Cover Your Head If It's Still Attached

After receiving my comeuppance by way of millipede and spider, you'd think Mrs. HM would be safe to roam about her property for a while, before the next lesson in Where the Wild Things Like to Scare You. But no, a truce was not yet in her cards.

With my head bobbly from the spiderweb assault before I hit The Devil's Playground, I returned to the Mansion intent on carrying in my groceries, and relaxing critter-free over some Chicken Bacon Ranch Pinwheels.

First, upon parking T-Hoe in the garage, I had to fulfill my cat kibble duty. The dogs had not been around for the horror of the spiderweb near-decapitation my departure, but they'd come dashing across the yard from the BARn field as I came down the driveway. I could see Juno on the porch waiting for me. So I got out and went immediately to the people-door of the garage to greet her.

WHOOPSIE!

Something dark dived at my head and then up into the rafters of the garage! Sweet Gummi Mary! I was sure it was that bat that used to hang there in the louvered vent. The Pony liked pointing it out to me every day, lest I forget. Surely that bat had gone to the big cave in the sky by now! It's been two years since The Pony lived at home.

I opened the people-door so I had an escape, and looked up into the rafters to see the attacker.

No, it was not the Igloo cooler on Farmer H's shelving. Nor the box that is most likely filled with oily rags waiting to spontaneously combust. It's up there on the white wires, where the trusses are held together with one of those metal gusset plates.

This is not a good picture, but short of finding a ladder and coaxing my knees to climb it, that's as zoomed-in as I could get for a photo. Unfortunately, this critter got all bashful and folded up. It's not a bat at all.

It's a BUTTERFLY!

A beautiful black and blue butterfly. As big as a bat. You can't tell from the picture, but it was at least 5 inches across, all spread out. If you scroll down to see the picture at this link, that's what it looked like. A picture also popped up when I googled limenitis arthemis butterfly.

I didn't do a lot of research on it, because I don't want to know if it's just a moth state of some creepy grub worm.

I don't recommend any of you chasing a bat-butterfly up into the rafters of our garage. You'll pierce your non-decapitated noggin on those nails sticking through the roof!

Apparently, Arthropods And Arachnids Have A Firm Grasp Of Irony

Sweet Gummi Mary! One of these days, I'm going to understand the meaning of irony. Until then, even lowly invertebrates are tossing their resumes into the tutoring ring for consideration.

Seems like only yesterday (because it WAS) that I had a run-in with a millipede one thin wall away from my dark basement lair. I was a bit put-out with that critter for being inside my home, where I don't expect wildlife to roam.

Well...today, I went outside and started down the steps from the porch to the garage sidewalk...and ran into a spiderweb. By spiderweb, I mean a single strand. Not a nice, fanned-out web that glints with beauty in the morning sun, coated by droplets of dew.

No, the morning sun and dew were long-gone, it being noon-thirty by the time I got going. This must have been an anchor strand from which Spidey was going to fan out his magnificent trap. Being an anchor, that filament was as tough as braided steel. I swear, my forehead hit it first, and my noggin was rocked back on my shoulders as much from the force as from the shock. I was nearly decapitated!

Just like a certain Mansion-dwelling millipede...

The Stealthy Predator

I'm used to hearing odd sounds in my dark basement lair. Usually, though, I don't hear them within the lair itself.

Monday night around 8:00, sitting at my desk, I thought I heard a piece of paper flutter. That's not implausible. I have a lot of papers in my office. Stacked none too neatly in some spots. I glanced peripherally, to my left, to see if anything slid off. There was no sign of papers amiss.

A few minutes later, I heard it again. That put my unexplained-phenomena senses on alert. Still, short of a sheaf sailing across the lair and paper-cutting my jugular, I felt pretty safe there in my rolly chair in front of New Delly. I forgot all about it, played some Wordox on my Hoyle Puzzle and Board Games CD. A lot of Wordox. I so enjoy whooping the butts of those mouthy computer cartoon people!

Around 11:30, I went out into the main basement area to watch TV in my OPC (Old People Chair). A couple hours later, nature called my bladder collect, with an urgent message. I took care of business, with the door of the NASCAR bathroom open.

I never used to do that. Even when alone in the house, I'd close the door. But now, with Farmer H asleep since 8:00, and The Pony 490 miles away at college, and Genius living in Kansas City with intentions probably to return only for Christmases...I leave the door open.

Business finished, I started back to the OPC, and saw my nightmare, right outside the bathroom door. Trundling along the base of the wall that has my dark lair on the other side.

A MILLIPEDE!!!

