No Use Crying Over Spoilt Onions

I should have known better. This was not my first rodeo. I climbed right back up on the nag that flung me. Danced with the one what brung me. And THIS is the thanks I got:

It looks kind of sinister, huh? Who do you have to worship around here to get an onion that's not rotten? The Devil is NOT gonna bring Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to tears. No siree, Bob! Let the record show that Mrs. HM did not shed a single tear over this blighted bulb. Purchased on Friday at The Devil's Playground.

Let the record show that I was not performing some disturbing ritual. The Mansion was not without power. This is how my indoor photos turn out with my phone flash. Just hope that you never have to have surgery performed on you during a power outage with the sterile field illuminated by Mrs. HM's handed-down cell phone.

Yes. I should have known better. Don't buy The Devil's produce! I should waited to get my onions at Save A Lot. But these looked so...so...good! Plump. Dry. Flaking skin. Just what a woman looks for in an onion. Until she slices it open and finds it rotten to the core.

It's not like I've had these onions in the bottom drawer of FRIG II since last summer. I just bought them! Less than a week ago! No, I'm not going to take it back to The Devil's Playground. I know there are those of you who would. Bold, confident onion-eaters who know your rights, and won't stand for such tomfoolery. But that is not Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. I threw this one off the back porch. I might as well start an onion graveyard back there.

Yep. The Devil fooled me twice. Shame on me.

These Rockers Don't Rock

The Rockers have been taking liberties!

Our right-side neighbors, the human parents of doggie Copper, are having their rocks mined off the back of their land, down by the creek. I wonder if it's THEIR retirement nest egg. Farmer H said the head Rocker guy talked to him, wanting OUR rocks down by the creek. I said no. Farmer H all along claimed they were our retirement nest egg. So we'll keep them until we need them.

Here's the thing. The Rockers left some large stones in the horse field of our down-the-hill neighbor. That's where they originally started their harvesting. Now, they're ready to take those rocks, too. On Thursday, I left for town and saw that the Rockers had parked their truck and trailer full of pallets on OUR LAND! That's right. They were completely on MANSION land, over in front of the BARn field.

That's because the horse field where those saved rocks were was a muddy mess. I wish I had taken a picture on the way out, but at least I got this one on the way back home. Imagine all those heavy rocks, picked up with a Bobcat, placed on the pallets, stacked on that long trailer. At least they didn't have their flat-bed semi truck parked there.

You know that that means, right? The Mansion BARn field was going to turn into a muddy mess with them loading up rocks there. You don't even want to see the muddy mess the field next to us on down that hill is in now, after the last rock harvest. That's where Farmer H bought two loads of rock to fill in the ditch where the road was washing out from their land-raping. Yeah. Not even our land. But everybody uses the road.

Anyhoo...they got those rocks loaded up today, and there are minimal, though obvious, ruts in the front of our field. But at least it's over.

Woman Does Not Live On Gas Station Chicken Alone

Last night, Farmer H and I had pizza for supper. Don't act so surprised! You know that's the other food group around the Mansion. Woman does not live on gas station chicken alone!

This pizza was homemade. Well. Kind of homemade. If you count a prepared crust bought in a 3-pack from The Devil's Playground, topped with assorted frozen, canned, and processed foods, as homemade. But for the Mansion, it was homemade.

Farmer H is a pepperoni fiend. I can't stand the stuff myself. It gives me heartburn. In fact, during the summer, when The Pony was here, we would sometimes have DiGiorno's pizza for lunch. I bought the Supreme, and picked the peppers and other stuff off half of it for The Pony, right down to the cheese, because that's all he likes. Sometimes I could sneakily leave a couple sausage pellets on there so he got more protein, and while he noticed it like a pea-feeling princess, he choked it down. I took the pepperoni off the whole pizza, and stuck it in the freezer for sweetening up Farmer H's frozen pizza in the future.

Yeah. Last night, I used that pepperoni on Farmer H's homemade pizza. It was still good! I had bought some sliced pepperoni for that purpose, but I figured I could use up the saved stash first. He also wanted mushrooms (half a drained can from Save A Lot) and onion (a quarter of a small diced white one--more for me). The sauce was a few spoonfuls from a jar of Save A Lot pizza sauce. It's way better than The Devil's pizza sauce. I even use it for pasta sometimes. The only thing better (around THIS Mansion) is Chef Boyardee canned pizza sauce.

