We had a little storm blow through Hillmomba last night. There we were, The Pony and I, blissfully absorbed in Wipeout, when our power flickered. It flickered, it flackered, it surged up and down like ambient lighting controlled by a toddler twisting a round dimmer switch.
Then it went off for good.
Or for bad, as I see it, what with the season premiere of Big Brother 13 due to air a scant 30 minutes later. I reviewed my recent karma withdrawals and deposits, and came to the conclusion that Even Steven was going to owe me big on this one.
Farmer H sat mute in his La-Z-Boy upstairs. He had some greenish light filtering in through the shades. The Pony and I grabbed the tiny metal flashlights we keep within reach for just such emergencies in the basement. We turned on the weather radio, which provided us with some twangin' old-style country music. After ten minutes, I gave up hope of regaining power before my show.
Then I had the most scathingly brilliant idea. I hollered up to Farmer H, "Hey, why do we have a generator, anyway?" He hmpfed a bit, then muttered, then cranked his La-Z-Boy to the upright position. From there, he headed to the garage to turn on Gennie. I went upstairs to the only working house phone, the one on the kitchen wall with giant numbers that sometimes work and sometimes don't, and called Ameren Missouri. That's the good part about Am Mo. They have an automated number to report outages that tells you how many customers are floundering in your same boat, and when power should be restored. Ten p.m. was too late for my Big Brother. Lucky for me that Farmer H was on the case. I bet those other 859 customers wished they had a Farmer H right about then.
I began to worry. It takes about ten minutes for my Dish Network to come back after such a catastrophic shut-down. It has to acquire satellite signal, then load that confounded program guide for America's Top 150, and then maybe I'll get a picture. Apparently, Farmer H had lost his charm with Gennie. She was not responding. I sounded like he was choking her. Even after he jumped her, she wouldn't put out.
Turns out that he forgot to shut off the main power switch. We can only run selected appliances with Gennie's compliance. The air conditioner and stove not being two of them. Good thing I was in no mood to cook. I selected to run my big-screen TV and satellite dish. Who needs lights? Not me or The Pony. Farmer H made sure that Frig was humming, and that the well was pumping as needed. Then he took off to town. Because while he believes in being prepared for power outages by housing his kept woman, Gennie, in the garage year-round, he does not believe in providing her with sustenance.
It didn't help matters that four inches of rain were dumped on Hillmomba in an hour's worth of thunderstorm. Farmer H had to detour over the right bridges to reach civilization. Meanwhile, I had temporary power. WooHoo! I only missed the first five minutes of Big Brother, the part where Julie Chen explained the new rules for Season 13. And I held my breath until Farmer H returned at 8:50. Not actually, because I would have passed out and missed my show. But figuratively, because I feared that Gennie would gobble up her meager petroleum provisions and leave me in the dark again.
Sooo...I suppose Steven Evened things out, because I got to watch my Big Brother. The power did not return at 10:00, but at 11:30, at which time I woke Farmer H to suffocate Gennie. I threw the main power switch, and we had air conditioning and hot water again for for the morning routine.
Props to Farmer H for his electrifying performance in the face of adversity.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Isn't It Funny How...
Isn't it funny how...
