What We Have Here Is A Failure Of Mrs. HM To Read Farmer H's Mind

Before Farmer H left for the auction on Saturday evening, he lectured me a bit on the treatment of my head pain from puffy sinuses as a result of the low pressure system this week that spawned several tornadoes. Little did he know that he was about to fire up an in-Mansion tornado...

 

"All you need to do is use some Vicks. Put Vicks in your nose. That'll open up your head."

 

"I might give it a try, but it's not stuffy like with snot from a cold. Just puffy. Squeezy. I'm NOT putting Vicks up my nose. That would burn. I might inhale it."

 

"My dad used to make us boys EAT Vicks when we had a cold! It worked."

 

"Well, you're still here. But that doesn't mean it worked. I read that Vaseline was first intended to be used for COOKING. But never that Vicks was safe to eat. I don't know where the Vicks is. I know we have some. I might have taken it downstairs."

 

"There's Vicks in the bathroom."

"Huh. Why don't I walk all the way in there, with my shooting ear pains, and stand around looking for it..."

"Do you see it?"

"No. I've looked in both sides of the medicine cabinet, and on the sink."

"It's on the left side of the sink. In a metal tub with my medicine."

You heard Farmer H, right? The words I just typed that came from his pie-hole? I looked on the left side of the sink. There were about 7 medicine bottles. No metal tub. No Vicks.

"It's not here. There's no metal tub. Nothing."

"On the shelf. Towards the bathtub. On the left of the sink."

"Nope. Only medicine bottles. No metal tub. No Vicks. I've had it. I can't stand in here any more. I'm taking my supper downstairs. My ear hurts too much."

"I guess I'll have to show you myself!"

I leaned on the sink, and Farmer H came stumping in. He moved three medicine bottles on the tiny shelf, reached behind them, and pulled out an itty-bitty flat round metal tin of Vicks. I've never seen one so small. It looked like an old lady's pill box that she'd keep in her change purse. About the size of a silver dollar coin, and as thick as an Oreo.

"That is NOT a metal tub! You never said the Vicks came in a tiny metal tin! I was looking for the blue jar of Vicks! In a metal tub container about the size of a Kleenex box. Since when is that little thing a TUB?"

"That's what it IS, HM. And it was exactly where I told you it was."

I beg to differ... 

 

I found the jar of Vicks downstairs. Not in a metal tub. I took whiffs of it through the evening. It might have helped a little. It didn't hurt.

Socking It To The Pony

Farmer H had business in Casino Town on Friday. He sprung that fact on me Thursday night, with an invitation to accompany him. I've been fighting another bout of the sinus ear/jaw/tooth pain, so at first I wasn't sure. However... since I haven't been to a casino in over two months, I agreed. 

I felt bad for The Pony, who had to work. But I selflessly volunteered to gamble some of his money for him, in slots of his choosing, at the bet and amount he wanted to risk. Unfortunately, he was NOT a big winner, but I returned with $75 for him. Farmer H left $40 ahead, and I dropped 3/8 of the casino bankroll I took along. Coulda been worse!

At least I had a good time, and a lunch of Catfish Nuggets and Tater Tots. Farmer H had the same. We combined our leftovers to bring home an instant supper for The Pony. Who beat us home by about 15 minutes! He only had to work a little over 9 hours. It was like a half-day of school for him! 

"Don't you like getting home around 5:00? Like a normal work day?"

"Yes! And I finally saw next week's schedule, and I have TWO DAYS OFF!"

At that point his phone rang. It was the manager. Moving his days off from consecutive, to Tuesday and Thursday. STILL, it's TWO DAYS OFF!

"I guess maybe they got in trouble for working you so much, those 70-hour weeks."

"Mom. I've already worked 58 hours THIS week. So I don't think that's it."

"You said you have three new people. So I bet they need the LLVs for them to get training."

"Yeah, probably."

"What time do you go in on Saturday?"

"I'm scheduled for 9:30, but with it being SATURDAY, I'm pretty sure someone won't show up, and they'll call me in early."

"Are you getting up to be ready, just in case?"

"No. I'm scheduled for 9:30. If they call me early, I'll get there when I get there."

Poor Pony. Friday was rainy all day, with temps in the low 50s. I was afraid he'd freeze. He didn't want a jacket when he left. He has a rain jacket and pants in his car. At least he was wearing pants instead of shorts. IF you consider black with tiny white polka-dot legging-looking garb to be pants. It was still classier than the booty-shorts of the fired-and-quit colleagues earlier in the summer.

The Pony said he was a little bit cold, but he worked through it. His biggest concern was the fact that part of one foot turned black.

"Oh, that's just from your sock. Or your shoes getting wet."

"I DID wear my new socks without washing them first. I HOPE that's all it is."

