In The Mansion Boudoir With The Stir-Crazy Hillbillies

Times are tough here in Hillmomba. With his recreational outlets closed, Farmer H is crazier than usual. It seems to have invaded his dreams. Get a load of THIS!

FARMER H IS PRETTY SURE I'M TRYING TO KILL HIM!

Heh, heh! What's bad for the goose is bad for the gander. Maybe it's his guilty subconscious talking to him in his sleep. When I returned to bed from a bathroom trip, and he was getting up for one...Farmer H broke the silence of the dark, and said,

"Whew! I was having a dream that you was trying to kill me. You and your boyfriend. You was hittin' me in the head with a HAMMER! We was over by the UPS Store and Little Caesar's. I grabbed you by the arm, and ran you down to the police station. Once we got there, I tried to tell them that you were trying to kill me, but YOU TOLD THEM I WAS TRYING TO KILL YOU!"

"Well, if you made me run to the police station, you were OBVIOUSLY trying to kill me!"

"YOU were killing ME! With a HAMMER!"

Farmer H went on to do his business while I made myself comfortable in the marital bed. He's a flopper, that Farmer H. Like a jolly good fellow being tossed in a blanket. He jounces me out of my comfortable position. If we tried that wine glass test on a mattress, it would shatter against the ceiling as Farmer H flopped on his side. He has also been waking me up lately, shaking the entire bed like he's having convulsions. I mentioned that to him.

"Yeah. Sometimes I wake myself up doing that. Maybe I AM having convulsions."

Anyhoo...I'd just gotten back to sleep. Suddenly, I was vaulted about three inches off the mattress by one of Farmer H's flipping flops.

I SO wanted to mutter, "Where's my hammer?"

For the sake of a sleep-stealing argument, I let it go...

Loitering On The Lot Of The Gas Station Chicken Store

Sunday, after allowing Typhoid Farmer H to dress my leg wound, I headed to the Gas Station Chicken Store for my magical elixir and lone human contact. As I was leaving my driveway, a text came in. It was from my favorite gambling aunt. I haven't heard from her for a month or so, since our last lunch date at the Pizza Hut that was closed with a plumber's truck outside.

"How are you doing? I 'm staying in, have for the past 2 weeks. Stay safe. How does ****** like his new job?"

Let the record show that ****** is the name of Genius's friend. Only Auntie had spelled it one letter off, as does my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel. They follow Genius on Facebook, so I thought maybe this was some insider knowledge that I had not yet acquired. I'm not on Facebook.

"I'm driving to town now. Did ****** get a NEW job? Haven't heard from Genius in a week or so."

Last I heard, ****** was doing the same job, but had switched from a company that contracted with the big-name employer, to the payroll of the actual big-name employer. Surely Genius would have updated me of any other news. ****** is like family to us.

Anyhoo...as soon as I got to town and parked, I called Auntie. She's a talker, you know. In fact, at the very beginning of the call, I said,

"I can only talk five minutes. I'm on the parking lot at the Gas Station Chicken Store, and if Woman Owner is here, she'll call the police on me for loitering. She runs a tight ship."

Auntie agreed, and proceeded to tell me about her last two weeks of going absolutely nowhere. Like I said, she's a talker. We went on and on. I made four of five attempts to end our chat, without success. Before I knew it, 30 minutes had passed. It was sunny and 70, and the side of my face was getting hot from the sun coming in T-Hoe's window.

"Okay. I really have to go now. I only called because I got that text from you about ******."

Silence.

"Unless that wasn't actually meant for me..."

Turns out it WASN'T!!! Auntie has a grandson by the name of ******, which is one letter off from the name of Genius's friend. And the grandson really DID get a new job!

Oh, well. It was nice talking to Auntie. Even though I could have done it another time, from the comfort of home.

Mrs. HM Is FAR OUT

Sweet Gummi Mary! I just had the most scathingly STUPID idea!

Let the record show that I don't actually believe this idea. If I was a fiction writer, which I'm not, I'd run with it. A kind of horror (more likely horrible, if I wrote it) short story. A Twilight Zone-ish tale.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Here's what put this bee in my bonnetless noggin.

I was reading the local newspaper online. The lead story was the VIRUS. The article was from the county health center, the tracker of our local community infections. It had a link to show the current cases, with a chart.

Our county has four people who have tested positive. Twenty-three who have tested negative. The positives are all women, in the age categories of 1 in 20-29, 1 in 30-39, and 2 in 40-49. Of the four cases, one was a guest at a wedding, who was in close contact with an infected guest showing symptoms. Her occupation is not given, so I assume she does not work.