* I can sit at my computer for hours and nobody speaks to me, but the minute I turn on some music, I'm the wise Yoda everybody consults before making a decision
* Severe thunderstorms roll in at the time I am planning to watch the season premiere of Big Brother 13, sure to cause an interruption in my Dish Network satellite signal
* A 16-year-old boy can eat a salad and a leftover McDonald's cheeseburger for supper and declare that he's full, and thirty minutes later ask permission to go to a Mexican restaurant for supper with his friends
* A rousing game of Keep the Bread Crumbs away from the Guineas can raise your spirits
* You buy dark blue shower-shoe flip-flops for your son because he says he will only wear a dark color, yet when you describe the other choice as white with a royal blue insole, he says, "Cool. I wish you'd got me those"
* The Devil's Playground in a neighboring town keeps the Mederma in a plastic lock-box of sorts, like the kind they put expensive video games in to cart up to the Devil's Handmaiden
* The song "I Got You Babe" now conjures up the topic of transgenderism
* The more time you have, the more time you waste
* Kenny Rodgers in unrecognizable now
* People hate the Duggars because they have a stable, two-parent home for their 19 kids, and don't take handouts or use credit
* A mere ten years ago, we were able to survive without a cell phone in our hands sixteen hours a day
* People have grown so thin-skinned that words now seem to break their bones
* I can sit at my computer for hours and nobody speaks to me, but the minute I turn on some music, I'm the wise Yoda everybody consults before making a decision
* Severe thunderstorms roll in at the time I am planning to watch the season premiere of Big Brother 13, sure to cause an interruption in my Dish Network satellite signal
* A 16-year-old boy can eat a salad and a leftover McDonald's cheeseburger for supper and declare that he's full, and thirty minutes later ask permission to go to a Mexican restaurant for supper with his friends
* A rousing game of Keep the Bread Crumbs away from the Guineas can raise your spirits
* You buy dark blue shower-shoe flip-flops for your son because he says he will only wear a dark color, yet when you describe the other choice as white with a royal blue insole, he says, "Cool. I wish you'd got me those"
* The Devil's Playground in a neighboring town keeps the Mederma in a plastic lock-box of sorts, like the kind they put expensive video games in to cart up to the Devil's Handmaiden
* The song "I Got You Babe" now conjures up the topic of transgenderism
* The more time you have, the more time you waste
* Kenny Rodgers in unrecognizable now
* People hate the Duggars because they have a stable, two-parent home for their 19 kids, and don't take handouts or use credit
* A mere ten years ago, we were able to survive without a cell phone in our hands sixteen hours a day
* People have grown so thin-skinned that words now seem to break their bones
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
After You, My Dear Subserviant Other
Yesterday, in my jaunts about Hillmomba, I came to a 4-way stop. It's not the creepy 5-way stop by the motorcycle business across from the fire house, or the 3-way stop by the insurance business that used to be a Head Shop during my high school years. No, this was a 4-way stop by the nursing home and furniture store, on the newest section of roadway that connects to the interstate highway.
You know what a 4-way stop is. Four lanes of traffic, each with a left turn lane, come to a stop sign. Traffic takes turns in order of arrival at the stop sign. And here's where the outrage begins. A dude driving a Pepsi truck motioned for me to go ahead. Oh, the nerve of him!
Because it was clearly my turn. How magnanimous of him to allow little ol' me to go before he did. What a grand gesture. Like royalty allowing a commoner to bask in his presence.
Such a gesture is akin to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom telling her students, "Go ahead and inhale my oxygen. I import it from the atmosphere and into my classroom just for you. No charge. It's my treat. Take a breath. You're welcome."
It's like when I tell Farmer H that I'm going to a Trivia Match on such and such a date. "That's fine. You can go." As if he has a say in it. I didn't ask permission. I know there's nothing on our busy social calendar for that night. If The Pony needs minding, I make arrangements with my mom. So where does Farmer H get off giving me permission to go? I don't need permission. I'm not a prisoner in my own Mansion.
It's the little things, people. The little things.
You know what a 4-way stop is. Four lanes of traffic, each with a left turn lane, come to a stop sign. Traffic takes turns in order of arrival at the stop sign. And here's where the outrage begins. A dude driving a Pepsi truck motioned for me to go ahead. Oh, the nerve of him!
Because it was clearly my turn. How magnanimous of him to allow little ol' me to go before he did. What a grand gesture. Like royalty allowing a commoner to bask in his presence.
Such a gesture is akin to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom telling her students, "Go ahead and inhale my oxygen. I import it from the atmosphere and into my classroom just for you. No charge. It's my treat. Take a breath. You're welcome."