I wanted my pizza to be BBQ Chicken. So I put down some Save A Lot (I really need to get monetized since I promote them so much) Hickory Smoked BBQ Sauce on my crust. Then some Tyson Pulled Chicken that I keep in the freezer in individual servings (my serving being about 1/5 of the bag, which comes to 160 calories in case anybody is interested). Next I added my diced onion. And I topped both our pizzas with some shredded mozzarella and garlic salt. (By my calculations, this whole mini pizza had around 600-700 calories. I didn't measure the cheese precisely.)

These were the thin crust version, and baked for 7-10 minutes. I forgot to get a a picture of Farmer H's pepperoni, which was most likely in its final bite, sliding down his esophagus, when I snapped a photo of mine.

Not much to look at. But it was better than a Big Salad, a Supreme Flounder, and a Mackinaw Peach, all rolled into one.

It's Not What You Think It Is

Ever since Farmer H retired 40%, navigating the Mansion has become like walking on eggshells. Figuratively, of course. Oh, how I WISH I was literally walking on eggshells! Rather than the stuff Farmer H leaves behind on the floors.

This morning my bare left foot trod upon yet another Farmer H deposit.

YOWSA! That smarted!

I'm not sure what this is. Even after I picked it up and peered at it through my glasses, I couldn't tell. The best I can figure is that it's a portion of plastic covering that goes around electrical wire. I tried to get a closeup so maybe you will recognize this floor treasure. There are grooves on the inside. Not sure what the odd coloring is on the back.

This portion is only about an inch long. Still, you'd think Farmer H might have noticed it as he trod over it on the way to town for breakfast and a haircut. I saw it, but thought it was a pretzel from the Chex Mix that Farmer H might have dropped in a hurry to get to the living room in an after-supper feeding frenzy. I only stepped on it on my return trip, having forgotten to beware, and refusing to pick up after Farmer H yet again.

There's a lesson to be learned here, I guess.

If you visit the Mansion, don't take off your Crocs!

Listen To That Voice In Your Head, HM

This morning I set off to transfer money for the boys' spring tuition from their credit union accounts into checking, and go into our financial advisor's office next door to make Farmer H an appointment for Monday to discuss his 401K, and mail the boys' weekly letters and a BILL, and harvest the upcoming week's foodstuffs from The Devil's playground. I figured it would take about 2.5 hours. That's the average for such errands.

I informed Farmer H of my goings and comings. He kind of expects that from me, though is not forthcoming on such details for his own travels. He was working in the basement workshop. Don't even get me started on that.

On the way to town at 10:00, I called my sister the ex-mayor's wife. She had called me at the tail-end of December, wanting to know if I planned to come get my gift calendar that I left at her house Christmas Eve. And even though I tried to a couple days later, texting her before I went to town, she texted back that SHE was in OKLAHOMA! So we missed that opportunity for her to unload it, and me to get my forsaken gift.

Anyhoo...I called her this morning. She probably thought something was wrong, because we usually just text. She answered on the third ring. Yes, this WAS a good time for me to pick up my calendar. I told her I really couldn't stay, that I had several errands. She said she could bring it out to the driveway. You know. So my T-Hoe didn't have too long to leave dust and mud on her pavement.

Sis came out and stood by my window, shielding her eyes from the 10:15 sun. The wind was freezing cold. I told her to sit in the car a minute, and after the third invitation, she did. Hope she didn't get dirty! We chatted a while and made tentative plans for a gambling weekend in the future, after we bolster our play money resources.

Just as Sis was getting ready to go back inside, my phone buzzed with a text. "Let me check this, in case it's one of the boys." And it WAS. The Pony informed me that he had just received an email that he was getting another $2750 in scholarship funds on the 6th. That's good to know, since I was going to take his payment money out today in order for the check to clear my bank (remember how they always hold EVERYTHING, even a cashier's check, unless Farmer H pitches a fit?) So...I went ahead with the #1 Son's tuition, but held off until the 6th for The Pony's. His is not due until the 20th anyway.

"Well. That's good news! More scholarship money for The Pony. Good thing we talked so long, or I would have already taken the money out. Now it can wait."

"Still. That's GOOD news! He has more money!"

"Yes! It IS good news!"

"I'd buy a lottery ticket if I was you!"

"I told you, I've been in a slump. My odds are way off. I'm like a normal person now. I can't seem to win. It all started when #1 won that $100. Ever since then, I can't get a winner, or it's just the amount of the ticket. Over the last three weeks, I should have had five winners, and I've only had ONE! After yesterday, I said I wasn't going to buy any for a while."

