Mrs. HM Goes Full HAM Scorched Mansion

We'll turn The Pony out into the paddock today, to kick up his heels, roll on his back, and graze in peace. He'll be tied to the snubbing post soon enough. But today Mrs. HM has more stinky fish to fry.

Sit down. Fasten your seatbelt. Make sure the lid is on your beverage. Have a nitroglycerin tablet ready to slip under your tongue. Please sign a generic waiver holding Mrs. HM harmless if you become harmed.

Let the record show that Mrs. HM is a pretty (not in the 'beauty' connotation, but in a 'fairly' kind of way) easy-going blog matron. She does not flip out if somebody has a different point of view. It takes all kinds of kinds to keep the world spinning, you know. What a boring world it would be if we were all the same. Like those creepy, orange-suited Oompa Loompas in the Augustus Gloop scene in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. 

 

Let the record further show that Mrs. HM's scathing rant to follow does not concern any of her regular readers/commenters. You might call my Back-Creek Neighbor Bev nuts. You might question the character of my neighbor Tommy. You might tell me to kick Farmer H to the curb. But I'm pretty sure you don't mean it in a malicious way.

 

After blogging for nigh on 15 years, I can kind of sense what's in the hearts of my regulars. Uh huh. I'm psychically gifted like that. I may not agree with you, but I respect your right to have different beliefs than I, and I don't pop into you blogs to rattle your cage. I steer away from the controversial topics in comments. And you show me the same respect.

 

I'm not trying to change anybody's opinion when I stand up for my own. That is something best done on one's own blog, not in somebody's comments section. I would never go to a Future Mousetrap Millionaire's blog and tell them how to build a better mousetrap. You don't go into somebody's home and start painting their walls a different color.

My comments have been set so that posting needs my approval. I did that MANY years ago, when a creepy overseas stalker started criticizing one of my regulars daily. I like the approval setting. It notifies me when I have comments. Otherwise, I'd be going back to re-read my own posts, or miss comments on older posts. These days, a spammer comment gets through the filter every now and then. So I can just send it to oblivion. 

All that said... I was not happy to find a comment on my other blog yesterday (about Farmer H's resale item of choice), from a brand new commenter, suggesting I look at the other side of an issue. SERIOUSLY? I am blankety-blank years old, and I've had a whole lifetime to consider both sides of this issue! I don't need a stranger from another country insinuating that my view is LESS-THAN.

I don't take kindly to a complete stranger, never-before-commenter, galloping in on a high-horse, looking down their nose at me, while spreading their own truth across my blog page. Especially when I track back to the profile, and find two blogs, one being from a woman who passed away three years ago, and the other seemingly promoting fancy furniture layouts with umpteen pictures of perfectly-staged rooms. Must be kind of hard to rein in your high-horse if you break an arm patting yourself on the back.

The comment was just specific enough to not be the work of a spammer who has taken over an old account. It came with a casual acknowledgment. "You probably won't post this (and who can blame you!) but I wanted you to try and see it from another angle."

 

You're darn tootin' I won't post it! Write about your opinion on your own blog. Don't cost nothin'! 

 

Here's more: "Where I live, he'd be hard put to find a huge legal market for guns. Why can't he sell something else?" Don't tell my man what to sell! It's legal, and about a third of his customers are law enforcement officers. I don't like him having so much of his money tied up in inventory, but he's making a profit, and will have a tidy sum if he ever liquidates.

 

And more: "I would hate to find out that someone had been killed with a gun I sold them." Well, DUH! It's not like Farmer H would celebrate such a thing. I'm sure a car salesman would be sad if a car he sold someone ran over a pedestrian. And a beekeeper who sells honey at the farmer's market would be sad if someone died of anaphylactic shock after eating his product. It's not like they are directly responsible. You sell a product, and then it's on the buyer what they do with it. It's not like Farmer H is standing on a street corner with a long coat full of contraband, psst-psst-ing to passersby.

 

See, it's not that the comment was in any way rude or outrageous. I just don't need a stranger telling me how to think. You don't know me. You don't know my life. You don't know my community. You don't even know my blog if you have never commented until now.