It's like when I tell Farmer H that I'm going to a Trivia Match on such and such a date. "That's fine. You can go." As if he has a say in it. I didn't ask permission. I know there's nothing on our busy social calendar for that night. If The Pony needs minding, I make arrangements with my mom. So where does Farmer H get off giving me permission to go? I don't need permission. I'm not a prisoner in my own Mansion.
It's the little things, people. The little things.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Mansion, We've Got A Problem
The Pony let the goats out for their hour of frolic and grass-mowing this morning. He wanted to be done by 9:00 so he could go to spend the day with his grandma.
At 8:50, the goats started running to the pen. It's not that they are extremely intelligent goats with internal hourglasses. They're just stupid goats. When one goes somewhere, the other chase after it. Goats are herd animals, you know.
I told The Pony that he could go ahead and put them up. Usually, he has to bang the lid on the corn-storing metal garbage can to make them run into the pen. But today, they outsmarted themselves. We went off to town. I dropped off The Pony, gassed up T-Hoe, made a bank deposit, picked up a package of Nike socks at the dead-mouse-smelling post office so the #1 son will not look like a ragamuffin at Nerd Camp next week, purchased my Sonic Route 44, and headed back to the Mansion. It was only 11:30 when I got there.
Around 2:00, as I was sitting with my mouth hanging open after hearing the Casey Anthony trial verdict, #1 came in from his unsupervised dip in Poolio.
"Are the goats supposed to be out?"
"No. The Pony put them up."
"Well, Nellie is out in the field."
"Go check on them. Put them back in."
"I HATE those goats!"
He went after them. Apparently, goats are escape artists. They had battered down the door to their pen. #1 rounded up all but Nellie. She's stubborn as a mule. He wedged the door to keep the rest in. Two hours later, he reported that the triplets had wiggled their way out.
Farmer H will have to remedy the situation tonight. I am not going to sit on the porch all day to protect my roses and lilac bushes.
At 8:50, the goats started running to the pen. It's not that they are extremely intelligent goats with internal hourglasses. They're just stupid goats. When one goes somewhere, the other chase after it. Goats are herd animals, you know.
I told The Pony that he could go ahead and put them up. Usually, he has to bang the lid on the corn-storing metal garbage can to make them run into the pen. But today, they outsmarted themselves. We went off to town. I dropped off The Pony, gassed up T-Hoe, made a bank deposit, picked up a package of Nike socks at the dead-mouse-smelling post office so the #1 son will not look like a ragamuffin at Nerd Camp next week, purchased my Sonic Route 44, and headed back to the Mansion. It was only 11:30 when I got there.
Around 2:00, as I was sitting with my mouth hanging open after hearing the Casey Anthony trial verdict, #1 came in from his unsupervised dip in Poolio.
"Are the goats supposed to be out?"
"No. The Pony put them up."
"Well, Nellie is out in the field."
"Go check on them. Put them back in."
"I HATE those goats!"
He went after them. Apparently, goats are escape artists. They had battered down the door to their pen. #1 rounded up all but Nellie. She's stubborn as a mule. He wedged the door to keep the rest in. Two hours later, he reported that the triplets had wiggled their way out.
Farmer H will have to remedy the situation tonight. I am not going to sit on the porch all day to protect my roses and lilac bushes.
Monday, July 4, 2011
The Devil's Game Show
The Devil is gonna get me. He tries. Oh, he tries.
I set out for The Devil's Playground this afternoon to pick up just a few things. I would have had a less adventurous outing had I merely competed on an episode of 101 Ways to Leave a Game Show.
Upon arrival, I made a beeline for an abandoned cart sunning itself along the striped walkway between the handicap spaces. A win-win situation, right? The Devil gets free labor, and I get a walker to lean on during my trek to the front doors. But today, an elderly gentleman got away from his handlers and headed for the same cart. His adult son tried to call him back, but the old gent was heckbent on grabbing that personal ambulation device. I backed off and let him have it. Let it never be said that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom elbows septuagenarians to snag a Devil's handtruck.
