What Are You Waiting For? C'mon!

In case you're lookin' for me...I've moved. To the real deal: hillbillymansion.blogspot.com

See ya there!

Changes Are A-Comin'

Funny how time flies. I seem to have 465 posts on this blog. That means it is becoming unwieldy in the event that I want to use it for a certain project I have in mind. So I might be switching over to a new Hillbilly Mansion in a few days. I don't think it will affect anything vital.

Usually, I just rename the current blog by adding a number to the title. And I start up a new blog under the Hillbilly Mansion title. I can't remember if I have to re-do the sidebar. Probably. But I don't think anything will change for readers who try to visit me here at the Mansion. Maybe they'll have to re-follow after the new one is established. Since I've only got 6 followers anyway, that does not seem to be a major issue.

What I'm trying to say, is: if it looks like I haven't posted for several days, chances are that I've moved to start a new blog. That I've built a new Hillbilly Mansion. So if that happens, just type in hillbillymansion.blogspot.com

Or I'll come back and link it.

Because you know that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom can't go more than one day without posting her thoughts on ruling the world.

Just When You Think You Have Things Figured Out

Yesterday, I took The Pony to the County Health Center for a Tdap shot. That's tetanus, diphtheria, and pertussis, for those of you without communicable-disease age children. It was spur of the moment, because I cleaned a bunch of junk mail off the kitchen counter, and found The Pony's final grades that had been mailed to us in May. And we won't enter into a discussion of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's mad housekeeping skillz at this time.

Enclosed with the grades, which I had not cared to open, because The Pony is a good student and we both know it, was a letter from the school nurse explaining that he would not be able to attend classes this fall until he could show proof of a Tdap vaccination. Well, wasn't that a fine how do you do at this late date. I called the County Health Department, where the boys' old pediatrician used to advise me to take them for shots, because it was free. That was right before he forsook them to become an allergist, who instead gave people shots for lots of money.

Anyhoo...the person in charge of Shot Clinic told me that yes, it did not matter that The Pony had private insurance, to bring him on in, and do it yesterday, because next week they expect to be bombarded with business due to school starting up again. So apparently other Hillmomba housewives are as lax on cleaning off their kitchen counters as Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. The Shot Clinic is on Mondays, from 1:00 to 3:00. Next week, they're expanding it from 4:00 to 6:00 as well.

The Pony and I took off to get him shot. We arrived at 2:15 because first I had to fight with the pharmacy about prescriptions, because my primary insurance wanted to not pay at all and charge me $45.00 on a medicine, but the secondary let me have it for $17.00. Oh, and two generics were $10.00 apiece, except for the past six months they've been charging me $4.00 each. When I complained, the clerk said she could get them for me for $4.00, and the whole problem was that I had TWO insurances. Pardon me. By paying for two forms of health insurance, I am overbilled $40.00 per month on prescriptions? Or $480 per year? That's highway robbery!

While giving The Pony's info for the Tdap, the technician offered the meningitis vaccine. It is not required for school, but recommended for kids 11-19, and college students are required to have it before they can live in a dorm. She said that they are giving it now for free, but that the cost is normally $100 for the one-time vaccination. So...I agreed, and broke the news to The Pony that he would be getting shot twice. He wasn't too keen on the idea, but since he can't drive or walk home, he went along with the plan.

We waited until after 3:00 for his name to be called. By the time we left, I offered to pick him up some Burger King as a reward. The poor Pony had not even eaten lunch yet, as he was waiting until after the shot. He threw up one time after a flu shot, which might have been a factor in that decision. I called #1 to see if he wanted anything. By the time we got home, it was 4:30, so I went ahead and cooked Farmer H some Polish Kielbasa and sauerkraut. Ten minutes after it had been simmering, Farmer H called to say that he didn't want any supper, that he had to help his number one son with some electricity. Of course, he didn't tell me this, he told our #1, who thought to let me know another ten minutes after the call. THEN Farmer H thought to call me, the short-temper cook, and declared that he liked that meal, and would eat it upon arriving home at 7:00.