What The Hard-Of-Hearing Man Heard

I should have known our trip would be as ill-fated as the three-hour tour (three hour tour) of the S.S. Minnow! Okay. Maybe not that bad. But still not pleasant. All due to Farmer H being in a mood.

It had been two weeks since our last casino trip, and Farmer H agreed to drive us 90 minutes for an afternoon of money-losing and fried-food eating. The Pony and I were excited; an-ti-ci-pa-a-a-tion was making us wait. We chatted about what slots we would play. Whether we would enter the slot tournament for free. 

Farmer H groused about his lady down there not having any guns for him. He buys them at a couple of pawn shops in that town, and she saves the good ones and gives him a little discount, because he's a regular buyer and takes several at a time. The lady's adult son, who works in the shop with her, took a couple months to warm up to Farmer H. The Son didn't want to sell to Farmer H if his mom wasn't there. He said he could get more money for the guns, even though The Mom had quoted a price to Farmer H, initiating his drive down there.

Anyhoo... Farmer H was just grumpy. When I heard about the no guns to buy this trip revelation, I was ready to tear my lovely lady-mullet out.

"Wait! So you're not dropping us off and going to look around at the pawn shops?"

"No. Nobody has anything for me. Guns are hard to find these days."

"Probably because you've bought them all up!"

"No, HM. I haven't bought them all."

"Well, this is not good. You'll be in the casino at least an hour longer than usual. You'll run out of money, and not want to stay until the regular time. They've changed the slot tournament hours, too. Instead of registering at 1:00, and starting at 2:00, you can't register until 2:00, and they start at 3:00. When do you want to meet for lunch?"

 

"How about 2:00?"

 

"Okaayyy... we usually meet at 2:30."

 

"2:00 is better."

 

So... Farmer H dropped off The Pony and me, then went to park A-Cad. We were having a good time, and met by the front of the only open restaurant for lunch. More on that on my not-so-secret blog. After eating, The Pony trotted off to play more slots, while I finished eating, and Farmer H sat there fiddling with his phone.

 

"So what time are we leaving?"

 

"Same as usual, I guess. I don't know if I'm going to enter the slot tournament this time. I'd rather just play slots and not waste time in line for that."

 

"Okay then. What time?"

 

"Like usual. I'll meet you up front at 4:30."

 

"Okay. The Pony ran out of here without even asking when we're leaving."

 

"He usually finds me while he's roaming around. I'll tell him."

 

Farmer H stacked up the trash and cleared the table. He's good at that. We went our separate ways. I kept an eye on my phone for the time. So I knew how much time I had left, and to determine how much I was willing to spend, and what slots I wanted to play on. I was pretty much set on one machine, since it was the only thing that had been paying me all day. 

Like I said, I kept an eye on the time. I knew I'd need to allow five minutes to walk over to the cash-out machine and get up front. I was actually pretty close, just two rows from the front of the casino. At 4:20, The Pony arrived at my shoulder. 

"Dad sent me a text asking if we were in a bonus."

"I am NOW," I said as that very spin launched the Wonder 4 Rising Fortunes bonus on Buffalo Gold. "I didn't get a text. I'll let this play out. Tell Dad I'll be there as soon as it's over. Then come back here, and you can take my ticket to cash it. You're faster than I am."

I cashed out the bonus (not great, but $50-something), handed my ticket to The Pony, and hobbled up front. Farmer H was sitting on the very chair where I had taken a picture of the front of the casino the last time we were there. He was fiddling with his phone.

"Okay. The Pony is cashing out my ticket. I'll go over to the bathroom, and meet you out front."

"I've been WAITING for both of you! I finally sent a text to see if you were in a bonus."

"Yeah, that's what The Pony said. I didn't get one. I've been checking my phone every few minutes, to make sure I was on time."

"You said we were leaving at 4:00!"

"No I didn't. I said 4:30. That's the time we always leave. We got here at the same time we always get here. We spent the same amount of time eating lunch. Just a little earlier. We don't have anything we need to be home for. So why would I say we'd leave earlier?"

"I don't know, but you DID. You said we'd leave at 4:00, and I've been waiting."

"You didn't object when I told you 4:30, when you asked after lunch."

