A Little Tale Of Good Cop(per)/Bad Cop(per)

Perhaps you remember our side-neighbor dog, Copper.

He has been roaming again. And by roaming, I mean living in our freakin' doggone (I WISH) yard. I see him run across toward the chicken house a lot. Not to worry, there's only a couple of chickens left. We'll restock in the spring, and Farmer H might sit on the front porch enjoying his retirement in his tighty whities in the rocking chair whittlin' with the paintball gun across his knees to dissuade Copper from snacking on our new fowl.

At night, our dogs go crazy barking at Copper. I can tell he's their concern, because they're on the garage end of the house, where Copper enters their territory. By day, Puppy Jack (aka Benedict Barkold) traitorously frolics in the front yard with Copper. BUT when I go out to walk, and make my turn to start back toward the Mansion, and see Copper advancing from the barbed wire fence (not good for keeping dogs in) to the carport, Jack takes off like a guard dog, chasing Copper away to save me. He might have a future in acting, that Puppy Jack.

Today, while I was in the shower, I heard a big commotion on the front porch. Thumping. Like somebody walking across the boards. The dogs were baying loudly. I thought maybe a UPS driver had carried a package up to the door. I didn't hear the doorbell, or the customary two knocks that they give before rushing back to their Big Brown. When I got out, I looked on the porch, but nothing was there. I suppose Copper had come up and made himself at (our) home.

Here's the kicker. Tuesday morning, I looked out the front window because I heard the dogs again with their intruder bark. And I heard a dog barking back. More than one. Not my dogs' voices. There was Puppy Jack, all fierce with his legs braced, in the middle of the yard, looking across at the horse-field neighbors' land. THERE WAS COPPER, also in our front yard, just a bit ahead of Puppy Jack, ALSO BARKING at the horse-field neighbors' land. And just across the gravel road, looking ready to charge, was

THE CRAZY ROTTWEILER MIX!

That's right. That bob-tailed black-and-tan maniac was mounting an assault on my fleabags, but was stopped by Copper!

My Sweet, Sweet Juno was nowhere to be seen. She does not like conflict, but comes out most of the time in support of Puppy Jack, whether it's for an intruder, or to stop a cat from scratching the living daylights out of him when its tired of being humped, or when I speak sternly to him in a BAD DOG manner for running after the horses. But there, facing the opposition with Jack, was Copper!

Copper had his hackles up. He was a sight to behold, all muscly and aggressive, charging short distances and snarling like he meant business. Jack did the same, from about twenty feet behind him. Ol' Crazy Bobtail finally shut up and went back down her own driveway.

That's some good karma for Copper. If he's going to be a watchdog for my property, I can put up with a few chicken snacks, and a little Jack-humping.

********
Let the record show that when Copper barked at me IN MY OWN DRIVEWAY a couple of times, he did not use that tone with me! But I still won't let my guard down with him. He is, after all, an animal, and unpredictable.

And Now, The Weekly Status Of Check-Out Lanes At The Devil's Playground

I don't expect people to use those self-checkout lanes at The Devil's Playground. After all, you're giving THEM your money, so why should you have to do the work, too? Why should somebody get paid (though not well, from what I hear) to stand by and watch you ring up your own purchases? That's what they're there for! To make sure you pay for what you're taking out of the store. So they might as well be hands-on in this pursuit of your hard-lounged-around-doing-nothing-for cash.

It was Monday morning around 10:30. Not a peak shopping time. There were about four or five normal Devil's Handmaiden registers open. I went to the first one on the food end, and it was Lane #4. There was an old lady (who looked like she used the same L'Oreal shade as I do) getting out her checkbook. Yeah. I don't know why they wait until everything is back in their cart, either.

Aged Agnes flipped open her checkbook and started writing. Even though the machine will do all that for you these days. Since there was only one other lady (with a full cart) between me and her, I decided to stick it out. I'd already read the headlines on the tabloids. Checked my phone for the time or even some junk email to pass the minutes. Aged Agnes handed over her check, and then thumbed through her check register to record her transaction. Then she took the receipt and looked at it, and put it in her purse.

THEN SHE REACHED INTO THE CHILD SEAT PART OF HER CART AND STARTED SETTING OUT OTHER ITEMS!!!

Nope. Sayonara! I moved on down to Lane #5. It was that slow Handmaiden I've had before, and two full carts were ahead of me. So I went on to Lane #6. Aha! Only one lady. Not too much. About a half a cart full. She already had most of it on the conveyor.