Before The Pony and I could get in the door, we were accosted by a beggar. This one was collecting for veterans, he said, a noble cause, had we been harboring cash upon our persons instead of plastic. Stiffing the beggar, we attempted to enter the store through the actual entrance door. The Pony is a stickler for proper ingress and egress procedures. The double doors, however, opened barely wide enough for one Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. After a short delay. Meanwhile, scofflaws were entering the exit door willy-nilly.
I squeezed through with the flair of Indiana Jones grabbing his fedora with an arm-hair's-breadth to spare. I walked to the row of carts and pried one loose. The greeter frowned upon me. "I have one waiting for you." Well. Jeeves. Funny how I did not expect such a courtesy. I walked back across the entrance to take the one he had parked separately.
The Pony was sent on a reconnaissance mission to gather Axe Body Wash, coated paper plates, and large styrofoam bowls. I pilfered through the produce for the best bad bananas I had ever seen. In the lettuce arena, I was overtaken by two massive women on riding carts. They wended their ways between me and a stocker with a pushcart at the potato shelf.
On, to the back of the store I forged, for Diet A & W Root Beer. The Pony caught up to me and put his items in the cart. He was sent on a new mission for Apple Cinnamon Whole Grain Bagels. I sped off to grab some Hidden Valley Ranch powder and a bottle of regular ranch dressing. I had to weave up the center aisle due to Large Lady Cart 1 blocking the right side, Large Lady Cart 2 blocking the left side, and a bewildered little old lady stuck between them.
The bread aisle was our final destination. While I sorted through the tortillas until I found the 10-inch multi-grain pack, The Pony meandered through a family of four to gather generic hot dog buns. I then searched for the best date on the wheat hot dog buns. My concentration was shattered by a Chatty Cathy babbling about how she had found the pack of TEN hamburger buns. I looked around. Just as I feared, she was talking to ME. I didn't give an obese rodent's hindquarters if she found her buns. I'd never seen her before. She didn't even stroke my arm and tell me I was SO PRETTY. Three strikes.
The attempt to turn my back on the weirdo was hampered by the arrival of Large Lady Carts 1 & 2. They swept down the bread aisle like a Zamboni crew at the Stanley Cup playoffs. LLC1 scraped down the left side. LLC2 followed down the right side. There oughta be a rule about tandem large-carting.
At the checkout, The Devil's Handmaiden stuffed items of varied proportions into each bag. Sideways. Paper plates, sideways. Little Debbie Brownies box, on end. Farmer H's sugar free oatmeal raisin cookies, sideways. And each of those bags had a short, light item cast in with it. That's so all the bags would fall over when I attempted to set them in my cart and car.
At the exit door, we had to wait in line because of all the people entering through the wrong door. And deny the beggar money again when we got out.
Being yanked skyward by a cable fastened to a helicopter would have been so much simpler.
I set out for The Devil's Playground this afternoon to pick up just a few things. I would have had a less adventurous outing had I merely competed on an episode of 101 Ways to Leave a Game Show.
Upon arrival, I made a beeline for an abandoned cart sunning itself along the striped walkway between the handicap spaces. A win-win situation, right? The Devil gets free labor, and I get a walker to lean on during my trek to the front doors. But today, an elderly gentleman got away from his handlers and headed for the same cart. His adult son tried to call him back, but the old gent was heckbent on grabbing that personal ambulation device. I backed off and let him have it. Let it never be said that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom elbows septuagenarians to snag a Devil's handtruck.
Before The Pony and I could get in the door, we were accosted by a beggar. This one was collecting for veterans, he said, a noble cause, had we been harboring cash upon our persons instead of plastic. Stiffing the beggar, we attempted to enter the store through the actual entrance door. The Pony is a stickler for proper ingress and egress procedures. The double doors, however, opened barely wide enough for one Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. After a short delay. Meanwhile, scofflaws were entering the exit door willy-nilly.