"You told me 4:00, and I've been here waiting for both of you!"

With that, Farmer H stood up, and started jabbing his finger in my face. Not cool.

"Just because you have a mask on, don't think people can't tell what you're doing. We're on a lot of cameras, you know. Stop poking your finger at me! It is JUST NOW 4:30, and I'm here, and that's the time we agreed on."

"I don't care WHO'S watching! You said 4:00!"

Welcome to the life of eternally put-upon Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Farmer H is all the time pitching little fits over things he SAYS that I've said, when in fact, his version bears only a passing acquaintance with the facts. 

Too bad I didn't have The Pony as a witness this time. Once I got settled in A-Cad, I saw that Farmer H's text had finally come in. Sent at 4:13. Asking if The Pony and I were in a bonus.

 

I made use of my silent ride home to get in a 40-minute nap before we commenced to sweaving on the blacktop pig's trail.

A Mostly A-Carrot Account Of A Friday Night Food Flap

The Pony was belaboring a point Friday evening, sitting on the long couch, eating the sausage links, carrots-with-cheese, baked potato, and biscuits that I had prepared for him, while taking a page from Farmer H's book and telling me, "I've told you, you don't HAVE to cook supper for me every night." Funny how they both like to say that while they're in the middle of, or just finishing up, the supper that I made for them that night.

 

Okay. So truthfully, I'd called The Pony into the kitchen to hand me the mixed broccoli/ cauliflower/carrot mix, and the store-brand Velveeta, and the sausage links. And to line the biscuit pan with foil. And put the biscuits on there. And fetch three potatoes from the bag. And open a jar of Sweet Banana Pepper Rings. So conceivably, The Pony did almost as much preparation of supper as I did. Shhhh. We certainly don't need to let that get out.

 

Anyhoo... The Pony declared that he didn't really like the carrots with cheese, which he had chosen over raw baby carrots with ranch dip. Never mind that I'd picked THOSE baby carrots out of the broccoli and cauliflower bag that Farmer H and I were partaking of. But then he had the nerve to act as if I'd forced those cheesy carrots on him, when actually it would have been easier to shake out some raw carrots.

Also, The Pony had the NERVE to say, "I thought you were going back to the kitchen to take your sausages out of the oven five minutes ago. It's been more than twice that."

"Excuse me! I've told you I don't feel well today. That I can't seem to catch my breath. And now here I am, trying to get a rest, and you're forcing me off my DEATH COUCH before I'm ready!"

"I knew I should have set a timer when you said that. To remind you."

"You know, Pony, my Resting Supper Face is about to change to a Resting Something-Else Face!"

Plastic Soda Rings Are Dangerous To Lair Life

One of The Pony's "duties," (for which he receives a weekly salary of $20) is to bring six-packs of bottled Diet Coke down to the basement. His job description also includes taking out the trash, rolling the dumpster to the end of the driveway on Tuesday night, and bringing it back (hopefully before the next Tuesday night), doing the weekly shopping at The Devil's Playground, carrying in (I mean it!) the groceries I get at Save A Lot or Country Mart, cleaning his own bathroom, plus the triangle tub, fetching me items during the cooking of the nightly suppers, and assisting Farmer H with odd jobs. 

Okay. That's not really his salary. It's the allowance he has gotten while living at home, since he was in high school. Sure beats MY childhood allowance of 50 cents every two weeks!

Anyhoo... sometimes The Pony needs a supervisor. I threaten him with a job target and docking of his pay. For instance, The Pony thought he was doing me a favor by putting the Diet Cokes in the mini fridge under the basement stairs. It's not part of his duties. I usually do it myself. Problem is, The Pony is a lot like Farmer H. Every time he "helps" me, he creates extra work, or endangers my life (pretty sure on purpose, in Farmer H's case).

As I walked from my lair to the main basement area, for my OPC (Old People Chair) and TV, my foot caught on something. Thank the Gummi Mary, I didn't go down. What a nightmare THAT would have been, flashback to the time I tripped on the throw rug and had to crawl to the couch to hoist myself up. When I investigated, I saw that The Pony had simply dropped the plastic soda ring thingy to the tile floor! 

