Farmer H used to get onto his older boys quite regularly about their manners at the dinner table. Little Future Veteran was a bit unnerved by it. Remember in True Grit, when Rooster Cogburn told Mattie Ross of Near Dardanelle in Yell County about his stepson, Horace? "That boy musta broke forty cup!" Well. Little Future Veteran must have SPILLED forty cups of liquid. Milk, juice, soda, water... home, restaurant, friends' houses... didn't matter. Maybe he tried too hard NOT to spill, and it was on his mind.
HOS (Farmer H's Oldest Son) was not a spiller. He was a shoveler. Farmer H was continually reminding him not to hunch over his plate, holding his fork in his fist.
"You act like you're in prison. Like a convict, shoveling your food. That's not how you hold a fork. It's like this. Like holding a pencil."
"At least I'm using a fork."
HOS was always a different-drummer marcher. He held his meat down with his left palm, while sawing at it with the knife in his right.
"Look what you're doing, son! That's not how you cut meat! Here. Use the fork in your left hand to hold it in place, then slice it with the knife. Then you switch hands with the fork when you eat it."
"Or I can eat it with the fork in my left hand," said HOS, gripping it with his fist, shoveling in a piece of meat.
"You have to be civilized, son! And now is the time to learn it."
By the time he was 13, HOS had a girlfriend. She was the daughter of one of Farmer H's bowling buddies. She invited HOS over for supper one evening. Farmer H made sure HOS's hair was combed, back in the chili bowl days, parted down the middle. Made sure he put on a clean shirt. Then dropped him off at the girlfriend's house. When he got home, we sat around talking about his dinner date.
"Did you hold your fork right?"
"Dad. We had pork chops. My girlfriend picked hers up with her hands and started gnawing on it. Ronnie gave his plate to his wife, for her to cut it up for him, after she was done fixing the baby's plate. So I'm pretty sure my manners were good enough."
Friday, June 7, 2019
Thursday, June 6, 2019
The Short-Cutter Chef
When Farmer H and I lived in my $17,000 house, HOS (Farmer H's Oldest Son) and The (little future) Veteran came to stay on weekends and during the summer. Of course I was off all summer, being a teacher, so it was my duty to feed them. They weren't too particular. They especially liked grilled cheese sandwiches, which I made with Velveeta.
I guess Farmer H was lacking in the culinary arts, even though he'd been on his own for a while, post-divorce. I know he used to cook them scrambled eggs for breakfast, and load them with garlic powder. I'm not sure the boys liked eggs that way, but they didn't turn down any food. They even fought over the plate of boiled hot dogs Farmer H set in front of them, when they brought their older brother to Farmer H's apartment some weekends. Just because there were 8 hot dogs for four guys sitting at the table... didn't mean everybody would get 2!
I do remember a Saturday that I had something special to do, which left Farmer H all alone, taking care of his own children. They wanted grilled cheese for lunch. When I got home, both boys ran to hug me. They must have been about 9 and 7 at the time.
"HM! HM! You're back! We missed you SO much!"
My grilled cheese is what they were really missing, I found out a few minutes later, from HOS.
"Dad made us grilled cheese. I took a bite, and said, 'Where's the cheese?' It's like he didn't even put cheese in it!"
"I did too! I put a slice on each sandwich!"
"What cheese did you use?"
"Those singes. In the plastic wrapper."
"ONLY ONE?"
"Yeah. That's all you need."
"Did you eat one?"
"No."
"You have to put VELVEETA on a grilled cheese! To make it cheesy! The cheese should run out when you bite into it!"
"It's easier to use the singles."
It's a wonder they didn't starve to death! Farmer H should have stuck with his specialties: BBQ on the charcoal grill, and fish (caught from the lake) wrapped in foil with butter and lemon pepper, baked in the oven. Forget about the garlic powder eggs...
I guess Farmer H was lacking in the culinary arts, even though he'd been on his own for a while, post-divorce. I know he used to cook them scrambled eggs for breakfast, and load them with garlic powder. I'm not sure the boys liked eggs that way, but they didn't turn down any food. They even fought over the plate of boiled hot dogs Farmer H set in front of them, when they brought their older brother to Farmer H's apartment some weekends. Just because there were 8 hot dogs for four guys sitting at the table... didn't mean everybody would get 2!