I squeezed through with the flair of Indiana Jones grabbing his fedora with an arm-hair's-breadth to spare. I walked to the row of carts and pried one loose. The greeter frowned upon me. "I have one waiting for you." Well. Jeeves. Funny how I did not expect such a courtesy. I walked back across the entrance to take the one he had parked separately.
The Pony was sent on a reconnaissance mission to gather Axe Body Wash, coated paper plates, and large styrofoam bowls. I pilfered through the produce for the best bad bananas I had ever seen. In the lettuce arena, I was overtaken by two massive women on riding carts. They wended their ways between me and a stocker with a pushcart at the potato shelf.
On, to the back of the store I forged, for Diet A & W Root Beer. The Pony caught up to me and put his items in the cart. He was sent on a new mission for Apple Cinnamon Whole Grain Bagels. I sped off to grab some Hidden Valley Ranch powder and a bottle of regular ranch dressing. I had to weave up the center aisle due to Large Lady Cart 1 blocking the right side, Large Lady Cart 2 blocking the left side, and a bewildered little old lady stuck between them.
The bread aisle was our final destination. While I sorted through the tortillas until I found the 10-inch multi-grain pack, The Pony meandered through a family of four to gather generic hot dog buns. I then searched for the best date on the wheat hot dog buns. My concentration was shattered by a Chatty Cathy babbling about how she had found the pack of TEN hamburger buns. I looked around. Just as I feared, she was talking to ME. I didn't give an obese rodent's hindquarters if she found her buns. I'd never seen her before. She didn't even stroke my arm and tell me I was SO PRETTY. Three strikes.
The attempt to turn my back on the weirdo was hampered by the arrival of Large Lady Carts 1 & 2. They swept down the bread aisle like a Zamboni crew at the Stanley Cup playoffs. LLC1 scraped down the left side. LLC2 followed down the right side. There oughta be a rule about tandem large-carting.
At the checkout, The Devil's Handmaiden stuffed items of varied proportions into each bag. Sideways. Paper plates, sideways. Little Debbie Brownies box, on end. Farmer H's sugar free oatmeal raisin cookies, sideways. And each of those bags had a short, light item cast in with it. That's so all the bags would fall over when I attempted to set them in my cart and car.
At the exit door, we had to wait in line because of all the people entering through the wrong door. And deny the beggar money again when we got out.
Being yanked skyward by a cable fastened to a helicopter would have been so much simpler.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Another Crime Solved
I fear that The Pony may go all Heidi on me and start saving bread. Only instead of saving soft white rolls for Grandmother with no teeth, he will be saving Little Caesar's breadsticks for his lunch the next day. Hopefully, he won't hide them in a shawl.
That was his plan yesterday, but he made the mistake of saving them in plain sight. I picked up pizza and breadsticks for the boys, and made a big salad for Farmer H and me. It was a grand salad, too. Romaine lettuce, mushroom, egg, cheese, tomato, and blazing chicken chunks, with ranch dressing. Farmer H was fiddling about in the yard with his goats. Actually, he was sitting on his John Deere Gator wearing a ridiculous hat and swim trunks, occasionally shouting, "Get out of there," after some of my flowering foliage was ingested. Goats really like their salad on the vine.
Farmer H said he would eat later, so I put his big salad in Frig. The Pony was full of pizza, and declared that he would save his breadsticks for lunch the next day. I cautioned the #1 son not to eat more than his share, because The Pony had spoken for his. #1 agreed.
Jump to the next day, when The Pony declared that he was hungry, and would like his breadsticks warmed up, please, along with some pizza sauce, when I had the time to devote to his meal preparation. He's a polite one, that Pony. And absolutely helpless in the kitchen. I told him I would be right there, to set them out on a plate.