WHO DOES THAT! 

Seriously. What kind of bum or hoarder just drops trash where they stand? I have a trash bag in my office. There's a plastic bag hanging by my OPC. There's a wastebasket in the NASCAR bathroom. There's even a collection of previous plastic soda ring thingies on the end of Genius's old desk, beside the stairs. That's where I lay them, and harvest them every few weeks to stuff in the trash bag. I'd NEVER think of dropping one to the floor!

I broached the subject with The Pony.

"I can't believe you left the soda ring on the floor! I could have fallen! I stepped on it the other night, and it startled me. I'm not steady on my feet on a flat tile floor. That's dangerous."

Not sure if The Pony was picking up what I was laying down, which was pretty much the point that he should be picking up those plastic soda ring thingies that he had laid down! In fact, I found ANOTHER one in the same general area, the next time The Pony brought down Diet Coke.

Believe me, a stern talking-to, and a command to pick them up, were on my agenda. Funny thing. The very night I had penciled-in our conference, I saw that the soda ring thingies had been picked up before I left my lair.

It's just a coincidence that it was the evening The Pony had not helped me carry in the groceries, and had felt my wrath a few hours before.

10:00 PM Shenanigans

"If you thought you heard an entity upstairs last night around 10:00, it was only me. I heard something while Dad was at the auction, so I looked out the front door. Jack and Juno were on the porch. Jack wanted petting. He's so cute! While I was standing in the door petting him, Juno ran past me!"

 

"She never does that! Won't even come in when there's a tornado! You can't coax her in."

 

"She did this time! She came over by the short couch, and was sniffing the carpet like she was looking for you."

 

"Aww... that's my Sweet, Sweet Juno."

 

"I just wanted you to know. It was nothing paranormal. Just Juno galloping around. She didn't want to leave, and I was pushing on her side trying to force her back to the door."

 

That Juno! She's been extra needy lately. I don't know what's going on with her. The other day on the side porch, she was so eager to jam her nose into my neck to be petted, she got a thumping. Not on purpose. I was coming down the steps sideways, hands on the rail, purse draped over my arm... and she darted in before I knew it. ("Your elbow drove into her skull!" said Tom, pointedly.)

 

I'm pretty sure it hurt Juno. She shook her head, like she does when she rams it into the metal chair, or GassyG Jr the BBQ grill, while frolicking rambunctiously at the mention of a TREAT. 

I wonder if Juno is going through a late-life crisis.

Robbing Genius To Pay Pony

A new scratcher came out last Monday. That's the routine. The last Monday of the month is MO Money Monday. It's the release date for new scratchers. There's always a new $5 ticket, and a $2 and a $1. The other ticket is a crapshoot. Sometimes we get a new $10, or a new $20. This time, it was a CHRISTMAS $20. That's kind of pushing the season. I don't recall getting a Christmas ticket in September.

Anyhoo... you know I send Genius two scratchers in his weekly letter. When new tickets come out, that what he gets. You also know that I rarely hear from Genius. In fact, our last communication was by text, on September 8. Until Monday night, October 5.

"I loved the new Fab 5 tickets."

"Did you win?"

"No. But they're pretty and fun." Smile emoji.

"I will get them for you this week."

 

Here's the Fab 5, sadly out of focus. (I suppose SamGalA, my cell phone, is paying me back for "rescuing" him off my soft, soft coat on the floor of the back seat, whence he thought he'd escaped my clutches.)

 

 

Yesterday The Pony did our Devil's Playground shopping. The Devil has two lottery machines up front. I gave The Pony ten dollars. I wanted two tickets, one of them being this Fab 5, which I planned to send to Genius. I'd get another one at the Gas Station Chicken Store. I don't like getting two in a row off the same roll of tickets, because one is sure to be a loser. 

 

I also planned to pick up a ticket for Farmer H, since he gave me a winner to redeem, and one for The Pony, also from a winning redemption. Plus I usually get a ticket for The Pony when I get mine. So when he got home with my two tickets, The Pony said, 

 

"I'll just take this Fab 5, and you won't have to get me a ticket in town."