At 6:55, the #1 son, having digested his Burger King meal for an entire two hours, came to ask exactly what was on the stove that I had cooked that his dad didn't want, because it smelled really good, and he would like to have it. I explained that it was now spoken for, and that besides, he did not like kraut. Au contraire, he did declare. "I've always liked sausage and sauerkraut. I wish I had some."

So today I went out and bought more. I'm sure the kid won't touch it. And he's getting a free meningitis vaccination Monday, whether he likes it or not.

The Squishy And Splashy Show

Last night, the #1 son came downstairs to show me the newest Android app he is working on. As he started back up the stairs, I spied a stain on his shorts. That's because somebody needs to notice when it's time for somebody to do the laundry.

"Hey, what's on your pants? Did you drop fast food in your seat again?" That's because when he used to ride shotgun in T-Hoe, he was noted for soiling his clothing right after I told him to be careful and leave the burger in the wrapper. "Watch out. You're going to get that all over your clothes you've been wearing for thirty minutes." No matter how much he proclaimed that he was smarter than that, and I was silly for treating him like toddler, the very next bite would result in a hunk of greasy goodness dropping from his sandwich.

"I don't have anything on me."

"You do. Come here. I'll point it out." I picked up my red wooden backscratcher, the one that is great for doing impressions of Kristen Wiig on SNL as the singer with the tiny hands. I told #1 to turn around, and pointed to the back of his shorts leg. There was a dark stain on the khaki.

"Um. That's not a stain. I was sitting on my chair with my leg under me. That's a sweat print from my foot." And to prove it, he lifted that dripping man-hoof and touched my real flesh-and-blood forearm with it. I needed to towel off the perspiration.

Somebody really needs to use antiperspirant on his feet.

Funny How,,,

Funny how a man...

...who is deathly afraid of accidentally touching a slice of moldy bread will eat a hot dog that has been in the refrigerator since before his vacation in early June.

...will wait for his woman to get home from work to make him a sandwich, and tell her, "I almost starved waiting for you to get home."

...who said he didn't want any beer at the bowling alley will say, "Baby, go get me a cup," when a table nearby gets ready to leave, and offers what's left in their pitcher.

...can spend hours grilling chicken and steak and hamburgers and vegetables that he chopped and wrapped in foil, but only knows how to make himself a bologna sandwich or a microwaved hot dog the other three seasons of the year.

...won't ask directions when he's lost, but talks the ear off a waitress like they're life-long friends.

...can not hit the center of the toilet bowl, but can stack trash two feet over the rim of the wastebasket.

...will sit and watch TV shows about repairing and rebuilding automobiles, but takes his own vehicles to the shop for oil changes.

On The Road Again

I know that I have an issue. I go on about this subject all the time, on this blog and my super-secret blog. But I can't emphasize enough: STAY OUT OF THE ROAD UNLESS YOU ARE IN A PROPER AUTOMOTIVE VEHICLE.

Now my fingers are hoarse from shouting. But I've been provoked yet again. This morning, I topped a blacktop hill to find a beautiful Golden Retriever running right smack dab up the center of my lane. Of course I slammed the anti-lock brakes to halt T-Hoe in his tracks. The dog was fine. He veered to my left, tongue lolling, doggy smile on his face, to rejoin his people.

That's right. It's not the dog's fault that he almost became a shiny golden pancake. He was loping along beside his people. Two pre-teens on bicycles, a woman in a golf cart, and a man on a lawnmower bringing up the rear. There was another dog behind Goldie, but I did not even notice the color, what with worrying about crushing every bone in Goldie's soon-to-be carcass.

Surely these fools must be tourists. Visitors to the country, who think anything less than a six-lane divided highway is put there for recreational purposes. That it's a winding pig trail for all to frolic, inherently safe, because we Zekes and Cletuses here in Podunk drive Flintstone log-mobiles with our bare feet, stopping at all unicorn crossings and fluffy-kitten play zones.