Here's where I got this plot idea:

The other three positive gals ARE HOME HEALTH CARE WORKERS IN ANOTHER COUNTY!

Sure, they could have picked it up in the other county, getting gas or lunch, or at their workplace, maybe. I don't know if they all work for the same company, though. Or if such workers have to go to the office every day before making their visits. So I don't have any facts for my story I'm not writing. All I know is that most home health care workers assist with household tasks, or check vitals, or give meds to the elderly. The prime group this VIRUS seems most deadly for.

My story idea: WHAT IF THE ELDERLY ARE THE ONES SPREADING THE VIRUS?

It could work. A whole nursing home full of elderly was the major hotspot at the beginning. WHAT IF a worker didn't bring it to them, but they gave it to the worker? And to visitors. Then it started spreading.

What if it works backwards like that? And that's the reason the elderly are recommended to stay at home. Because THEY are the spreaders! Everybody is trying to protect them but the reveal is that the general populace needs protection from the elderly.

How could that happen? We know that old people get a special flu shot. And a pneumonia shot. What if some dastardly villain gave them a shot from a special batch, and something in those vaccinations set off the VIRUS? Of course the villain would have also given himself and his fellow villains wishing to rule the world an actual, preventative vaccine to protect them ahead of time.

Again, I don't mean this to be serious. Just a thought for a plot. It's scientifically possible. Kids spread the flu, because they get the flu mist, which is a LIVE, weakened flu virus. It's called the attenuated flu virus mist. It actually gives them a mild case of the flu, so they can make antibodies to protect them from catching the real, unweakened flu. Anyhoo... when they're coughing and sneezing, they are spreading actual flu. That's why they shouldn't have the mist if they're not healthy, or live with immunocompromised  people.

I wish I could write fiction. If I had any talent, I could have another The Stand ready to flow from my fingertips. I'm wordy enough, but too plagiaristic.

For A Man Who Doesn't Use It, Farmer H Is Overly Concerned

You may recall that on Friday the 13th, Farmer H was in a panic because This Guy's Wife put on Facebook that the Devil's Playground was out of toilet paper. I told him it was plentiful at Country Mart, so he said to get some. It has been in T-Hoe since then.

Last week, Farmer H said a guy at the storage units had bought up a large amount of toilet paper. A whole storage unit full! And that he was selling it for $5 a roll! Heh, heh. Little did I know what a bargain it was that the Gas Station Chicken Store had single rolls stacked on their counter for 87 cents apiece.

Anyhoo... Sunday evening, Farmer H sent a text to my BRIGHTER THAN THE SURFACE OF THE SUN basement lair. [TWO of my four lights have been replaced!]

"I just got a roll of toilet paper out. I thought you just bought some toilet paper we only have five rolls left"

"They are still in the car. You have had two shopping trips to bring them in. Two packs of four rolls. $40 worth, according to your buddy!"

"Okay just wondering ill get it later"

"Okay. Hope the neighborhood thieves don't rob us!"

"Hahaha"

At this typing, there are only three rolls in the hall closet. I suppose Farmer H will remember to bring in his precious paper treasure soon enough.

Smaller, In Comparison, Than Scarlett O'Hara's 17-Inch Waist

Sweet Gummi Mary! If it's not expired mayonnaise, it's a starving chicken!

I treated myself to some chicken tenders this week. Hardee's, because those in the Country Mart deli case were not at all appetizing, and the clerk herself mentioned to the other clerk, "Those are some crispy critters!"

Anyhoo...only the Hardee's drive thru is open. Fine with me. That's all I use anyway. I got home with my chicken, and set out a plate. Paper, sure. But STILL a plate! Mrs. HM is civilized.

It's always a mystery as to whether my bring-home food will be in the acceptable range. You know my luck. Even Steven must have signed a decree that I can only have normal food 50 percent of the time. This was NOT one of those times.

LOOK AT THAT! It's more of a chicken TOUGH than a chicken TENDER! Sure, there's some meat on the right end. And possibly meat in the blob on the left end. But that middle part is NOT meat! It's either sinew coated with batter, or it's just batter.

I do not wish for my chicken to have a wasp waist! I guess this is how they pass it off as a tender. Otherwise, if the parts were separate, they would be nuggets.

I know, I know...take it back and complain. YOU take it back and complain! Drive five miles (10 minutes) there, and 5 miles (10 minutes back). By then, I've worked up an appetite that needs MORE than this tender was worth. And I'm not going to be that person who sits at the window, opening the container and fingering every tender to see if it meets my not-really-high-at-all standards.

As Farmer H says, I just like to complain.

Mrs. HM Would Like To Make A Citizen's Arrest

oooOOOooo, oooOOOooo, weOOO, weOOO, weOOO, weOOO, weOOO, weOOO...

