Back To The Boudoir Complaint Department

It has been three weeks since our last casino trip. THREE WEEKS! We usually go every two weeks, but Farmer H has had prior commitments. Anyhoo... Wednesday was designated as our day out for lunch, and entertainment of the expensive variety. Of course I had to go to bed early, because we were leaving at 9:15 a.m. Not a good night (day) for going to bed at 8:00 a.m. for my beauty sleep.

I was nestled in bed, visions of (NOT free sugar plums) slot machines dancing in my head, by 2:00 a.m. My wake-up call was scheduled for 7:45. It would be from Farmer H, probably making his phone sticky with donut fingers.

I was snoozing blissfully, lying on my left side, facing the fake fireplace wall. Directionally facing it, since my eyes were closed in slumber, and not actually looking at it.

WHAM! 

That's not a reference to an '80s band blaring on the clock radio. That's the impact of a Farmer H arm on my tender side-ribs. It was like a karate chop! Or like he was dreaming that he was swinging a sledgehammer to break up a concrete patio. It hurt like the dickens! I am sure I emitted a scream trapped in an OOF muffled by my final breath exploding from my lungs like toothpaste from a stomped-on tube.

Farmer H was aware that he did it. I could tell by his sarcastic grunt. Like I had no right to make any sound when he almost sliced me in half from one blow with the bluntest of implements.

My back hurt the whole day. Walking to the car, riding in the car, sitting at the casino, hobbling back into the Mansion when we returned. When I broached the subject as I turned on the seat-back heater in A-Cad, Farmer H pooh-poohed my pain.

"HM. You are so dramatic. Something is always wrong with you."

[Don't I know it!]

"It wouldn't be, if you'd quit hurting me in my sleep."

"Alls I did was barely bump you with my arm."

"No. You hit me so hard I could barely breathe. And now you act like you did NOTHING!"

"I didn't. But YOU moved the quilt."

"I didn't move the quilt! There was plenty of slack in the quilt. I just pulled it over me."

"I mean the sheet. You moved the sheet."

"Yes. I had no sheet on my side. It barely covered the edge. So I pulled it, hoping I'd have sheet to lie on all night. You always get it on your side."

"Wait a minute! Isn't it a FITTED sheet?"

"Yes, Pony. But he rolls up in it. Like an alligator killing its prey in a death spiral. He's wrapped up like a big burrito. I don't know how he does it!"

"I am NOT wrapped up like a burrito. That sheet doesn't fit right."

"It's a FITTED SHEET! The right size. The elastic is still good. I don't know how you get it all pulled to your side unless you roll up in it while you're turning."

 

"We need a new sheet. That one just does that."

 

"ALL of our sheets do that! But they don't get pulled to MY side of the bed! Only yours."

 

"Heh, heh. Whatever you say."

 

THAT is the way to end a losing argument. Farmer H has perfected that response. I think he is working on perfecting the tenderization of wife-ribs in his sleep.

Beauty Sleep, Interrupted

It's really hard to get a good night's sleep around the Mansion. Seems like I barely get to bed and then I'm awakened by the cacophonous (took 3 tries and my estranged BFF Google to get that right) goings-on in this household.

You know I go to bed late, right? If YOU know, then surely the two people who cohabit with me should know. But they don't. Ostriches! Head-sanders! 

I'm not saying they should keep the same hours I do. Only that they could PERHAPS be a bit more considerate.

I went to bed Monday night (Tuesday morning, in all actuality) at 8:00 a.m. I had fallen asleep around 4:30 in my OPC (Old People Chair), woke up at 6:00, then watched more TV until I climbed the stairs at 7:45. Farmer H was in the shower. I went to bed, and was asleep when he left.

Because I don't want to sleep all day, I have The Pony wake me at 11:00 if he doesn't hear me walking around. He yells from the living room, and I yell back that I want another half-hour of sleep. Then he re-yells at 11:30. So that's when I get up. I'm okay with 5-6 hours of sleep a night. That's all I used to get when I was working.

Anyhoo... Tuesday, The Pony told me it was 11:00. I said to give me another half-hour, and he said okay. I heard him walking back to the kitchen. I turned over on my side, and heard a grindy noise!

RRR RRR RRR THUMP THUMP THUMP!

What in the NOT-HEAVEN? Maybe The Pony was getting ice out of FRIG II's dispenser. It's been acting up. I had to chop some ice out of it the day before.

RRR RRR RRR THUMP THUMP THUMP!