I hate millipedes. I also hate feet, you know, and a millipede has A LOT of not-even-real feet, at the end of those hairy-looking legs that flow along like fringe. They are creepycreepycreepy. I despise them. Even more than crickets.

YEEEEEEEK!!!

Nobody was there to rescue me. Farmer H was upstairs, visions of auction-hoard dancing in his head. I was on my own. I hurried back for a generous wad of toilet paper (Charmin Strong) and inched over to wrangle that beast from the side. I snapped him up and rushed to the toilet and flung him in, then hit the flusher.

I think his head must have popped off! Even though I was watching to make sure his body went down (or UP, it's a basement toilet, after all), I couldn't see that critter, because he was wrapped in the toilet paper. I'd felt something crunch when I grabbed him. Okay, when I squeezed the toilet paper when I grabbed him, to make sure he didn't flip out onto my feet. Yes, he was mummied-up in the toilet paper, but a little black ball kind of thing NOT POOP swirled round and round. I'm pretty sure I decapitated him.

I hope he doesn't have family out to avenge his death.

That Old Deer Smell

Our newest automobile, A-Cad, the GMC Acadia, kept his new car smell for about two years. I blame it recently fading out to the continued driving of Farmer H.

A different smell accosted me on the way to town Monday in T-Hoe. An old deer smell. Due to a deer carcass (in a ditch) that is not being eaten fast enough by the turkey buzzards. I first noticed that deer a few days ago. I suppose it was fresh then, since there was no odor.

According to Farmer H, you can pick up a roadkill deer to harvest the meat. Knowing Farmer H sometimes stretches the truth, I checked on it online. Looks like you can, as long as you get a form from the Missouri Department of Conservation.

I suppose whoever hit this deer got the Not-Heaven out of there, leaving their deer behind. I would never even consider harvesting a deer that I didn't see killed right then. I'm pretty sure you have to get the innards out within a reasonable amount of time (especially in the 90 degree heat we've been having) before it taints the meat.

Not that I blame the driver. Deer are always leaping about along this road, more willy-nilly than eleven lords a-leaping around Christmas time. People can get killed by a deer smashing through the windshield, depending on the speed of the car, and the size/location of the deer. I'm pretty sure that driver would have known the deer was done-for, though. Because it barely made it off the blacktop. They were probably shaken up, and just wanted to leave the area. That's no crime.

Anyhoo...now that deer's bloated carcass has to decompose. It's not like we have a department that scrapes up roadkill. On the highway, maybe, to prevent accidents. But not on all the rural roads. Nature must take its course, and those nutrients return to the soil, and fuel smaller wildlife.

While this happens, I have to decide how to deal with the pungent gases of decay as I drive by. Even though T-Hoe's air conditioner is set on recirculate, it still pulls in some air from outside. Otherwise, I'd die from lack of oxygen, from re-breathing my own exhalations for an extended time. My plan was to shut off the air entirely along that stretch of road. Because I didn't want the tainted air to recirculate once it got sucked in.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom plans, T-Hoe laughs. There seems to be an electrical short in T-Hoe's dashboard systems. Sometimes, the radio does not come on when I start him up. Then it starts playing on its own about 5 minutes into the drive. Lately, the recirculate button, which used to turn off every time the ignition was turned off, stays on all the time. But doesn't always recirculate unless you punch it off and on several times.

Well. Nearing the late deer on Monday afternoon, I pushed in the AUTO button to turn off the air conditioner completely. That should have meant that I'd need to push the air conditioner button itself to start it up again. But no. That darn button wouldn't go off.

I might have been able to jack up the temperature control buttons (one for the driver, one for the passenger side) from 68 degrees to 90, to assure that the system shut down. But I didn't think I had time to do that, what with paying attention to driving along the curvy blacktop road.

So I just drove on by, breathing through my mouth, knowing full well what I was inhaling, even though I didn't smell it. Once I got past, to the top of the hill, I cracked the driver's window and the diagonal back passenger window, to pull fresh air through. Then I closed the windows, and let that fresher air recirculate again.

Hillbilly Mom problems.

Aloha, Eh?

Since blog buddy River asked about Hawaiian Rolls, here's the scoop. They're a brand of sweet dinner rolls that the Hillbilly family enjoys.

In fact, we enjoy them so much that this week, I bought TWO kinds. It also comes in a sliced bread version, and a round loaf of bread that sits in a metal pie pan kind of tray inside its wrapping bag. Of course we've tried them both, but you can't have every variety sitting in your cabinet at once. The round loaf would be good for hollowing out for dip, I imagine, but we just ate it like regular bread, slicing off pieces as we wanted.