Nothing a 2-hour soak in the big triangle tub in the master bathroom couldn't fix...

Lock The Doors And Set Up A Wooden Stand

I went to my bank on Thursday. It was not a satisfying experience. But you knew that...

I swear, the corporate office needs to lock the doors of this branch location, and set up a wooden stand like Lucy Van Pelt's booth dishing out psychiatry advice!

The lobby closes at 2:00. I got there before 1:30. I walked inside behind an amply-rumpused blond woman who strode in like she was on a mission. By the time I got up the one-step sidewalk and through the doors, Blondie was behind the counters, over by the vault and safety deposit box area. I'm pretty sure she wasn't robbing them. The Teller said something to Blondie, who came out and sat down in the chairs by the glass office of the worker who was so unhelpful to me over the credit card issue.

The Teller came to the only open window, which had a sign saying NEXT WINDOW PLEASE, even though the other two clearly had signs saying CLOSED.

"What can I help you with?"

"Three things. Two are really easy, but one will take a little time."

"Oh. Well. I'm the only teller here. So I won't be able to do anything that takes time. What is it you wanted to do?"

"Get two rolls of pennies for this dollar, withdraw $60 from my checking account with this withdrawal slip, and redeem three EE Savings Bonds."

"We don't redeem savings bonds."

"You did last week!"

"Well, yesterday we were notified that we can't do it any more."

"Then how am I supposed to redeem my savings bonds?"

"You'll have to reach out to the Treasury Department."

"Why did they change the policy yesterday?"

"Because too many counterfeit savings bonds were being cashed."

Huh. I wonder if that was a veiled insinuation as to the validity of MY savings bonds! My Public Enemy reputation is hard to shake. Anyhoo... The Teller took my dollar and withdrawal slip, and said, 

"I'll be right with you. I had this other lady first."

Not a problem. I could see cars at the drive-thru. And Blondie was cooling her plump heels in the waiting area. Turns out she was wanting change, and right after giving me my two rolls of pennies, The Teller told her,

"I don't have any pennies to give you. I mean, we HAVE the pennies, but they're in the safe, and I can't get to them right now. Somebody else will have to do that."

"Oh, I don't HAVE to have them now. I still have some. I was just going to stock up. Just give me the others, and I'll be fine. I'll come back tomorrow."

I guess she runs some kind of business that actually takes real money and dispenses change. Anyhoo... here's my question. 

IS MY PATRONAGE NOT AS IMPORTANT AS ANY RANDOM DICK, HARRY, OR TOM?

Why should I be told I can't be helped, in the order that I have arrived and been waited on? Should I stand there for eternity, or until closing time, while The Teller waits on everybody else at the drive-thru, just because they might have simpler needs? What's next, giving preference to those who have $10,000 in the bank, ahead of those who have $100 in their account? Will The Teller only assist those customers with simple needs? 

 

Because be sure to let me know, and I will NOT take up time opening a new credit card account through their bank. Or apply for a loan. I'll just use them as moneychangers, and take my fortune elsewhere. To a bank that might actually ASSIST ME in my banking needs.

How can the corporate office justify keeping this facility open, paying the costs of insurance and electricity and taxes on the property, and harboring two unusable fax machines, to only have ONE PERSON waiting on customers? Set up that little wooden booth, with a folding chair to sit on, a bucket of money out of sight at her feet, and a sign on the front saying: THE TELLER IS [IN]competent. Unless her job description only involves making change, and making deposits and withdrawals.

My Flickering Hope Was SNUFFED Like A Candle Flame In A Drafty Room

I called my NP office about the problem getting my prescription. The girl who answered the phone was SO POLITE AND EFFICIENT! I swear, it made me woozy to be on the other end of a phone call with a person who was actually HELPFUL!

She took my name, heard my issue, and wrote it down! At least that's what she said she was doing. She could have been an Oscar-worthy actress, repeating what I said slowly, while rather than actually writing, doing the crazy temple twirly finger at her office mates. Anyhoo... she said she would pass that info on to the nurse, who would check it and bring it up to the NP if needed. 

While I was in the shower, I got a voice mail from the hospital number where my clinic is located. Huh. That was quick. I called back. I think I got the same office gal. I explained that a man had left a message for me to call the office.

"Oh. That was Rick. He was calling to tell you that your lab results came back, and they were excellent."

"Well. That's good news. Thank you very much."

I did not have the gumption to inquire about my prescription issue. It had only been a couple hours since my first call. So I still don't know what's going on there. I guess I'll probably have to get it by paying cash again, while I pursue other alternatives. One of them being to contact the rep with my insurance, who is notorious for not being available due to being OUT TO LUNCH. Which is generally over a 3-hour span.

Such A Variety Of Job-Not-Doing-Right

Tuesday, I had my regular 6-month nurse practitioner appointment for blood work and prescription refills. Sweet Gummi Mary! I hardly know where to start...