Oh. That's just how I image you'd write the sound of an Australian police siren. After googling it and listening to a clip. I can't verify that's the actual sound, though.

CALL THE COPPERS! There's a criminal in Hillmomba, and that criminal is Country Mart! Action must be taken! Since they keep getting away with it here, I'm turning them in to the Australian authorities.

COUNTRY MART IS SELLING EXPIRED FOOD AGAIN!

There I was, just rollin' down the aisle, singin' "doo wah diddy dum diddy doo... "

Oh, wait! No I wasn't! That was Bill Murray, before he got his STRIPES. Mrs. HM was actually rolling her cart/walker down the aisle, seeking Ken's Steakhouse Blue Cheese Salad Dressing, and Kraft Mayonnaise. Country Mart had every kind of Ken's but Blue Cheese. So I took a Kraft version. The mayonnaise was on the bottom shelf.

WHOA! A red sign taped to the edge proclaimed that Kraft Mayonnaise, the 30 oz jar, was TWO FOR $3.00! That's a bargain! I almost tipped over on my noggin, bending down to grab two jars. I had to reach way in the back. The shelf was nearly depleted.

HOLD ON A MINUTE! What was that fine print on the red sign?

Reduced for sale due to close expiration date

Huh. Probably okay. I use a lot of mayo. Let's see here. What's the date on my jars? Feb 2020? No way! And the other one? Jan 2020!

Sweet Gummi Mary! That's not CLOSE to the expiration date! In my book, the proposed tome I like to call Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's Common Sense, those dates are EXPIRED! Technically, in a court of slipshod U.S. law, Country Mart would probably get off with a wrist slap because January and February are CLOSE to March. If you don't count going backwards as being a bad thing in regards to an expiration date on perishable food.

Sure, if I'd had a jar in my cabinet, I'd use it a month or two past the date. NOT if it had been open in FRIG II. I might go one month past for open mayo. But I'll be darned if I'll PAY to buy already-expired food! If the chip man wanted to lay out individual bags of chips on the table in the Teacher Workroom at Newmentia, yeah, I'd take a couple. They're CHIPS. Not MAYO. And FREE.

Anyhoo...I put those jars right back on the shelf, and picked up a squeeze bottle that was the next closest in size to what I wanted. Dang. I paid $3.49 for the 22 oz squeeze bottle. But at least it didn't expire until JULY. Of 2020! I checked!

There's my old jar of Kraft Mayo, and the new bottle. Country Mart should be ashamed.

The EGGSacerbation Of Mrs. HM, Part 3: The Let-Down

Unlike the long-neck ice-cold beer of Luke Combs, Farmer H and the Gas Station Chicken Store have broken my heart. Let me down! Just when I needed them most.

Sunday, Farmer H called at 10:30 to say he was leaving his Storage Unit Store, due to lack of business. He was running by a guy's house to get a fishing pole welded, and then taking some old blankets and sheets from his storage unit stash to our neighbor who groomed Marley, for her to use in her second shop. Then he was coming home.

Of course I assumed Farmer H would be there shortly. Like, by 1:00, at the latest. Even if he got to talking, as he is wont to do. 2.5 hours is plenty of time to weld a fishing pole and drop off bedding. I waited. The plan being to remove my egg-blister bandaid for a shower, and then be re-bandaged before going to town.

When 2:45 rolled around, with no Farmer H, I took a shower anyway. I blotted the (still-yellowish) clear fluid from my egg-blister, washed it with soap and water, blotted more fluid, and put on pants for town. As I've mentioned, I can't get a 3 x 4 inch bandaid over the borders of that blister without sticking the sticky part on the blister itself. It's in an inconvenient location, kind of cockeyed, that is fine for one-hand tending, but awkward for two. For me, anyway. I'm no skeleton clicking my bones together while contorting. There's ample padding on my bones.

Anyhoo...I started to town, that 44 oz Diet Coke on my mind. It's the simple things, you know. Life hasn't ended. It's only slowed down. Contact with one person a day is a risk I'm willing to take.

I noticed that town was not busy. Nor was the Gas Station Chicken Store. Sometimes Sundays are like that. But town seemed emptier this day. I parked in my favorite spot near the door, and picked up my coin cup to get correct change. I saw a lady and girl walk over from the far side of the lot, from a truck pulling a camper. They got to the front door, looked, and turned around. Left!

Huh. That was odd. I backed up and pulled through the pump area. Looked at the door. There was a homemade message on the door.

CLOSED. We decided to go home for the day. See you tomorrow!

Darn that Farmer H! He's certainly not trying to kill me with kindness...