Farmer H likes the mini sub rolls. He uses them to make sandwiches with deli meat and cheese. Or for a hot dog split in the middle and fried in a non-stick skillet until both sides get a little bit charred. Then he adds yellow mustard and sliced onion. The mini sub rolls are twice as long as a regular roll. So if you're out of mini sub rolls, you can tear off two consecutive regular rolls, slice them in half through their middle, and have a substitute mini sub roll.

I prefer the regular rolls. They're just the right size to accompany a salad instead of using crackers. Something about their sweet flavor perfectly complements ranch or bleu cheese dressing and the fragments of sunflower seeds and shredded cheddar that may be on the fork as well. These rolls are moist and sweet, and would probably have been loved by Heidi's grandmother!

There's also a version that is called Savory Butter, I think. Not sure of the name, but The Pony, a true Butterton, preferred them. As I remember, they look the same, with the same texture, but are not quite as sweet. They also come in a wheat variety, I think. We had them once, but in comparing the labels, the wheat version actually had more sugars and carbs than the regular. I was actually trying to help Farmer H with his low-carb diet, but since he shows no qualms about sneaking Casey's donuts every day, I realized that was an exercise in futility.

We LOVE our Hawaiian Rolls here in Hillmomba.

Accurate Down To The Nano-H

When it comes to timing, Farmer H is a virtual United States Naval Observatory Master Clock. He is very precise in his movements and communications. All without conscious effort on his part.

A few days ago, I tried to call Farmer H to ask if my dogs were okay. They were conspicuously absent from the porch area when I left for town, and also when I came home. Those mutts love their cat kibble. It's not like them to miss a treat. Besides, Copper Jack was there. And he's not even our dog. With Farmer H's penchant for locking my Sweet, Sweet Juno in the BARn, and (formerly Puppy) Jack in the garage...I felt it necessary to jog his memory as to their whereabouts.

Of course my call was not answered. However...

As I was gingerly one-shoed jolting my sore ankle down the 13 stairs to my dark basement lair, holding onto the stair rails as far as I could, a tray of lunch pinwheels in my free hand, a double Devil's Playground bag filled with two bubba cups full of ice bookending a full 44 oz Diet Coke draped along the forearm...my cell phone started ringing in my shirt pocket.

Well. That is just the most inopportune time ever to call Mrs. HM. No way could I let go of the rail, nor set down my cargo, just to answer a call I was sure was from Farmer H. I know his talent for calling at the worst time ever.

Before I was even to the 13th step, the house phone started ringing. I had to put on my other shoe and shuffle off to the lair and lay my burden down in order to answer before it went to the answering machine. Of course it was Farmer H, returning my call. He'd been on the tractor, unable to hear the phone, but somehow able to know that I called and call me back the instant I picked up my lunch tray. And the disloyal flea-bags had been with him all day.

Saturday, as I was leaving Orb K, I observed Farmer H walking across the parking lot in front of T-Hoe, having just put Orb K gas in his Trailblazer. I've told him not to buy gas there, due to his auction buddy getting water in his tank (and Orb K not following through on their promise to pay for the repairs of his vehicle and teens of others). Yet there he was, crossing from the pumps into the store.

When I was almost to the mailboxes, I called Farmer H. To tell him there was a dead deer in the ditch near there. You can never be too careful when you live in a deer crossing area. Farmer H said he'd look out, and that he was on his way. Which meant he couldn't be more than 5 minutes behind me, as it's a 10-minute trip to town, and I wasn't quite home.

I took my time tooling up the gravel road. Finished listening to a song once I parked in the garage. Got out to give the dogs their cat kibble. Petted them. I was sure Farmer H should be there any instant to help me carry in three bags of groceries from Save A Lot. But of course he was not.

Farmer H showed up when I was taking items out of the first bag, stashing them in FRIG II's freezer. Because he has impeccable timing like that. Always appearing RIGHT AFTER the work has been done.

You could set your watch by him.

The Devil's Manservant

Just when you thought you were safe from another rant about The Devil's Handmaidens...

Town was crazy yesterday. CRAZY!. I should know better than to get out on the Friday before a holiday, especially when that Friday is also the last day of the month! People are taking the day off from work! Planning for their Labor Day Monday! Flush with cash from their benefits checks arriving ON FRIDAY, since the 1st falls on a weekend.

Yeah. Traffic was crazy. The post office was crazy. The credit union was crazy. The bank was perhaps craziest. And The Devil's Playground had to bring in extra crazy.