THEN SHE REACHED OVER AND SLAPPED THAT RUBBER DIVIDER BETWEEN HER MERCHANDISE!!!

"I have two separate orders."

SWEET GUMMI MARY! Who do you have to run over with your flat-tired cart to get proper service around that place? Sure, I've had two separate orders to pay for before. One with cash, and one with my debit card. But that's different! It's FINE when I need to do it. I don't know who these other people think they are! But they are surely not me!

Anyhoo...the Handmaiden made quick work of those two separate orders, and mine went fast enough. Even though she had a peculiar peccadillo about double-bagging everything.

I'm Pretty Sure There's Something Ironic Here

Today, as I headed to The Devil's Playground for the weekly shopping, a truck zoomed out in front of me. Oh, don't worry about Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! She has lightning-quick reflexes behind the wheel. It's only when she's on foot that she has the moves of a narcoleptic Galapagos Tortoise.

It was a small white pickup truck with a company's logo on the side in black. And on the rear bumper, it had one of those "How's My Driving?" stickers with an 800 number. I'm not identifying the company. Not because I want to protect them! Because I couldn't read it. Not because I didn't have my glasses. I drive without them all the time. The reason I can't give you the company name is that

THE TRUCK WAS DRIVING TOO ERRATICALLY!

That's right! Even if I wanted to take down that number and call to report on the driver's driving, I couldn't read the number because that white truck was weaving and swerving and speeding like Farmer H himself was behind the wheel!

My best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel will know where I'm talking about. I had just come from the Casey's where I get my gas, across from the bank that once shorted my mom $10, hung a right, and passed the florist shop that my cousin used to own, and then got in the left turn lane just past the frozen custard place. It was after my left turn, as I was driving down beside that auto parts store on the left, toward that apartment complex, that the white truck sped along the parking lot parallel to me for the length of it, then darted across the oncoming lane and right in front of me (!) without even looking. Then it jammed on its brakes to seem like it was stopping at the stop sign, but was really only slowing down enough to make a right turn and head towards The Devil's Playground's back entrance.

I might have been able to close the gap, because T-Hoe has a powerful V8 (not the juice drink), but there was traffic coming from the left at the stop sign, from that one-way end of the street. Not that it mattered to the white pickup truck that zoomed out in front of it. I don't know where that scofflaw was going, but last I saw, he was past the Pizza Hut stop sign and looping around toward McDonald's.

Maybe he had a hankerin' for a McRib. They're limited time only, you know.

I Wouldn't Actually Term It "Galore"

The two current residents of the Mansion never met a pizza they didn't like. That includes Imo's Pizza. Perhaps you've heard of it. The Square Beyond Compare. Maybe it's a regional thing. It's very thin, with a special cheese made just for their restaurant chain. You either like it, or you don't. Mrs. Not-A-Cook who taught down the hall from me for many years called it, "Velveeta on a cracker." What did she know, anyway. She certainly wasn't a cook.

Anyhoo...that's not the pizza I'm talking about here. We are dissecting Casey's Pizza today. I know blog buddy Kathy has eaten a Casey's pizza or two. Not all at once, of course. It's good pizza from a convenience store. The crust is doughy and they pile on the cheese. Every month, they have a special. This month it happens to be a specialty pizza. The price is still not all that bargainy. But for what you get, I don't begrudge them their fee.

Farmer H luuurrrrves himself some Meat Galore pizza from Casey's. The other day when I asked if I could pick him up something while I was in town, and mentioned a Personal Pan from Pizza Hut, he declined. But his eyes lit up and he said, "Maybe on the weekend we can have Casey's. We haven't had that in a while." Let the record show that he was just coming off his sickness, stuffing himself with antibiotics and steroids, and was probably regaining his appetite. The one he didn't have until he ate two days worth of leftovers brought back from lunch with my favorite gambling aunt.

So...last evening he went to town to "look at your Christmas present" (am I wrong to be apprehensive about that?) and picked up the pizza on his way home. He always goes in the store to order it, then waits. Can't call it in. I don't know why that is. Probably like my dad, who couldn't order at a drive-thru speaker, but instead had my mom lean across the seat and do it for him. Men.