Several cars were backed up behind Lawnmower Jockey. Really. How fast do you think a seven-year-old on a bike can go? He was the leader of this Make Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Become Unhinged parade.

People piss me off.

The Borrower

I am a bit perturbed with Farmer H. I know, you say, "How uncharacteristic of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom!"

For a while now, I have been thinking that he's using my razor in the shower. It's a big walk-in shower, with sliding doors. We lay things on top of that door-framey thing. No shower caddy for us. There's a little tube of conditioner, two razors, and Farmer H's toothpaste and toothbrush, because he can't brush over the sink like a normal person.

Last week I got out a new razor. They're the plastic disposable ones, in different colors. The package is stored in the top right drawer of the sink cabinet dealybobber. I'm drawing a blank on what that's called right now. The word divinity popped into my head, but I know that's the white fudge people make at Christmas that is so sweet it makes my teeth hurt to think about it. Anyway, it's not like there's a razor shortage around the Mansion. And besides, Farmer H has a mustache and a goatee kind of thing going on, so it's not like he needs a razor all that much.

So anyway...last week I got out a new razor. And after a few days, it seemed kind of dull. Duller than a new razor should be. A new razor should still be nicking and drawing blood if you aren't careful with it. And mine seemed to be not doing its razorly job very well. I looked at Farmer H's razor, an entirely different color, parked beside his toothbrush. It was not wet. Since Farmer H had left for work a couple hours previous, I thought maybe it had dried. But to set a trap, I placed my old-new razor with the end on a little mark on the metal of the door frame.

The next day, my razor was still on the mark. Farmer H's razor was still dry. But the day after that, oh ho! My razor was not lined up on that mark, and it had water droplets on it. So of course I went to the drawer and got out a NEW razor, pink instead of purple, and put it away in the medicine cabinet when I was done. And put the old-new purple razor back on the mark. Two days later, it was moved again.

I asked Farmer H if he had been using my razor. "Well, only on my beard."

That meant that I had to lecture him on hygiene and inquire as to WHY he thought he could use my razor at will. "Oh, that's nothing. So I used your razor. I don't have one." Let the record show that at no time did he bother to throw away his used-up razor. He left it by his toothbrush. As a decoy, I'm thinking. And he used mine. Because he was too goshdarn lazy to get a new razor out of the drawer.

I asked him, perhaps a bit sarcastically, "What's next, you're going to use my toothbrush to scrub your butt?" And he said, "There's an idea."

Now I have to hide my toothbrush.

Picking A Bone With Nature

The heat is stifling. I might as well pull the racks out of the oven and put a lawn chair in there and bake myself at 200 degrees for 12 hours. It's as hot as Missi-freakin'-sippi during the basketball camp vacation last year.

Today I returned to T-Hoe after a doctor's appointment, and discovered the temperature reading to be 111 degrees. Yesterday, as I stood beside Poolio for a brief moment to speak to the #1 son, our chickens meandered out of the woods. Just in case any food happened to fly off of me in their direction. Survivor, our very first rooster, a buff and orange and black specimen of prime kitchen-towel-calendar splendor, stopped a few feet away. He laid down. He slowly slipped sideways, with one wing askew.

"What's the deal with Survivor?"

"I don't know. I hate them all. They run at me and I try to kick them."

"You can't do that."

"I don't hurt them. Just get them away. But I'd like to take that little speckled rooster and throw him like a football."

"He attacks everybody. But Survivor's all right."

"Yeah. Survivor is OK."

"Look at him. Is he dying?"

"No!"

"Why's he laying down like that?"

"I don't know. He's breathing, though."

"His eyes are closed. He's not taking a dust bath. There's no dust."

"Maybe he's tired."

"He can't take a nap in the sun. He'll die."

"He's fine. Start over there."

"Oh! He's up! I guess he was just laying on that little bare patch to cool off. It's like mud from where I dump D'Hummi twice a day."

Farmer H tells me that the blackberries are withering from the Hillmomban summer. He knows this, because every day he eats a handful. And complains that the deer have been eating them.