Sweet Gummi Mary! You'd think The Pony would pull out that tray and take a look at what was blocking the spiral thingy in the bottom.

RRR RRR RRR THUMP THUMP THUMP!

Oh, come on! Just reach in and grab ice cubes with your hand! It's not working! I got up for the bathroom. Hollered out to the kitchen, "WHAT is that noise?" No answer.

While in the bathroom, I heard it again.

RRR RRR RRR THUMP THUMP THUMP!

Sheesh! I really wanted the rest of my beauty sleep. NEEDED IT, in fact! I put the quilt over my head. But still I heard that infernal noise!

RRR RRR RRR THUMP THUMP THUMP!

The phone rang with Humana trying to get Farmer H to call them about his medications. As he says, "I have a doctor for that. I don't need the insurance telling me what they think I need to take."

RRR RRR RRR THUMP THUMP THUMP!

Oh my gosh! I just wanted a few more minutes of sleep!

"Mom. It's been 30 minutes. It's 11:30."

"WHAT IS THAT NOISE?"

"Noise? The phone rang... and Dad is doing something out on the porch."

"Was that the ice-maker? Why didn' you answer me when I hollered to ask you?"

"No. Nothing is wrong with the ice-maker. I didn't hear you say anything. I was out on the porch. Dad needed me to help him hold the posts that hold up the porch roof. Some were loose at the bottom, and he was screwing stuff in, using a drill or something."

When I got up, Farmer H was sitting at the kitchen table, playing with his phone.

"What's the matter with you?"

"It's kind of hard to sleep around here. I don't know why you had to do that RIGHT NOW. You've been talking about it for two years. Plus you have the whole rest of the day."

"This was the best time to get it done."

Yeah. I think the best time for me to get something noisy done will be around 1:00 a.m.

Mrs. HM Is No Rat

Orb K changed their floor plan a couple weeks ago. Instead of having a space for three lines to wait for their three registers, with a couple of food coolers with wraps and sandwiches running perpendicular to the lines... they've put in a MAZE!

That's right. They put four or five shelf/rack dividers in the shape of a maze. Stocked with candies and mints and gum. I've gone through it twice. One time when there were about 10 people ahead of me, and the line stretched out of the maze all the way to the soda fountain. It takes a lot of room to stay six feet apart.

Anyhoo... I went into Orb K for scratchers on Monday. There was ONE register open, and one customer. The register is next to the scratcher display propped against the front window. The customer was gathering up his stuff, four cans of Red Bull, a sandwich, and some chips. It took longer than I expected, because the clerk didn't give him a bag, and he was trying to balance it.

Since he was leaving, I knew I was next. I saw no need to go across the store to the entry to the maze. I stood at the corner of it, some 10 feet back from that customer, waiting for him to pass me so I could walk up and have my turn.

Since he took so long, a guy who had come in just ahead of me had picked out his items, and was heading for the registers. He saw me there, and knew I was next. He hesitated a moment before entering the maze. I think his plan, too, was to stand at the corner and wait for me to get done.

I don't know if my scoff-maze antics set off that clerk, or if she was just a hateful hag. I'm thinking the latter. She was not cheerful. She did not greet me. She acted put-out when I greeted her, and asked for scratchers. 

I can't help it that Orb K has their lottery tickets coming out near the bottom of the counter. Surely I'm not the only one who make Clerk bend over during her shift. I asked for a pink Lady Luck ticket for The Pony. It's an old one, and he likes the flashy colors. Clerk snapped, "We don't have that one!"

Well then. I suggest they take it out of the display, tape a scrap of paper over it that says OUT, or learn how to say, "Sorry, we're out," in a less venomous manner.

I don't know what her problem was, but she'll have the same problem again if I come in and there's only one customer ahead of me. I am NOT walking through a maze just because it's there.

By The Non-Existent Hair Of My Chinny-Chin-Chin

Don't go thinking Mrs. HM is hirsute. I have nary a hair on my chinny-chin-chin. No plucking, no shaving, no stroking to appear wise. What I DO have is a single rogue strand of hairlike material that emanates from my cheek. My FACE cheek, you rapscallions! Not my rumpus cheek. It's on the edge of my right orbit. You know, that curved part of bone under your eye.

The Tendril has appeared off and on over the years. It's thin and white and about 1/4 inch long! Not very noticeable. Especially not to ME, since I don't look in the mirror very often, and when I do, I'm so nearsighted that I only see enough to part my lovely lady-mullet.