The problem with Mrs. HM and a Meat Galore is that Mrs. HM does not like pepperoni. So Farmer H has to order half of it without pepperoni. Sometimes he tells them to put all the pepperoni on one side. He had a gal in Casey's that will do that for him. Probably the one who was going to get him the job at the unmarked storefront pharmacy as a delivery driver. Anyhoo...she wasn't working. So Farmer H told another girl that he needed half of that Meat Galore without pepperoni on it.

I opened the box when he got it home, and I couldn't see pepperoni anywhere. That's not a good thing. It only means that it was buried, somewhere there on the pizza, like those red pennant flags that kids used to have to find buried in sloppy muck (as opposed to neat muck) during the final competition on Double Dare.

Casey's builds their pizza with crust, sauce, flat meats, cheese, then sprinkle meats. In places, I could see the curved edges of Canadian bacon. But not pepperoni.

"How am I supposed to know which half has no pepperoni?"

"I don't know! The other gal puts it on top for me. So we can see it. This one didn't, I guess."

"Well, when I look at it, I can definitely tell one half is different from the other. LOOK! That half is twice as tall. And this one looks like just crust, sauce, and a little sprinkle of cheese, with some sausage clumps."

"Yeah. That must be YOUR half."

"I'm sure it is. It's basically just crust and sauce, really. So I'm sure that part is MINE."

Let the record show that because my half of the Casey's Meat Galore was so bereft of topping, I took THREE pieces instead of the two I had planned. And I probably still am malnourished from that serving. At least I didn't take six pieces. Which I could easily have eaten. But chose wisely not to.

Also let the record show that I DID find a piece of pepperoni hiding out on my portion. I knew when I bit into it. I put it on the plate. It was about the size of a toenail clipping. Not as big as the one we found in my grandma's braided rug that she gave us. And by WE I mean ME, with my bare foot, being gouged when sliding my foot on it as I sat down on the couch.

I assume Farmer H feasted on a thick strata of pepperoni and Canadian bacon and many meats, under a thick blanket of cheese. I hope he enjoyed it.

But not so much that he also took my other three pieces of skinny pizza.

Okay, So He Might Have Fudged A Little

One week left of the college semester, and both The Pony and the #1 Son have been hitting the books and regurgitating their learnin' into bluebooks. All work and no play, however, makes them dull boy young 'uns.

I'm not exactly sure what the #1 Son is up to, besides narrowly avoiding being burned to a crisp on Thursday. I had just left a luncheon date with my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel when my phone buzzed. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not look at her phone while maintaining the legal speed limit on two-lane hilly curvy blacktop. Some 18 minutes later, I learned that the building designated for #1's major course of study was billowing black smoke, with news crews and emergency responders on site. He had simply sent me a text to acknowledge that he was uncharred.

That's a good thing. Was I one to pay attention to breaking news throughout the day, and had I not been previously occupied with devouring a delicious chicken quesadilla...I would have been frantic, knowing that's the part of campus where #1 should be located. Thank the Gummi Mary his final was held on the other side of campus.

The Pony has been burning the midnight oil. And the 2:00 a.m. oil. I know that, because he sends me texts. Not about studying. Those I get between 8:00 and 10:00, if I try to ask him something. No, the later ones concern his Netflix viewing habits, most often The Food Network shows like Cutthroat Kitchen. He must be in a lull between finals, since he had one this week that he thinks he did well on, and next week being officially designated as finals week.

Last night, The Pony went Christmas shopping at Target, and played board games on the National Merit hall. This afternoon, he sent me a text that he was bound for gaming again tonight, but was at the moment making fudge with one of his friend girls. Let the record show that his recipe is one given to him by blog buddy Sioux. I sent him back to his lofty 12th floor rat's nest with (his requested) ingredients and a suitable bowl after Thanksgiving.

I'm pretty sure they were fudging it up in the friend girl's dorm room, because The Pony is a slob, and his roommate prefers that nobody enter their room. Ever. Even when The Pony is the only one there, having no simple drive home to spend the weekend. The Pony said he would be taking PART of the fudge to share at Game Night.

I'm pretty sure he had plans for strapping on the feed bag with the rest of it.

You'd Think Mrs. HM Was Punching A Time Clock, Rather Than Running On Retired People Time

You know how when you're in a hurry, the world stops revolving, spinning slowly down to die? Oh, wait! That's a Bread song. Anyhoo...when you're in a hurry, everyone else seems to be in slow motion.