I do remember a Saturday that I had something special to do, which left Farmer H all alone, taking care of his own children. They wanted grilled cheese for lunch. When I got home, both boys ran to hug me. They must have been about 9 and 7 at the time.
"HM! HM! You're back! We missed you SO much!"
My grilled cheese is what they were really missing, I found out a few minutes later, from HOS.
"Dad made us grilled cheese. I took a bite, and said, 'Where's the cheese?' It's like he didn't even put cheese in it!"
"I did too! I put a slice on each sandwich!"
"What cheese did you use?"
"Those singes. In the plastic wrapper."
"ONLY ONE?"
"Yeah. That's all you need."
"Did you eat one?"
"No."
"You have to put VELVEETA on a grilled cheese! To make it cheesy! The cheese should run out when you bite into it!"
"It's easier to use the singles."
It's a wonder they didn't starve to death! Farmer H should have stuck with his specialties: BBQ on the charcoal grill, and fish (caught from the lake) wrapped in foil with butter and lemon pepper, baked in the oven. Forget about the garlic powder eggs...
Wednesday, June 5, 2019
For Farmer H, Over-Familiarity Breeds Future Neighborliness
I don't mean to violate HIPAA laws, but some background information is needed to provide the full impact of Farmer H's recent behavior.
Monday, we got a recorded message reminding Farmer H of an appointment that he made last year. I think it was necessary, that reminder. I actually would have answered, but since I'd already had 5 scammer phone calls (8 today!), I let it ring. These scammers must be getting paid overtime!
Anyhoo... this was an appointment with a specialist, in another city, near Farmer H's old workplace. Nothing is wrong with him (other than the obvious), it's just a routine appointment with a urologist. When he called to tell me he was on his way, I asked if he had to pee in a cup.
"Yeah. I have to pee. And the doctor sticks a finger up my butt."
"Oh! That's too much information!"
"It's a woman doctor, too! She does it every year."
Again, that was too much for me. I found a way to get off the phone, or Farmer H might have talked to me the whole 30-minute drive, revealing far more than I could stomach. Either he didn't get the hint, or he was in a particularly talkative mood, because Farmer H called me after the appointment, as well.
"I'm just now leaving..."
"NOW? It took 45 minutes?"
"Well, it took 15 minutes. But the doctor talked a lot, and then I went by Goodwill."
"Talked a lot? Is your butt okay?"
"Yeah. It's still there, ha ha! The doctor is looking for a house to buy. She's from around home, over in Bill-Paying Town, but she's looking for something closer to work. Her and her husband have been looking at properties. I told her backcreek neighbor Bev is selling her house, and she wanted to know all about it. I think it got listed today. So I think the doctor is going to call the realtor and ask about it. I told her it was on a gravel road. She said she has a gravel driveway right now, that won't bother her. And it's about halfway closer to her work."
Sweet Gummi Mary! Farmer H is trying to get us a new neighbor. One who sticks her finger up his butt every year.
Monday, we got a recorded message reminding Farmer H of an appointment that he made last year. I think it was necessary, that reminder. I actually would have answered, but since I'd already had 5 scammer phone calls (8 today!), I let it ring. These scammers must be getting paid overtime!
Anyhoo... this was an appointment with a specialist, in another city, near Farmer H's old workplace. Nothing is wrong with him (other than the obvious), it's just a routine appointment with a urologist. When he called to tell me he was on his way, I asked if he had to pee in a cup.
"Yeah. I have to pee. And the doctor sticks a finger up my butt."
"Oh! That's too much information!"
"It's a woman doctor, too! She does it every year."
Again, that was too much for me. I found a way to get off the phone, or Farmer H might have talked to me the whole 30-minute drive, revealing far more than I could stomach. Either he didn't get the hint, or he was in a particularly talkative mood, because Farmer H called me after the appointment, as well.
"I'm just now leaving..."
"NOW? It took 45 minutes?"
"Well, it took 15 minutes. But the doctor talked a lot, and then I went by Goodwill."
"Talked a lot? Is your butt okay?"
"Yeah. It's still there, ha ha! The doctor is looking for a house to buy. She's from around home, over in Bill-Paying Town, but she's looking for something closer to work. Her and her husband have been looking at properties. I told her backcreek neighbor Bev is selling her house, and she wanted to know all about it. I think it got listed today. So I think the doctor is going to call the realtor and ask about it. I told her it was on a gravel road. She said she has a gravel driveway right now, that won't bother her. And it's about halfway closer to her work."