I was resettling my glasses in my lair, running my finger under the edge of the lens, when I felt it. I grasped The Tendril with my thumb and forefinger, and plucked it out. Uh huh. White. Thin. And no longer on my face!

It's not like I could be Rapunzel, and dangle The Tendril over the basement stair banisters to allow The Pony to climb up with that DOVE Chocolates bag in his teeth to throw away. It's a single strand. Not braidable. Doesn't need coloring or trimming. Just a pluck to remove it when it shows up. It doesn't sprout from a mole. It's just there. Or it's not. I never notice The Tendril until it's fully grown to 1/4 inch.

I suppose I'm lucky that I don't have a beard. I saw a gal on that 600 Pound Life show, and at first I thought she was a dude! She would have made a great bearded lady for Barnum and Bailey! She shaved it like a man, but not nearly often enough. You'd think that for being on TV, she would have gotten rid of the beard.

Yes, I'm lucky that I don't have any hairs on my chinny-chin-chin. Just The Tendril BY my chinny-chin-chin.

NOW It's Turned Into Groundhog Day!

From the writer/actor who brought you "Puttin' Off the Ritz," and "Like Squatter for Chocolate," there's a new limited release. This one is called "The Neverending Sorry."

Perhaps you recall that The Pony has been a bit remiss in throwing away his trash. Trash like the entire Ritz Cracker box left behind after he ate the remaining three crackers inside. Trash like the empty bag from my selection of DOVE chocolates when he ate the last two, those being the milk chocolate and the caramel.

Well. There was another candy container left on the exact same basement chair, right beside the DOVE bag. It was a box that had, on my birthday, held 18 Ferrero Rocher round chocolate candies. It was an assortment of three kinds. Hazelnut, Dark Chocolate, and Coconut with White Chocolate.

 

I told The Pony he was welcome to try them. He really liked the hazelnut version. I said he could have them, and I'd have the others, but he was welcome to TRY them as well. He chose not to, sticking to the hazelnut variety.

 

Anyhoo... the hazelnut had been gone for a while, except for ONE. I ate the others at a rate of one per night. But I left that last hazelnut for The Pony. When he carried down my lunch tray on Friday, I pointed out that there was still a hazelnut ball left.

 

"Oh. I didn't want to take  your last one."

 

"No, it's okay. I've been saving it for YOU."

 

I heard him coming back up the basement steps.

 

"I don't see that box in your hand. Don't tell me! You left IT there, too!"

 

"To be fair, I got my candy on the way to your office, and then forgot to bring the box back up. I'll get it now."

 

You're not going to believe what I noticed on Friday night. Oh. Yes. Yes you ARE going to believe it.

 

THE EMPTY DOVE BAG WAS STILL ON THE CHAIR! 

 

I mentioned this fact to The Pony on Saturday, as I was readying my lunch to go down.

 

"Pony! I can't believe you brought up the empty box from the hazelnut candy, and STILL didn't bring up the DOVE bag!"

 

"Oh. Wait. I didn't? Sorry..."

 

Here's something else that you will fully believe:

 

IT'S STILL THERE NOW! 

While it's a bone of contention for ME, it's a good thing that The Pony is not currently engineering your chemicals.

Roll Me Away Is More Than Just An Earworm In Mrs. HM's Waking Head

For the past three or four days, I've been waking up with the same song in my head. Bob Seeger's "Roll Me Away." I hear it often on my quest to procure my 44 oz Diet Coke. Not a big deal. Sometimes I wake up hearing country tunes, sometimes the classic rock. I always associate "Roll Me Away" with that Mask movie, with Cher and Eric Stoltz.

 

With winter a fading memory, I've been enjoying my daily town trip. Bright sunshine, temps in the upper 50s. No jacket. No slippery roads. Which is not to say that the road hazards have disappeared...

I think I know why I've been waking up hearing "Roll Me Away."

Saturday, I saw something in the road as I approached the ill-fated pole that took out our electricity during the ice storm. What in the Not-Heaven? From far back, I thought it might be a hay bale. Something that was going to cause a problem if left there, because the road is not nearly as wide as my phone camera makes it look. There's barely enough room for two cars to pass. Someone would have to stop, to let the other get around this obstacle. Those are side-by-side tracks there by it. Not from a full-size car. As you can tell, T-Hoe is off the road edge as I stopped to get the picture.

That's a big fella. I guess it must have fallen off a trailer from somebody hauling wood. It's not like a lumberjack was out here felling trees across our gravel road.