 

Oh. Okay. I could make another stop after the Gas Station Chicken Store, to get Genius's second Fab 5. Not a big deal.

 

The Pony took the Fab 5 to the living room, to scratch it upon my marred coffee table. I immediately heard a hoot.

 

"You're going to want to kill me, but I just got a winner!" 

The first Fabulous $25 Spot that The Pony scratched was a winner. He won $25 on the ticket I had planned to send to Genius. I guess what Genius doesn't know won't hurt him.

Then again, I don't like to withhold information...

Mad As An Un-Met Hen, Staggering About On Chicken Legs

Saturday I did some shopping at Country Mart. Before I left home, I asked The Pony (by hollering through the closed door of his room, while he watches TV and listens to music in his earbuds while playing games on his laptop) if he wanted me to pick him up anything in Country Mart. The Pony answered, "No."

 

The Pony had informed me that he would be eating a lunch of something he'd bought on his last Devil's Playground trip, a microwave noodle dinner of sorts. So I only picked up myself a Dairy Queen lunch. My last stop was the Gas Station Chicken Store for my 44 oz Diet Coke. It was there that I received a text from The Pony. 

2:35 Just now showering.

2:37 Leaving GSCS, headed home. Already have DQ.

We do this all the time. The Pony sets a timer to come out and help carry in groceries. Or lunch, if I've picked up something for him. So I can balance my purse and magical elixir, and myself, on my wobbly knees, going up the steps to the porch.

The trip home takes 10 minutes. Because The Pony had just entered the shower, I took my time. When I came down the driveway, I saw that SilverRedO was parked under the carport. So I knew that Farmer H was home from Storage Unit Store-ing.

2:53 Here now.

2:54 Still in shower.

Huh. That was not to my liking. The Pony had known I was going to the store. It's not my problem that he procrastinated over an hour after my departure, before getting in the shower. He's done that before, but rushed to get out in time for carrying.

2:54 Ok. I'll bring it in.

Of course I was a bit put-out at this development. Quite a bit put-out indeed. No old lady with wobbly knees should have to carry in her own groceries when she has a healthy 22-year-old and a Pop-Armed old man inside her Mansion. The Gator was also parked under the carport. So I knew that Farmer H was in the house, in the recliner, with a clear view of the driveway and T-Hoe's homecoming.

I commenced to carrying. I had 7 bags of groceries, including a bunch of 10 bananas, three bags of carrots, an unbagged bag of 10 lb of potatoes, a tub of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter, a jar of olives, and assorted other foodstuffs. It took a while.

No way was I going up and down those steps every time. When I carry in groceries (which I've not had to do since mid-May), I haul them to the side porch, and put them on a chair, then beside the chair when it's full. I close up T-Hoe and the garage, and go up the steps carrying my purse and magical elixir. Then I return to carry in the bags the rest of the way. The dogs are well-behaved and don't mess with my groceries, though I'd never leave anything like deli food sitting there waiting...

As I set down my purse and 44, I announced, not cheerfully, "There'd better not be anybody in here not-helping me with these groceries!" Not a sound. The TV was on some black and white old show, of the type Farmer H is wont to watch. Not on the Carnival Eats show I'd left it on. I went back and made several trips carrying in all the bags. Not a creature was stirring. Not even a louse.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU MADE ME CARRY IN ALL THESE GROCERIES BY MYSELF!"

"Huh? What? I was asleep in the chair." Said Farmer H. Probably unaware that I saw the TV was now on a colorful football game.

"Why didn't you say something? I didn't know you had groceries." Said The Pony. Out of the shower, completely dressed, not dripping, 'forgetting' that he had answered me when I asked if he'd wanted me to pick up anything for him while I was in the store.

How shocking that neither of them had noticed that I had arrived home, by way of the driveway, and texted I was there, yet had not appeared inside the Mansion for over 15 minutes.

Likely stories. My right knee has yet to recover from its extra weight-bearing duties. I'm pretty sure The Pony felt a smidge of guilt, since the next day he texted me that he was getting in the shower barely 15 minutes into my trip, and to let him know as soon as I was leaving town.

Of course Farmer H made sure he was not around when I left, nor returned. I guess I made 50 percent of a point.