Yes. Farmer H has a bone to pick with nature. Those blasted deer have been eating his berries, when they could have hopped in their deer car and driven to town to buy their own snacks with their deer currency, like sugar-free oatmeal-raisin cookies, or seedless green grapes, or whole-grain Honey Nut Cheerios. How dare the wild fauna deprive him of the wild flora that is so rightfully his!

The Twitchy And Smashy Show

I am looking for a good deal on Scotchgard.

In less than 24 hours, The Pony had broken three eggs, knocked two magazines into the bathwater, spilled a can of Sprite, and dripped juice from a cup of diced peaches onto the rug. I suppose he's going through that awkward phase, the phase where a young boy's limbs are growing faster than his control of those limbs.

Tuesday evening, he went out to collect eggs. We've only been getting 3-4 per day, due to the blast oven temperatures hovering over Hillmomba. Still, that's about two dozen per week. Until this week. The Pony dropped the green and orange woven Easter basket that is the egg collector. He says he used some baby wipes to clean it up. I'm not checking. That's Farmer H's territory.

Later that evening, The Pony decided to take a bath in the big triangle tub in the Mansion master bathroom. He doesn't know how, but two magazines fell off the little gift soap wooden crate on the corner of the tub. He didn't bump them or touch them in any way, mind you, but somehow they defied gravity and leapt off their comfortable perch and into the water. And they hadn't even been looking depressed! The Pony rescued them, and performed CPR by dabbing at them with his bath towel. Then he laid them on the lone remaining magazine. Which of course meant that by the time I heard about it and went to check, I found three soaking wet magazines, which I promptly placed on top of the air conditioner vents.

Wednesday, The Pony knocked over a can of Sprite while reaching for the remote control. He started to wipe it up with his couch blanket, but the #1 son prevented that reasonable act, and sent The Pony hoofing it upstairs for paper towels. Of which he took ONE back down to the basement with him, and had to return again for more, because "...some of the soda dripped onto the rug, but I will get it out with a paper towel."

Shortly thereafter, a little #1 told me that The Pony then upset an individual fruit cup of diced peaches, sending juice onto the coffee table and rug. That's the Toenail Rug, people! The huge oval braided rug that my grandma gave me. It's not like you can toss it in the washing machine. And I don't think you can beat peach juice out of a rug. Or out of The Pony. Even if it's light syrup.

I might need to limit The Pony's forced child labor in my proposed handbasket factory, lest he unwittingly poke holes in them, thus slowing their descent into H E double hockeysticks.

The Thermostatter

I might have mentioned how our air conditioner has been all checked out and declared sound except for having dirt in the coil. Which could no doubt have been cleaned out by Farmer H, had he only cracked open that can of worms. I think he's qualified. That's the kind of thing he does at work. I suppose it's different if you're not being paid for it. Sweet Gummi Mary! I hope nobody expects me to teach my kids something for free!

When I returned home around noon yesterday, the Mansion felt OH SO COOL upon re-entry. I figured it was because of the stifling outside temperature. I went about my business. Last night, my feet were freezing as I watched TV in the basement. I'm always chilly, but not so much my feet. They are encased in socks.

Upon climbing the steps to retire, I noticed that the main floor of the Mansion was cool. I chalked it up to Farmer H finally adjusting those vents in the basement ductwork. I didn't actually see him do it, but stranger things have happened. Since the upstairs is normally warmer than the basement, I picked up the little flashlight sitting on the bookshelf under the thermostat. Just to check on the temperature.

IT WAS 72 DEGREES!

Since May, I have set that puppy on 74. When the repairman was checking out Dirty Old Heat Pump, I noticed that the Mansion was cooler. The thermostat told me the temp that morning was 72. After ditching the professional coil cleaner, I quizzed Farmer H. "I'll go fix it. I set it on 67 so it would run continuously while he was checking it." I saw him change the setting. All weekend, it read a normal 74 degrees when I walked by. How could the thermostat magically set itself on 72 between Sunday night and Monday while The Pony and I were gone?