No way could I budge that behemoth, even if I'd wanted to get out and give it a try. When I came home, it had been rolled off to the side of the road. Maybe somebody with a strong teenager did the task. I don't think The Pony could have moved it. Sadly, if Farmer H had encountered it, he might have come home for the tractor, to go pick it up for his rock garden. Farmer H loves logs.

I forgot to ask him if he saw it on his way home from the Storage Unit Store.

What's The Deal With Those Puffs Boxes, Anyway?

No, I am not saving Puffs (With Lotion) boxes for a major craft project. My collection of them has no purpose. It's not even a true collection. They are not displayed on shelves, nor arranged by color palette, nor stood on end like a mini faux Stonehenge. At the time each one was set aside, I had plans to throw it away. Really!

Here's the deal: my nose drips. Not constantly. But enough. More than enough. Especially when I eat, which I do more than occasionally in my dark basement lair. My mom had the same issue. Not discarded Puffs boxes in her lair. The drippy nose thing. She was always having to get up from the table for a tissue.

I don't blow my nose every time. It's just a drip. I dab at it. Eventually I'll blow. My need for a tissue is so frequent, yet so mild, that I tear my Puffs in half. That's all I need. Half a tissue at a time. It cuts my Puffs bill by 50 percent, you know!

While The Pony was away at college, I was left to my own devices to transport my supplies down those 13 rail-less basement stairs. A new box of Puffs could be dropped from above, to land on Genius's old desk, or skitter off. It's not like tissues can be damaged by a 7-8 foot fall. Getting the tissues BACK UP the stairs was more of a problem.

I have a large black trash bag in my office. I fill it as needed with my Devil's Playground shopping bags that I hang on a drawer knob and use for smaller trash. Used tissues. Losing scratchers. Nothing foody. All that goes back up on my tray. The main filler of my large black trash bag was empty Diet Coke bottles. I've cut back on my at-home Diet Coke. I don't add a bottle every day to my weakening 44 oz Gas Station Chicken Store magical elixir. I only use the bottles now (two per day) on days that I don't make it to town. Like during the icy weather, or when I'm busy making a holiday meal.

Anyhoo... those full black trash bags are awkward. As well as heavy if they have a lot of losing scratchers. It took at least a month, sometimes more, to fill a big black trash bag. Without The Pony, I had to lug it upstairs myself. That involved swinging it up two steps ahead of me. Balancing it with one arm. And single-leg-stepping up a step while holding onto the support pole at the bottom (for two stairs), then the floor above, and eventually the banisters. With each step up, I had to lift the big black trash bag up another step. It was a major undertaking, where I had to be cautious [Farmer H was still working two of these years] so as not to make myself business for the undertaker!

Back to the Puffs boxes... each time I used the last Puffs, I was in a hurry to open up the next box, of which I had stocked a spare. You never know when you might turn your head just wrong, eliciting a small torrent. So I'd set the empty aside, planning to unfold it and put it in the big black trash bag.

Well. There are more stimulating things to do in my lair with New Delly. I'd stay caught up in what I was doing, planning to deal with the empty Puffs box later. They're hard to break down, you know. That glue keeps the end flaps stuck on like...um...GLUE! Hard to pry them loose, but when you do, they will fold flat. I could conceivably unstick and fold down a dozen Puffs boxes, stack them, and they'd take up perhaps the space of a notebook. However... when put in a big black trash bag, they don't stay folded down flat! They accordion back to their box shape! Which is a bit awkward, taking up a lot of space in the big black trash bag, and poking their angular corners through the plastic. 

I couldn't just dump a lot of Puffs boxes in the big black trash bag early. If I waited until it was half full, they'd take up the rest of the room, and I'd have a heavy bottle-y ticket-y bottom, and a loose pokey-outie top. Awkward to wrestle on the steps. So I put it off. Some months I'd tell Farmer H that he needed to carry it up, when he was returning to the main level after stashing his Storage Unit Store money in one of the safes. Before he put a spring-action deadbolt thingy on the basement door, I sometimes drove T-Hoe around the Mansion to carry in my Diet Coke (12-pack cans then), and carry out a bag of trash. Then I could drive it around to the dumpster by the garage, and avoid the basement 13 steps, and the porch 4 steps.

Anyhoo... it's not hoarding, and not PURE laziness that had accumulated many a Puffs box for The Pony to shame me with while re-directing criticism over leaving empty food packs around the Mansion. 

It was just about 95 percent laziness. But hey! Now that I have The Pony, I might as well use my little beast of burden to suit my needs. He IS technically an indentured servant until he lands a job.