"Yeah. But that's awful good news. I'd get one."

"Well. I might."

In the midst of running my errands, I called Farmer H to tell him about the newfound scholarship money. And how Sis had told me I should buy a lottery ticket. "You should!" That was Farmer H's advice. Even though he never wins.

So...on my way to The Devil's Playground, I stopped by the finally-open convenience store to use their bathroom. They have REALLY nice bathrooms. And since I think it's rude not to buy something when you use the facilities, I bought a ticket.

After dealing with The Devil, I headed for the gas station chicken store for my 44 oz Diet Coke. There, I also bought one ticket.

By the time I got home, it was already 1:30. Farmer H had made himself hot dogs for lunch, but I'd had neither breakfast nor lunch yet. So I put the groceries away and made a plate of The Devil's chicken. Then I hobbled down to my dark basement lair to feast and swill and scratch my two tickets.

They were both losers.

There's only so much good luck in the world, I think. And lately #1 and The Pony have cornered the market. I should know better than to take advice from Sis and Farmer H.

44 Ounces Forward And One Leg Back

Saturday I strode into the gas station chicken store and pulled a foam cup, pushed it up against the ice lever for a few cubes, and set it on the louvered plastic under the Diet Coke spigot.

SWEET GUMMI MARY!

The Diet Coke spigot had a handwritten note taped over its logo: DIET COKE OUT.

Huh. Perhaps Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has tunnel vision when it comes time to fuel up on 44 oz of Diet Coke each day. I'd already pulled the cup. They frown on that at the gas station chicken store. They used to have signs (maybe they still do--apparently I'm not the most observant of persons) saying that if you pulled a cup, you paid for a soda. Perhaps there'd been ne'er-do-wells abusing their fountain privileges.

Anyhoo...I put more ice in, and ran a Diet Mountain Dew for Farmer H. Told the little cashier guy he's killin' me, making me miss my daily Diet Coke. Of course I still bought a couple of scratch-off tickets there. And I told him, "I'll just have to go over to Orb K, your competitor. It's CHEAPER there, too, you know!"

That little guy proved why he's worked there so long (at least 6 months) without drawing the ire of the woman owner. "Yeah. But ours is BETTER!" He's got a point.

Anyhoo...I didn't even bother to go in there on Sunday. I knew that Diet Coke was not going to be fixed on a Sunday. It's happened before, and my optimism was handed to me on a platter under a silver dome labeled DISAPPOINTMENT.

On Monday, I took a chance. Nope. But I didn't pull the cup. I did, however, still buy two scratchers, and told the man owner, "You're killin' me here! Now I have to go PUT MONEY IN YOUR COMPETITOR'S POCKET AGAIN! I knew better than to come in Sunday, but I'd hoped it would be fixed today." He apologized. Said they would have it fixed Tuesday. His chicken gal tried to sell me an 8-piece. But I wasn't having it. Even though it was ON SALE for $7.00 instead of the regular $8.99.

Tuesday, I went back. HALLELUJAH! There was my beloved elixir, fit as a fiddle, foaming up over the rim of my 44 oz cup. I was so overjoyed that I decided to reward myself with an 8-piece chicken. At the price of $8.00. While the chicken gal was boxing it up, I chatted with the man owner. Telling him I was SO GLAD the Diet Coke was back. And that I could have saved a dollar on chicken if he'd had that Diet Coke the day before.

He rang up my order, and pointed at my 44 oz Diet Coke. "That one's on BJ." [that's his wife, the woman owner] "You've had to wait so long. She'd give you that free because I messed up." He does mess up quite a bit. Ordering the wrong kind of cups, or forgetting the Diet Coke. I guess he was hoping this would stay our little secret, how many times I'd been in there looking for Diet Coke.

Yep! Mrs. HM scored a FREE 44 oz Diet Coke on Tuesday.

Of course, Even Steven, the great equalizer, could not let her revel in that joy for long.

When I got home and opened my 8-piece box of gas station chicken, I saw that the girl had put in 2 breasts, 2 thighs, 1 leg, and 3 wings.

After A Case Of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, Nobody Can Stay On Their Feet

I'm not used to it anymore. Can't take the shunning. It was easy when I was running a tight ship in Newmentia. Shunning was expected. And that's the way it should be. Mrs. HM had no desire to be buddy-buddy with her charges. So what if her cronies at the Semi Weekly Meetings of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank gave her the side-eye? She had her own chair, by cracky! A place where she belonged. Not so these days.