That poor counter dude at the post office was getting reamed by some guy whose package from Amazon had been sent back several times. Counter Dude tried to explain that it couldn't be sent to a non-existent address, but the complainer kept complaining that he'd already called about this, and did what he was told, and now he had to go BACK HOME and do it all again. Sounded like he wanted his shipping money back, and that the problem was with the address he was trying receive his package. As much as I felt sorry for Counter Dude, I'm pretty sure the fault was with the post office, and what they told him his address was.

The credit union had a new guy working. So of course he doesn't recognize me on sight, and know that I'm legit, taking cash out of The Pony's college account (my name is on it also). That's not my issue with him. My issue with him is that when he bothered to ask what bills I wanted it in, and I told him, he came back to count out a pile of 50s. Which was neither of the two denominations I'd requested. I took them anyway, since people were waiting, and put them in the bank.

See, I had planned on putting some in the bank to cover the cost of the e-checks I did for The Pony's interim housing costs from summer to fall, while keeping part of it as our weekly cash, replacing the check I'd written him for his own monthly allowance. Rather than deposit the whole thing, and then withdraw cash from the ATM. Which is what I ended up doing. Because nobody likes 50-dollar bills.

SWEET GUMMI MARY! The Devil's Playground was extra Not-Heavenish on Friday! The parking lot was almost full. I could barely navigate the aisles with my cart/walker, due to so many EMPLOYEES SHOPPING! Uh huh. That new Drive Up Service is a pain for regular shoppers. Employees designated to compile those orders have big metal carts, with multiple plastic bins on them, which they park in the aisles while gathering groceries. This is surely the beginning of the apopadopalyspe, as Farmer H calls it. People can't even shop for their own groceries!

Anyhoo...now that we're caught up...let me tell you about my freshest Not-Heaven of the day, THE DEVIL'S MANSERVANT!

I suppose The Devil had to call in reinforcements for all the holiday business, because a brand new guy was opening Register 1. I know he was brand new, because Register 1 is surely Not-Heaven within Not-Heaven. It has to serve the most customers, because they come to it first, and get in line. I saw The Devil's Manservant fiddling, but his light was off, so I thought he might be closing. NO! He turned it on, and came around to say he could help me. You can bet I hustled my cart/walker over there forthwith from Register 2.

I didn't have all that much, really, but the self-checkers (the opposite of the Drive Up Shoppers) were lined up six deep. Not that I would have deigned to scan my own merchandise, mind you. Here's the order. Let the record show that The Devil was out of Chicken Bacon Ranch Pinwheels, the main reason I stopped there. I had four bananas, three cans of white meat chicken, a bag of frozen peas, a carton of chicken broth, a jar of Alfredo sauce, two packs of Hawaiian Rolls (regular, and sandwich length), and a small container of slaw.

The Devil's Manservant clunked my items into the bags, and spun the bag carousel clockwise! That meant I couldn't reach my bags. Had he spun it counterclockwise, I could have lifted them out as he spun it to fill the next bag.

THEN he told me my total, and went around and put my bags in the cart. You might think that's a nice thing for him to do, but I'm never sure I get all my bags like that. AND the chip reader thingy froze on DON'T REMOVE CARD. I couldn't get the screen to put in my PIN. I told him there was something wrong, and he said, "I have to hit a button." Well then. I suggest you spin your carousel the normal way, and stay at the register so you can do just that!!!

THE REAL ISSUE was the way he bagged. The two packs of Hawaiian rolls together in a bag, but turned different ways to make the bag not very pickupable. The bananas on top of the peas on top of the slaw. I prefer bananas alone, so the corners of packages don't bruise them. AND he put the three cans of chicken in with the Alfredo sauce and chicken broth. In fact, he ripped the first bag, so wrapped it around the chicken broth before sticking it in with the other stuff.

Seriously. These young guys need to understand their customers' capabilities. Old ladies don't want every heavy item in the same bag. And for cryin' out loud, SWEET GUMMI MARY, those heavy bags need to be at least DOUBLE BAGGED!

As Farmer H pointed out the other day (and he's not even a regular denizen of The Devil's Playground), "I'd hate to think about the items those shopper workers would choose for my list!" Seriously. It would be like when I took The Pony shopping with me, and everything he brought back had a rip, a crushed corner, a dent, or a torn label.

I suppose the silver lining of this dark shopping cloud is knowing that even if The Pony doesn't land a chemical engineer job right off...his talents can be used to earn minimum wage as a Devil's Shopper.