On Wednesday, when I was meeting my favorite gambling aunt for lunch, I left home early enough to stop by the dead mouse smelling post office to pick up a package. We were supposed to meet at noon. It takes me about 40 minutes to get there. I meant to leave home at 10:45, to allow a plenty big cushion, in case I ran into traffic. NOT LITERALLY, of course! However, it was right at 11:00 when I left pulled out of the driveway.

I had barely passed EmBee when I came to my senses. The dead mouse smelling post office is closed from 11:00 to noon or noon-thirty for lunch! So much for that idea. I'd have to stop on the way home. Instead, I decided to drop by The Devil's Playground for a couple of things. It would be the third time I'd had dealings with The Devil this week. One of these days I'm going to get it together.

Anyhoo...I figured that would be cutting it close. But I only had a couple of things to grab. I snagged a great parking space right next to the handicapped. I figured I could be in and out in 10 minutes. Do you hear the universe laughing until it pukes? First of all, I couldn't get in the entrance door because one of the workers was futzing around just inside with a cart. So I had to go in the exit door. The Pony and Bel Kaufman would have been tearing their hair out if they knew.

It took me four tries to find an acceptable cart. One was jammed and wouldn't separate from a pile of peers. One had a broken blue flap thing, so my stuff would fall out of the child seat section. One had a retread-looking tire that was peeling apart.

Once I had my wheels, I took off at a good clip. Almost. I had to wait on an old man twice as slow as me. He was being a walk-blocker. It wasn't all his fault. He couldn't get through the exit beepers because three not-slim women were congregating on one side talking. I tried to avoid the hogjam by going on the other side, but a worker was talking to another worker who was talking to a worker handing out balloons to little kids. I really needed the OU Sooners' offensive line to clear me a path. They, however, were probably lolling around waiting for other people to take their finals for them. So I had to sweave like Farmer H to make my way into the Playground proper.

Well. Once there, I grabbed my green onions and hearts of romaine. Then I figured I might as well pick up some more plastic containers, since I try to ration my buying of them because they take up all the room in the cart. AND the day before, I had scored some BIG boxes of Chex for only $3.00. However, that display was at the back of the store. I thought I could swing it. I was feeling especially spry. I loaded up my cart with nine mid-size containers (three 3-packs), and fourteen big containers (seven 2-packs). I give a lot of Chex mix gifts.

I raced to the Chex display like a contestant on Supermarket Sweep. But without the turkeys and diapers. On the way back to the front, I figured I might as well pick up some more nuts. And the Bugles were on that same aisle. But a lady stopped me and said, "Where did you get your big cereal?"

"At the back! By the milk. Special display. Three dollars."

"THREE DOLLARS? That's how much THIS costs!" She waved a box of Corn Chex that wasn't much bigger than the individual 8-pack breakfast packages. At least people are thinking I'm SOMEBODY again, asking me stuff like I'm a store employee!

 I got to the front, where I discovered that the first open register was way up at #4. There was a lady with kids trying to pay, and one with a laden cart behind her. I moved to 5, where there was only one lady, already piling it on the conveyor. There I was, with my 23 containers and six Chex and two cashews and two mixed nut jugs and onions and lettuce. Not much, really. But a guy and lady pulled in behind me, and he said, "Oh, crap!" Like I was stocking a preschool larder for a month. And using a voucher.

The lady ahead of me had her stuff out, and was moving forward. I looked around for the rubber divider. They hide them for some reason. The Devil's Handmaidens don't want them to leave their side. You'd think those things are defense weapons. Anyhoo, this particular Handmaiden sniffed with derision, and shoved that order-stopper back along the metal track at me. I really did not care for her attitude. But I put it behind the last thing from the previous order, which was a long tube of hamburger.

I put my like items on together. I crammed them in. But the Handmaiden was slow moving that conveyor. In fact, there was a gap of about three feet between the register and the last item of the other lady. STILL the Handmaiden would not move it forward so I could fit my Chex boxes on there. She told the lady, "That will be..."

"Wait. That's not all. You don't have my hamburger."

Heh, heh! That's what Handmaiden gets for messing with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! She got all flustered. "Oh. I didn't know that was yours. I forgot it." THEN she had to add it on. THEN the lady's chip card wouldn't work. She tried it three times, with the Handmaiden finally taking it and doing it from her side. That was right after she announced, "That will be SEVENTEEN EIGHTY FIVE."

The lady said, "Say what?"

Heh, heh. The Handmaiden had just rung up the hamburger by itself. It was a real exercise in fustercluckery. All because the Handmaiden had that attitude about me looking like I was in a hurry (ain't gonna lie!) and wanting that rubber divider.