Because I am a member in good standing with Mystery Inc., I deduced that only one person had access to that thermostat while I was away. The #1 son. I went to his doorway this morning.

"There seems to be a problem with the thermostat. Is there anything you would like to confess before the trial?"

"I set it on 72 yesterday. It was too hot in here. I meant to set it back."

"Oh, so you thought you could do it secretly and I would never know?"

"Whatever."

Yet another successful case under my belt. I will spare you the lecture on how a person who does not pay the electric bill should not adjust the air conditioner settings.

Let Your Fowl Flags Fly

Last night/this morning at 12:03 a.m., I took it upon myself to change the baby. That is a euphemism for dumping my new dehumidifier, named D'Hummi, because, as I told the #1 son, it is as time-consuming as taking care of a newborn.

During a short break in the action during Big Brother After Dark, I figured it was better to get it over rather than wait until D'Hummi cried that he needed changing. I toted D'Hummi's pail of pure basement atmosphere water through Farmer H's workshop and out the basement door by Poolio. This task hasn't been too bad of late, what with the full moon. I can see the giant flat creek rocks that Farmer H scattered as stepping stones to Poolio's wooden stairs.

As I turned back to try and channel my inner goat so as not to trip on those uneven rocks, I spied something out of the corner of my eye. Over by the goat/chicken compound. It looked like a string of Tibetan prayer flags at an Everest base camp.















Since none of the Mansion-dwellers have notified me of their intent to scale the summit, I knew this was an erroneous perception. I looked closer. I squinted. There was definitely something along the entire side of the chicken pen fence. But I could not see well enough to figure it out. Farmer H left this morning before I had a chance to ask. I left with The Pony at 8:30, before the #1 son had arisen. When I called him around 11:00, I asked if there was something on the chicken pen.

"Yes! He's hung a bunch of colored towels along there. I don't know why. It looks stupid!"

"We do seem to be getting hillbillier and hillbillier by the day."

"I know. I hate those animals. They come running at me when I try to walk through the yard."

"I don't so much mind the yard. It's the chicken poop on the porch that gets to me."

"You need to tell him to get rid of those animals."

I agree. Don't think I haven't tried. Farmer H has selective hearing. But this evening, when I saw the glorious towel art that adorned the pen, he admitted that he hung them. "We had a leak in the camper. I mopped it up with towels, and I hung them to dry." He then plucked the stiff water-wipers off the fence, squeezed them into a bundle, and stuffed them in the back door of the camper.

I can never be sure what he's up to. But if he invites you to go camping, bring your own towel.

Suited For Each Other

I made a loaf of homemade bread today. By homemade, I mean, I bought the Country White mix, and I poured it into my Bread Man and pushed the 'start' button.

The Pony and I are kind of like Jack Spratt and his wife. The Pony can eat no crust, and I can eat no bread. So I push out the bread and give it to him, while I enjoy the ring of crust.

Tonight I told him, "I love the crust. It's so crusty!"

And The Pony replied, "I love the bread. Because it's so...bready!"

Goodbye Kitty

Farmer H thinks the neighbors took our cat. I don't know how he knows this. He's not exactly a member in good standing of Mystery, Inc. But he could do a bang-up job repairing the Mystery Machine if necessary.

She's a long-haired cat, mostly white, with some yellow and gray calico patches. It's not that I begrudge the neighbors glomming onto a free pet at my expense. Even though we did pay her neutering bill and feed her for the past seven years. I'm sure they will give her a good home.

The issue is that she's a sentimental cat. The boys got her as a kitten, from an ex-colleague of mine. We drove to her house, climbed up into a playhouse that acted as nursery to two litters, and The Pony chose her specifically for her gray toe. He was only six years old.

That fluffy kitten was a real hellcat. She hated everybody except me. The first time Farmer H met her, he reached his hand toward the back of the pet carrier where she huddled, refusing to come out onto the porch. "Hey there, kitty." She snarled and took a psychotic swipe at Farmer H's arm. "Huh," he said. It was the start of a rocky relationship. Every time she saw him, she gave him a wide berth, and hissed for good measure. The Pony named her Snuggles.