Sweet Gummi Mary! Farmer H is trying to get us a new neighbor. One who sticks her finger up his butt every year.
Tuesday, June 4, 2019
Mrs. HM Finally Met A Pizza She Kinda Didn't Like
Remember last week, when I revealed that Farmer H can't even slice my side of the pizza for me? It wasn't very good pizza! Sometimes these Save A Lot supremes are good, but this one seemed like it was all crust. No wonder it was so hard to slice!
Yes, I admitted that Farmer H and I each take half the pizza. Sometimes, we set some aside for the next night. This time, we did not. Which isn't to say that Mrs. HM was gorging herself with pizza.
Oh, I gamely ate three pieces. Then I said, "Wait a minute! I'm XX years old! Nobody is going to tell me to clean my plate, or stop being wasteful (except maybe blog commenters, and then it will be too late). I'm not eating this crust. It's not very good. The dogs will like it." So I just ate the toppings, which were red, green, and yellow peppers, some black olives, and a few crumbs of sausage, because I moved my pepperoni to Farmer H's half when I took his peppers. The sauce on this one was virtually non-existent, and the cheese was sparse.
Yes, I also gave my food-to-lair transporting tray a good scrubbing.
Yes, I admitted that Farmer H and I each take half the pizza. Sometimes, we set some aside for the next night. This time, we did not. Which isn't to say that Mrs. HM was gorging herself with pizza.
Yes, I also gave my food-to-lair transporting tray a good scrubbing.
Monday, June 3, 2019
If I Could Bottle The Feeling Of Horror, I Could Make A Fortune At Spencer's Gifts
People, you don't want to walk a mile in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's Crocs. You don't even want to sit a spell in her stinky old New Balance. A woman with a weaker constitution would have cracked. Mrs. HM is simply teetering on the ledge that overlooks the precipice jutting above the chasm of insanity.
I generally feel safe in my semi-dark basement lair. Sure, I have clutter all around. Only one of the four fluorescent ceiling lights works. I hear things that can't be explained, and occasionally walk out my lair door to see that cabinet doors have opened completely on their own. I'm used to it.
When I turn off New Delly and my underdesk heater between 11:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m., to got out into the main basement area to watch TV in my OPC (Old People Chair)... I am not fearful. I'm safe in my house. The Queen of my Mansion. I am comfortable with my routine.
Friday night, I had all my electronics shut down. I pushed back my rolly chair to stand up and make a visit to the NASCAR bathroom next door to my lair, before gathering my tray and bubba cups to head for the OPC.
Cue the stabby Psycho music... Throw in the theme from the original Halloween as well!
BETWEEN MY FEET WAS A MILLIPEDE!
Seriously! My feet were about 8 inches apart, and IN BETWEEN THEM WAS A MILLIPEDE!
That's a picture of it, on the mottled surface of my 20-year-old clear plastic mat for a rolly chair.
I almost stopped breathing. Then I couldn't catch my breath. I couldn't pick it up right then, because after seeing it, I REALLY needed to visit the NASCAR bathroom! All the while, knowing that I'd have to PICK IT UP when I came back. But what if it wasn't there??? Sweet Gummi Mary! I didn't know if I wanted to see it, or didn't want to see it!
I couldn't even remember the advice to scoop it up with a broom and dustpan! Which were sitting by my office door, a mere 10 feet away! I grabbed some squares of toilet paper (Charmin Extra Strength) and picked up the millipede, gagging and retching, holding it at arm's length, feeling the squirm, all the way to the toilet.
I'm not sure which is worse, thinking I have an infestation of millipedes, or thinking it's just one, that keeps returning from the toilet...
I generally feel safe in my semi-dark basement lair. Sure, I have clutter all around. Only one of the four fluorescent ceiling lights works. I hear things that can't be explained, and occasionally walk out my lair door to see that cabinet doors have opened completely on their own. I'm used to it.
When I turn off New Delly and my underdesk heater between 11:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m., to got out into the main basement area to watch TV in my OPC (Old People Chair)... I am not fearful. I'm safe in my house. The Queen of my Mansion. I am comfortable with my routine.
Friday night, I had all my electronics shut down. I pushed back my rolly chair to stand up and make a visit to the NASCAR bathroom next door to my lair, before gathering my tray and bubba cups to head for the OPC.
Cue the stabby Psycho music... Throw in the theme from the original Halloween as well!
