn't hurt it none."

"But you used it, then threw it in the dryer!"

Let the record show that we don't mind using towels a couple times before washing. We're clean after a shower, and no need to use extra electric and detergent for washing a mostly-clean towel. And it's OUR SEPARATE towels.

But Farmer H was all sweaty from working under Bargain House, and had just gotten in POOLIO with NO CLOTHES. There's no soap in POOLIO. I don't know how well the pool chemicals are at cleaning PEOPLE. So the thought of Farmer H drying his private area with my butt-towel was horrifying. Even though I am fully clothed when I sit upon it, and it really only touches my clothed rumpus.

I can always wash it again, now that I know. Which I wouldn't have, except for the interrogation. Or if Farmer H didn't put it back exactly like it had been, before he tossed it in the dryer. Still, it made me think of my precious sweatshirt, Old Baby Blue, during a previous incident.

RIP, Old Baby Blue.