We acquired her brother from a different mother on the same day. A short-haired, orange tiger-stripe named Genius by the #1 son. The two felines were inseparable until Genius disappeared one Labor Day weekend. We have no idea where he went or how he returned, but when he showed up a month later, he cried to come in the house, and stood on his back legs while grabbing the doorknob with his front paws. To no avail, because we don't let our cats in the house. Maybe that's why Snuggles has forsaken us.

Once Genius returned, Snuggles wanted nothing to do with him. Gone were the days of entwined sunbathing on the back porch. Of purring, kneading, grooming companionship. She acted like he was a stranger. It didn't help that we rescued three kittens dumped by our mailbox row the next spring. Snuggles avoided them like the plague. I was her only friend. She loved to curl up on my chest and rub her head under my chin while I sat on the porch.

In latter days, those three mailbox cats ganged up to torment Snuggles mercilessly. She never crossed an open area without an escape plan, whether it be under a wooden play set or inside a box built as a cat house or on top of a garden shelf. She could fend off her enemies from such strategic positions. Sometimes she didn't make it, and the roving mob left wads of her long white fur to blow across the planks like hairy tumbleweeds.

Now she's gone. Perhaps, one day, to return.

Chickens Know No Shame

Did you ever spot your toy poodle laying on the kitchen floor, and start calling him excitedly while waving his favorite vanilla-smelling blue rubber ball, then bounce it and roll it under the dining room table? Because in case you didn't, I imagine that little black dog would start spinning his clicky-toenailed feet like a cartoon in an effort to gain traction on the vinyl floor and chase that ball. Just sayin'...

For three of the past four mornings, I have been awakened by a galloping beast and a squawking chicken right outside the French doors that lead from my bedroom to the back porch. The sound of scrabbling canine toenails reminds me of my childhood dog, Buster, trying to find Ball. It is quite irritating to salute the morning with such turmoil. At first, I blamed the dog.

This morning, in that state that is not quite sleep, and not quite wakefulness, I heard a tapping. Something gently rapping. Tap tap tapping just outside my bedroom door. I sat up, bending only at the waist, creepily, in fact, much like Michael Myers behind Jamie Lee Curtis after she thinks she has killed him in the upstairs bedroom after he attacks her in the closet in the original Halloween. That was the sound of a chicken pecking. Pecking at dry dog food in a metal dog dish on the back porch.

That darn chicken was the instigator. What self-respecting dog can lay idly by while a chicken invades his food bowl? Not the Mansion dogs, that's for sure. And chickens do not belong on the porch. She deserved what she got: the loss of a pillow-full of feathers. I know which chicken, too. Gray feathers. Bald chicken.

I still yelled at the dog, though. You can't yell at a chicken. They know no shame.

Checking Out The Devil's Wares

I am pleased to report that The Devil's checks have arrived. That was mighty fast. He must use some wacky kind of reverse express elevator from heck. And, he is not partnered with the devilish USPS. Nope. My checks were hand-delivered by a minion of the Unqualified People Shipping service. Can't beat that with a stick! Much more efficient than Deluxe Checks, which sends them to your mailbox that sits in a row of battered metal cronies out on the county road for any thief to help himself.

The checks look pretty much like my old Deluxes. Except that I have 8 designs, and no bank logo, and the check number and names are a bit smaller font. Other than that, they're identical to the outrageously over-priced Deluxes.

I don't see any reason not to reorder from The Devil. It's not like people actually look at checks anymore. Companies scan them into electronic checks. The Devil's own handmaidens slide them through the credit card scanner dealy-bobber. I could sign it Mickey J. Mouse and no one would be any wiser. Just the other day I wrote 2010 on a check to my television channels provider. I had already sealed up the envelope, so I mailed it anyway. It cleared in two days. No problem.

It wouldn't surprise me if there aren't software programs for printing your own checks. I'm too lazy to google and find out. Do your own fact-checking, people.