BETWEEN MY FEET WAS A MILLIPEDE!
Seriously! My feet were about 8 inches apart, and IN BETWEEN THEM WAS A MILLIPEDE!
That's a picture of it, on the mottled surface of my 20-year-old clear plastic mat for a rolly chair.
I almost stopped breathing. Then I couldn't catch my breath. I couldn't pick it up right then, because after seeing it, I REALLY needed to visit the NASCAR bathroom! All the while, knowing that I'd have to PICK IT UP when I came back. But what if it wasn't there??? Sweet Gummi Mary! I didn't know if I wanted to see it, or didn't want to see it!
I couldn't even remember the advice to scoop it up with a broom and dustpan! Which were sitting by my office door, a mere 10 feet away! I grabbed some squares of toilet paper (Charmin Extra Strength) and picked up the millipede, gagging and retching, holding it at arm's length, feeling the squirm, all the way to the toilet.
I'm not sure which is worse, thinking I have an infestation of millipedes, or thinking it's just one, that keeps returning from the toilet...
Sunday, June 2, 2019
Ne'er-Do-Wells Never Gonna Do Well
I stopped to pick up the mail Tuesday, on the way to town for my 44 oz Diet Coke. I parked on the gravel road, to walk across the blacktop to EmBee. I always make sure to park as far right as I can get. In fact, T-Hoe's side is up against tree limbs. There's plenty of room for people to come in or out of the gravel road.
Here's a picture, although it shows T-Hoe parked on the other side of the gravel road, when I returned. Just to give you an idea of the amount of space here, and where I park, and where Mailbox Row is located.
Sorry that it's skewed. Didn't mean to make you feel like you're going down on the Titanic. I just stuck the phone out the window, and took it blindly. Not necessarily to show off my shiny new door handle. That's a happy accident.
Anyhoo... on Tuesday, as I was parked on the other side, stepping out and closing T-Hoe's door to start my trek across the blacktop, I heard a vehicle crunching along the gravel behind me. It was a red Dodge Ram pickup, regular cab, which I had once mistaken for Farmer H's SilverRedO. It's the same shade of red, and I can't see the ram head decal on the front from very far away. I see this truck a lot, coming and going.
Anyhoo... I was striding along past T-Hoe, keeping close so that Red Ram could get around me. VROOM! The driver gassed it, and made a wide berth around me. So far that he was driving where I have T-Hoe parked in that picture. I was kind of put-out, thinking, "I'm not THAT wide!" when Red Ram went around me. Come to find out, he was doing that for a proper approach to Mailbox Row.
Red Ram pulled up against Mailbox Row, facing traffic the wrong way, so as not to get out, but only reach through the window for his mail.
Not that I'm the rural Road Police, mind you. I park T-Hoe on the blacktop road to get out and get the mail sometimes when I come home. But I DON'T park in front of the mailboxes, and at least I'm facing the right way for traffic.
At first I wasn't too mad, because I figured it was just like he cut line in front of me. Like he would take his mail and move on. But no. I swear, that guy was either opening and closing every mailbox, looking for something he might want... or he picked up his mail after the Monday holiday, and read every piece of it. There I stood. I couldn't get to EmBee with him parked there. He took so long that I went back to T-Hoe's door, and turned off the ignition. Not wasting MY gas on this Ne'er-Do-Well's passive-aggressive antics.
I swear he was there at least five minutes. I think he did that on purpose. Butthole.
Here's a picture, although it shows T-Hoe parked on the other side of the gravel road, when I returned. Just to give you an idea of the amount of space here, and where I park, and where Mailbox Row is located.
Sorry that it's skewed. Didn't mean to make you feel like you're going down on the Titanic. I just stuck the phone out the window, and took it blindly. Not necessarily to show off my shiny new door handle. That's a happy accident.
Anyhoo... on Tuesday, as I was parked on the other side, stepping out and closing T-Hoe's door to start my trek across the blacktop, I heard a vehicle crunching along the gravel behind me. It was a red Dodge Ram pickup, regular cab, which I had once mistaken for Farmer H's SilverRedO. It's the same shade of red, and I can't see the ram head decal on the front from very far away. I see this truck a lot, coming and going.
Anyhoo... I was striding along past T-Hoe, keeping close so that Red Ram could get around me. VROOM! The driver gassed it, and made a wide berth around me. So far that he was driving where I have T-Hoe parked in that picture. I was kind of put-out, thinking, "I'm not THAT wide!" when Red Ram went around me. Come to find out, he was doing that for a proper approach to Mailbox Row.