They finally got it straightened out. But I did not make my 10-minute shopping trip. It took 20 minutes. I pulled onto the restaurant parking lot with my rattling door and taped-up window right at noon.

And proceeded to wait unto noon-ten for Auntie, who said she'd slept in.

Two Women's Lunch Is Another Man's Supper

Wednesday I met my favorite gambling aunt for lunch at the FelineFish Skillet. We had the all-you-can-eat. It's only $3 more than a dinner, you know. So it's really more economical, because if you don't ask for more, THEY LET YOU TAKE WHAT'S LEFT ON THE PLATTER!

We got all three meats. Auntie especially wanted the catfish, and I especially wanted the chicken. We took a little shrimp, just because. It's all you can eat, you know. Even though only Auntie tried a shrimp. One. For sides, we got SLAW, baked beans, wedge fries, hush puppies, steamed vegetables, pickles/onions, and mashed potatoes.

The good news is, Auntie doesn't eat leftovers! She said I could take all the leavin's. It's on principle that she gets the all-you-can-eat. She wants more than two sides. Oh, don't you worry about Auntie going hungry by not taking some leftovers. She had a giant piece of pecan pie, and took what she had left of that. I guess pie is not a leftover.

I packed up two rectangular foam containers with 2 pieces of catfish, about a dozen shrimp, 1 chicken strip (for ME to have tomorrow), a pile of wedge fries (because they were cold when we got them), mashed potatoes, three hush puppies, and two tubs of tartar sauce. I had three round foam containers that I filled with slaw, baked beans, and the pickles/onions. They have some crunchy bacon-striped pork rinds that they put out when you are waiting, and I put them in a plastic sack. Auntie wanted me to take the tubs of butter as well, but I didn't want to be a hog.

The plan was for Farmer H to have the spoils for supper, and again the next day. Farmer H is no stranger to the leftover. It makes him no nevermind who has been munching on his food before he inherits it. C'mon. What's a few cooties from people related by marriage? It's not like the food in some countries (I'm lookin' at YOU, India), where people eat food from a market, where it has been sitting all day in the hot sun being massaged by fly feet.

Let the record show that we didn't eat off any of it. THIS TIME. We just picked it up off the platter, and gave him the sides that were left in the bowls that we had dipped out of and put on our plates to eat. Though in the past, we have taken him pasta right off a plate that was eaten from. Not a strange plate, of course, from another table. It was a known mouth with known saliva.

Anyhoo, I could have eaten more, but I have been making wise choices, you know. My feast was by no means all I could eat. I had three chicken strips and one piece of fish, two fries, a dab of slaw, and two pickle spears. I could have done way more damage to that spread. In fact, I only had the third chicken strip because Auntie was having that giant wedge of pecan pie. And believe me, it almost killed me to leave that one chicken strip, with the tasty special sauce sitting there in its squirt bottle at my right hand. But I resisted the urge.

I saved the biggest and plumpest chicken strip. I knew it would be quite satisfying for a simple supper after I met my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel for lunch the next day.

Farmer H was an hour late coming home from work. He bothered to call me at the time he usually gets home. After I had frittered away an hour waiting on him, ready to warm his leftovers in the oven to make them crisp. Once he told me he hadn't left yet, he was on his own. But I DID tell him the oven temp and time to warm them, and put some non-stick foil on a pizza pan for his warming needs. The two rectangular foam containers and the three round ones were stacked atop one another in a plastic bag on the top shelf of FRIG II.

I heard Farmer H stumping around above me when he got home. He didn't have any questions. So I figured he made his supper without incident. About an hour later, I went to the bottom of the steps and hollered up to him.

"Was your supper okay?"

"Yeah. It was good!"

"Is there some left for tomorrow? Or do I need to plan something else?"

You know. For appearances. To seem like I care about his well-being. I was sure there had been two meals there. You know where this is headed, don't you?

"I ate it all."

"Oh. Uh. ALL of it?"

"All but half of that chicken strip. And Juno ate that."

"What? I brought that for ME? You never eat the chicken!"

"I did tonight. Half of it."

"And Juno."

"Yeah. She really liked it."

That'll teach ME to save the largest, plumpest chicken strip! I daresay it would have been mighty tasty with the special sauce. If I'd known its soon-to-be fate, I would have saved the smallest, thinnest chicken strip.

Note made to self.