To conclude this product review...Mrs. Hillbilly Mom highly recommends checks ordered from The Devil's Playground.

Somebody Needs A Day In The Hole

The goats continue their revolt. Today Nellie and her triplets refused to return to the pen. The Pony herded and herded. He enticed the white girl kid and the little black boy kid to follow him into the pen by clapping his hands and running away. The bigger black boy kid had to be lured with half a banana.

Nellie stubbornly refused. She lipped at the banana. She came within 20 feet of the pen, reaching her tongue and stepping towards that banana. Then she stuck her nose in the air and walked into the woods to eat tree limbs. The Pony was so OVER her behavior that he was momentarily inattentive, and Yellow-Leg, the biggest, most-feared rooster jumped up and knocked the banana out of his hand.

I saw the aftermath from the porch. Chickens were swarming like sharks to a fresh kill. Every few seconds, that half-banana would flip into the air as one chicken would try to take a bite and get its beak stuck in the peel. A squawk and a hop to get away from the feeding frenzy would launch that banana like a frail child off the end of a teeter-totter.

Nellie was finally outsmarted when The Pony put some goat chow in the metal scoop and allowed her to nibble one pellet at a time as she followed him into her woodland prison. Nellie needs to do some hard time until she has an attitude adjustment.

Goats In Revolt

Our animals are revolting.

I'm not talking about their odor. Or about the revulsion the #1 son has to our furry and feathered family members. I'm talking about an uprising of Animal Nation.

The goats have broken out of their enclosed woodland hideaway twice since last week. At first, Farmer H accused The Pony of not shutting the gate properly after his goatherd duties each morning from 9:00 to 10:00. The Pony denied responsibility. Really. How smart do you have to be to latch a gate? It's not a Mensa activity.

Upon closer inspection, Encyclopedia H found the clues. Those scheming, plotting caprines had butted the gate until the latch gave way. Now they are confined to quarters, with a metal clamp and a strap hampering escape attempts. A new exit procedure has gone into effect. In order to frolic capriciously about the Mansion grounds, goats must pass through a gate into the chicken pen, and through another gate to the yard.

The Pony is the Pied Piper of goats. He claps his hands and starts running, and the goats follow. They're herd animals, you know. Except for Nellie. She marches to her own drummer. Whether it's planting her head in the fence, refusing to exit the pen, or refusing to return to captivity, our Nellie defies convention.

Yesterday, Nellie ignored The Pony's goat-gathering applause. She turned her rump to the ovation, and grazed farther and farther away. One black triplet stayed with her. The Pony coaxed the kid back to the goatyard. Then he had to chase Nellie from the front field. When she got close to the pen, she pretended it was her idea all along, and went in the gate for some goat chow. The Pony rattles it in a metal scoop to get their attention, and the goats are tricked into thinking it's feeding time. He does give them a little taste, just to keep their hopes alive the next day.

Today started the new entrance and exit procedure. All the goats except Nellie and her triplets trotted right out and began ripping great mouthfuls of grass from the area where Farmer H just mowed. Nellie stood in the pen and looked pitiful. Then she started to cry. The babies started to cry. The Pony had already taken his goatherd position on the front porch, laptop on lap, to watch for any clandestine lilac-nibbling. He said, "If Nellie is too stupid to get out, she can just stay in there."

Twenty minutes later, The Pony cracked. "I'll go try and get her out." Nellie still refused to follow him through the maze. Two of the triplets did, though, and kicked up their heels at their new-found freedom. Nellie continued to cry pitifully. The Pony came back to the house. I got him half a banana. Nellie loves bananas. He lured her out with the tasty fruit. But the baby remained. Crying. "Do you think I should just pick it up?" I told him it couldn't hurt. Farmer H is always manhandling them. Every time The Pony got within arm's reach of the baby goat, it skittered away. But...it skittered in the direction he was herding it, and was out of the pen in two shakes of a kid's tail.

The magical goat chow scoop brought them all back in the new door without issue. Now they have to butt down two doors to escape. Don't worry about the chickens. They don't use their pen anymore, now that the dogs have stopped killing them.