Red Ram pulled up against Mailbox Row, facing traffic the wrong way, so as not to get out, but only reach through the window for his mail.
Not that I'm the rural Road Police, mind you. I park T-Hoe on the blacktop road to get out and get the mail sometimes when I come home. But I DON'T park in front of the mailboxes, and at least I'm facing the right way for traffic.
At first I wasn't too mad, because I figured it was just like he cut line in front of me. Like he would take his mail and move on. But no. I swear, that guy was either opening and closing every mailbox, looking for something he might want... or he picked up his mail after the Monday holiday, and read every piece of it. There I stood. I couldn't get to EmBee with him parked there. He took so long that I went back to T-Hoe's door, and turned off the ignition. Not wasting MY gas on this Ne'er-Do-Well's passive-aggressive antics.
I swear he was there at least five minutes. I think he did that on purpose. Butthole.
Saturday, June 1, 2019
Not Quite Sure Who I Should Be Ranting About
Don't you hate it when you want to get all worked up with a good rant, but you don't know who to be mad at?
Let the record show that The Pony has been out of classes since spring semester ended May 10. He is living in his student housing apartment at OU for the summer, doing research with a professor he's been working with since last fall. Let the record further show that I mail him a letter, faithfully, every Friday morning before the mail goes out from the main post office.
A couple days ago, The Pony mentioned that he hadn't gotten a letter. I assumed that it was just late, due to the Memorial Day holiday, and maybe the storms in Oklahoma. Friday, he sent me a text, and I realized there was more to the story.
"So, I checked my mail on Wednesday, nothing. Checked today, three letters. Someone outlined the building letter and room # on two of them, so I'm thinking the mailperson can't read."
"So they put them in the wrong mailbox. At least that person was honest and didn't open them and take your $20! This seems to happen every summer. I think the OU student sorter changes, and is incompetent and puts them with the wrong batch of mail. For the WEST complex, instead of EAST. Or in with the wrong building. Then the actual mailman just dumps it in the wrong box, rather than take it back for resorting, or backtrack to the right box."
"Yeah. It's the oldest letter, and the most recent, that have highlights on them, but not the middle one."
"Are they up to date? You should have gotten one this week that was written on May 23."
"It's marked the 24th, but yeah. 10th, 17th, 24th."
I guess he was talking about the postmarks on the outside of the envelopes. In any case, my baby went THREE WEEKS without a letter! It's not like I send him vital state secrets. But he reads them, to hear about news from home. He's been sitting there all alone, his Bestie back home for the summer, without even a two-page letter once a week from his loving mother!
That's a travesty! I really expect more from my 55 cent stamp.
Let the record show that The Pony has been out of classes since spring semester ended May 10. He is living in his student housing apartment at OU for the summer, doing research with a professor he's been working with since last fall. Let the record further show that I mail him a letter, faithfully, every Friday morning before the mail goes out from the main post office.
A couple days ago, The Pony mentioned that he hadn't gotten a letter. I assumed that it was just late, due to the Memorial Day holiday, and maybe the storms in Oklahoma. Friday, he sent me a text, and I realized there was more to the story.
"So, I checked my mail on Wednesday, nothing. Checked today, three letters. Someone outlined the building letter and room # on two of them, so I'm thinking the mailperson can't read."
"So they put them in the wrong mailbox. At least that person was honest and didn't open them and take your $20! This seems to happen every summer. I think the OU student sorter changes, and is incompetent and puts them with the wrong batch of mail. For the WEST complex, instead of EAST. Or in with the wrong building. Then the actual mailman just dumps it in the wrong box, rather than take it back for resorting, or backtrack to the right box."
"Yeah. It's the oldest letter, and the most recent, that have highlights on them, but not the middle one."
"Are they up to date? You should have gotten one this week that was written on May 23."
"It's marked the 24th, but yeah. 10th, 17th, 24th."
I guess he was talking about the postmarks on the outside of the envelopes. In any case, my baby went THREE WEEKS without a letter! It's not like I send him vital state secrets. But he reads them, to hear about news from home. He's been sitting there all alone, his Bestie back home for the summer, without even a two-page letter once a week from his loving mother!
That's a travesty! I really expect more from my 55 cent stamp.
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