If you had happened upon The Pony in the next thirty seconds, you might have inquired, "Why the long face?" Seems The Pony had discovered only two of his four breadsticks remained in the bag. He pointed a hoof at #1. Because according to The Pony, nobody else would have eaten his breadsticks. "Dad ate his salad, and said it was all he needed."
Of course you know where this story is headed. #1 denied consuming the breadsticks. Farmer H announced that he had eaten two with his salad, because he didn't know they were spoken for. Our case relied on the fact that Farmer H was told that his big salad was waiting on the top shelf of Frig. No mention was made of a side of breadsticks. Besides, Farmer H is not supposed to have white bread, but only whole grain. And though not a much better choice, there were wheat Hawaiian Rolls in the cabinet.
The Pony and I convicted Farmer H, but have not yet handed down his sentence. Farmer H really needs to rethink the decision to act as his own defense.
That was his plan yesterday, but he made the mistake of saving them in plain sight. I picked up pizza and breadsticks for the boys, and made a big salad for Farmer H and me. It was a grand salad, too. Romaine lettuce, mushroom, egg, cheese, tomato, and blazing chicken chunks, with ranch dressing. Farmer H was fiddling about in the yard with his goats. Actually, he was sitting on his John Deere Gator wearing a ridiculous hat and swim trunks, occasionally shouting, "Get out of there," after some of my flowering foliage was ingested. Goats really like their salad on the vine.
Farmer H said he would eat later, so I put his big salad in Frig. The Pony was full of pizza, and declared that he would save his breadsticks for lunch the next day. I cautioned the #1 son not to eat more than his share, because The Pony had spoken for his. #1 agreed.
Jump to the next day, when The Pony declared that he was hungry, and would like his breadsticks warmed up, please, along with some pizza sauce, when I had the time to devote to his meal preparation. He's a polite one, that Pony. And absolutely helpless in the kitchen. I told him I would be right there, to set them out on a plate.
If you had happened upon The Pony in the next thirty seconds, you might have inquired, "Why the long face?" Seems The Pony had discovered only two of his four breadsticks remained in the bag. He pointed a hoof at #1. Because according to The Pony, nobody else would have eaten his breadsticks. "Dad ate his salad, and said it was all he needed."
Of course you know where this story is headed. #1 denied consuming the breadsticks. Farmer H announced that he had eaten two with his salad, because he didn't know they were spoken for. Our case relied on the fact that Farmer H was told that his big salad was waiting on the top shelf of Frig. No mention was made of a side of breadsticks. Besides, Farmer H is not supposed to have white bread, but only whole grain. And though not a much better choice, there were wheat Hawaiian Rolls in the cabinet.
The Pony and I convicted Farmer H, but have not yet handed down his sentence. Farmer H really needs to rethink the decision to act as his own defense.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Hillmomba Is Hot
How hot was it today in Hillmomba?
*105 degrees in the garage
*the dogs lay listlessly on the porch, not even chewing on the half of a right deer antler that had entertained them with such enthusiasm two nights ago
*the top guinea only bit one chicken on the butt
*Bathing Beauty H did not float on a raft in Poolio, but instead sat on a blue pool noodle, mostly submerged, like an aqua-cowboy riding a hollow headless seahorse
*the doorknob on the front door burned my hand like I was Joe Pesci in Home Alone
*I felt sorry for the idiot man-child with a beard skateboarding down a blind hill on two-lane, no-shoulder, rural blacktop
*105 degrees in the garage
*the dogs lay listlessly on the porch, not even chewing on the half of a right deer antler that had entertained them with such enthusiasm two nights ago
*the top guinea only bit one chicken on the butt
*Bathing Beauty H did not float on a raft in Poolio, but instead sat on a blue pool noodle, mostly submerged, like an aqua-cowboy riding a hollow headless seahorse
*the doorknob on the front door burned my hand like I was Joe Pesci in Home Alone
*I felt sorry for the idiot man-child with a beard skateboarding down a blind hill on two-lane, no-shoulder, rural blacktop
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