She's A Hot One

The heat index hit 115 degrees today in Hillmomba. That is too dang hot. Thank the Gummi Mary, I can sit in my cool basement and gaze at my Christmas tree.

I was hoping to score a tropical ice slushy kind of thingy today when I went to a neighboring town. But the darn shack was closed up tighter than Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's purse strings. It's a sad day when the temperature is too high to open the icy shop.

The girl at Sonic did not bring out my refreshing Diet Coke. I had to wait in line in shiny black T-Hoe until it was my turn at the window. Then I had to wait some more. She finally brought my elixir, and commented, "We had to fix the machine for your Diet Coke." Was it too hot for a cold pop? Was she insinuating that I, alone, wore out the Diet Coke dispenser? It was too hot to argue.

The county road-ditch-mower must have been delirious from the heat. He took out two mailboxes on our stretch of county blacktop. There might be a trail of postal carnage across the county.

I'm trying to conserve electricity by not doing the laundry and not cooking and not running the vacuum and not washing dishes so the water heater doesn't have to kick on. Isn't that selfless of me?

The Beginning Of The End

It is the beginning of the end. The handbaskets are ready for loading.

I ordered checks online from The Devil's Playground.

It's not that I wanted some cheap checks manufactured overseas by orphaned toddlers for a salary of 3 cents per month. It's more like I am sick of taking it up the wazoo from Deluxe Checks. I've ordered a variety of cheap checks over the years. Some were so butt-ugly that I didn't even use the whole box, and others crinkled in the check-scanning machine like a rabid wolverine chewed them up and spit them out. But at least I knew how much I was paying for what I got.

Of course Deluxe Checks discontinued the pattern that I had used for 200 checks. So I only ordered one box of the the set that is just running out. I never liked them, but they cost me a year of college tuition for my young 'uns, so I used them up. But grudgingly.

I shopped around the internet on three different sites today. Funny how the other check sites actually had prices. Not so Deluxe Checks. They get all of your information and snatch that order out of thin air and charge it to your checking account. I call shenanigans. That's as bad as companies that will only do business with a credit card, then automatically charge you if they don't get your payment. Never mind that a payment might be lost in the mail, or that you never received the bill, or that you were planning to discontinue their service.

Just in case you were wondering, I got some check record thingamajigs, deposit slips for the #1 son's account, and a box of checks ALL for HALF the price of my last box of Deluxe Checks. The main expense was the shipping, since I waited a bit too long to order due to putting it off. Or I could have saved even more.

Lucky for me, I can afford the extra shipping money, what with my fledgling handbasket factory just getting off the ground.

The Sandyman Can

Times are tough. I don't know how people can survive. Just last week, Farmer H paid seventeen dollars and change for a cupful of sand.

It must be mighty special sand. Sand for Poolio's filter. You tell me whether Poolio knows if he's getting the gourmet sand at $17 per cup, or free sand that washed up on the side of the low water bridge after four inches of rain fell in an hour. P.T. Barnum must have some relatives in the swimming pool supply business. And they could see Farmer H coming from a mile away, bobbing his big ol' lollipop head. Actually, it was not P.T Barnum who declared, "There's a sucker born every minute." It was his competitor, David Hannum, over an incident involving the Cardiff Giant. Here's a link to that bit of trivia.

Poolio has grown quite full of himself. He can't even catch a good breath. All that gurgling had Farmer H concerned. He had the #1 son perform a bit of CPR on Poolio's filter, and carry out a bloodletting of sorts. These stopgap measures were unsuccessful. So Farmer H took matters into his own hands to save his big blue buddy. Thus, the squandering of our retirement nest egg on sand. If he shows up with some magic beans, I'm looking into a trial separation.

Meanwhile, Poolio sloshes sloppily to and fro, a percolating vat of buttwater soup, who reverts to a roiling cauldron of rumpwash consomme during afternoon thunderstorms. I'm hoping he does not suffer a perimeter aneurysm and collapse.

He and Farmer H have a floating date later in the week.