I stopped by Save A Lot yesterday morning to pick up a few things. Some onions and potatoes and cabbage and milk and chili dog sauce and shrimp and salsa. Not that much, really. It all fit in the child seat of my old metal cart. Save A Lot has those newer red plastic carts, but I find them unwieldy. And the handle is too high to comfortably use one as a walker.

It didn't take me long to gather my goods. I know where everything is. I make my list accordingly. When I got to the checkout, I saw that the cashier was the coal-black coiffed Methuselah's Grandaughter. She's a tiny old woman who used to be really friendly to me. But lately she has been puttering around taking a smoke break, or gathering carts when I am in the store, and I get the young girls who treat ringing up my groceries like a JOB!

There was one lady ahead of me, her stuff already on the conveyor being scanned. I pushed my walker/cart in line behind her. WELL! Methuselah's Granddaughter looked up at me and said, "She can help you on Lane Two." THEN she picked up the microphone and said, "Debbie to the front to check."

Okay. I get it. I was persona non grata! Sweet Gummi Mary! I only had a smattering of purchases. It's not like I had a daycare's worth of milk gallons and crates of animal cookies and jars of applesauce. Nor did I have a 100-lb bag of dog food. It was easy stuff. And not much of it. Why did Methuselah's Granddaughter have to pawn me off like that?

Debbie came up front and was very polite to me. She's almost as old as MG, She could be Methuselah's great grand-niece. She has a frizzy perm of nondescript color, and she's chubby like a grandma. I bear her no ill will, though I was still smarting from rejection at the arthritic claws of MG. In protest, after unloading my groceries from the cart and into the back of T-Hoe...I put that cart in the cart corral! I showed HER! I usually push it back into the store. Not this time. Take THAT, Methuselah's Granddaughter!

From there I headed for the credit union and the post office, and then to my bank. Nothing off-putting befell me at the first two. But the bank was another story. I pulled into the farthest drive-thru lane to make two deposits. I had taken cash out of each of The Pony's and the #1 Son's college accounts, because they each had used my credit cart to make a textbook purchase due to The Pony's debit cart not working on a website, and #1 having to obtain a book from Amazon.

My bank is really slow lately. I waited 15 minutes there a couple weeks ago, with only one car ahead of me. So when I saw that far lane open, I cruised right in and grabbed my two envelopes of cash. I deposit them separately for record keeping purposes. I had to hurry and jam those envelopes in the canister, because a car at the other working drive-thru lane had just pulled out, and a car behind it was pulling forward. I had to beat that one! And I did. My canister was whooshing through the tube before that guy had his back on the launcher.

"Hello. I'll be with you in a moment."

That teller wench had greeted the other guy! And I was first! I had wanted to explain that there was change in each envelope, and two separate deposits. Nope. I seethed. Turned up my SiriusXM 70s. Must have been the tail-end of the 70s, because it was Donna Summer disco. Time ticked. After 10 minutes, I heard a WHOOSH. My canister came back with two receipts. Still no talk from the teller wench. I guess she figured it out. So much for a greeting. Then she said, "Is there anything else?" Like I was BOTHERING her! I said no, and wished I had brought all coins. She had kept my envelopes, too! They ALWAYS give back the envelopes. Good thing I hadn't written the boys names on them or anything.

Seriously. Am I THAT unpleasant? Do I stink? (right now I'm sniffing my own armpit and breathing into my palm) Could that teller wench smell me through the drive-thru tube? I'd rather just be invisible than actively avoided.

From there I headed to that new convenience store that finally got constructed on the corner where I used to turn to go to Newmentia every morning. The little old lady there was polite enough. She took my two lottery winners and bent over to get my new scratchers from the case. Then she stood up and said, "Whew! I almost blacked out!" Oh, come ON! It couldn't be my smell...could it? I'm not generally a stinker. I take a shower every day before I head to town. Why were people reacting to me like this? I don't think I'll ever know. It was just one of those not-meshing kind of days.

Let the record show that the lottery lady DID have some bruising on the back of her hand. Like where an IV might be taped down in the hospital. And their tickets are way down low. So maybe she got a head rush when she stood back up. And maybe she'd been sick, and was dehydrated. Maybe I was just on the defensive after being shunned twice already.

But I have a tale of Diet Coke redemption for tomorrow!