The girl at the desk, behind her protective sliding window, took my insurance card and ID, and said that since this was a "preventative" visit, there would be no copay. What in the Not Heaven? Last time I had the regular $35 copay. And the two times before that, they SAID they weren't taking copays due to the VIRUS, but they sent me a bill for $35 for the second of those two visits. I think they're making it up as they go along. I'll believe there's no charge if I don't get a bill in a few months.

I told both the vitals-taking gal who asked about my prescriptions, AND the NP, that I have to have that one pill brand-name, not generic. She said is was on my file, and the NP said it was as well. "Look. I'm sending it right now, saying DISPENSE AS WRITTEN, NO SUBSTITUTION."

"Well, you used to have to send a letter to get it approved, but that hasn't happened in a year or two."

He agreed that it had not. Of course you know there's more on this topic...

Next I went up to the lab for my blood draw. They were doing it in a different room, around the corner, with a big cushy chair instead of the slick plastic chair with a shelf like a student desk to lay your arm on. The minute she called me in, the phlebotomist said, "Give me your purse."

I wanted to say, "Get your own purse, wench!" Heh, heh. But I handed it to her. I didn't see what she did with it, because I was busy settling into that soft chair, and hurting my right knee by bending it too tight to let her walk across in front of me.

She was not at all friendly. Not even cordial. The sign said to tell them which lab to send it to, and I said, "I'm not sure which lab my insurance wants the blood to go to."

"NOBODY TOLD YOU WHICH LAB TO USE FOR YOUR INSURANCE?"

"No. My insurance changes every year on July 1. I'm a retired teacher. I'm lucky to get a new card in the mail."

At least she didn't hurt when she jabbed me and sucked out two vials. She slapped on a gauze pad and said to put pressure on it, and wrapped my elbow badly with that stretchy stuff that's not tape. Just the beige kind. Nothing colorful. Then she said, "Unlock the door."

I took that as my signal to leave, but I didn't see my purse. So I asked where it was, and she barked, "Hanging on the door!"

Well. Exuuuuuse me! I undid the deadbolt and got out of there.

Later in the afternoon, I got a text from my pharmacy saying 2 of 2 prescriptions were ready. Which is fine. I hadn't actually asked for the refills to be filled. They are usually sent in, and are on hold until I request refills myself. But since there should have been 3, I called the pharmacy to ask where the other one was. Sometimes they have to wait until some come in the next day.

"Let me look that up for you. Oh. We have a new girl. She didn't know you pay cash for that one. So she didn't fill it."

FIRST OF ALL... since when have I been paying CASH without using the insurance I pay a fortune for??? And secondly, if 3 prescriptions are called in, I'd think you would fill all three, and then deal with the payment method when the person comes in.

"Pay cash? I've been paying cash?"

"Yes. Since last September. The insurance won't pay without a doctor verifying that you can't take the generic that's available."

"He told me he put it on there! Just today."

"Let me check. Yes, he put no substitutions. But that's not what the insurance needs."

"So how was I supposed to know that, other than not getting my prescription refilled. Doesn't somebody notify the insurance?"

"We as a pharmacy do not deal with the insurance. That's for your doctor to do."

"How was he supposed to know that it didn't go through?"

"Do you want us to let him know?"

"Yes. How long should I wait to check on it again?" [Trying to be nice, so I didn't call them everyday.]

"I don't have any idea how long it will take. He won't do it now. It's 5:30. He might see it tomorrow. Sometimes it takes 24 hours. Or it might take over a week."

She was not at all nice or helpful. Just condescending, acting like it wasn't her job as a pharmacy technician to deal with insurance for a prescription.

"Okay. I will call over to the office tomorrow and remind them."

Sheesh! I wonder if my insurance has been paying anything on the two generic medicines. Probably. And it would probably be cheaper if I just paid cash...

If Only Grocery Stores Would Sell Food To Men

Farmer H always knows the game plan for his suppers. Usually for the next three days. I bring it up in conversation. Ask if he has any auctions. Estimate about what time he'll be home. Then I know what to cook, and when to start it. I'd been telling him he'd have spaghetti on Sunday. But then I changed it to Monday, because The Pony had some fish and macaroni & cheese left over from a Country Mart Deli dinner. So Farmer H got that on Sunday, and The Pony made himself hamburgers with what I didn't have planned to go in the spaghetti or the taco sauce that I would be having, since I don't like spaghetti.

Anyhoo... Farmer H had been told for several days that he'd be having spaghetti. Yet when I came upstairs at 6:15 on Monday evening, to prepare that spaghetti, on my way to the box of 24 boxes of spaghetti noodles that Farmer H brought home from the auction long ago and didn't give away as he'd promised... Farmer H said:

"Don't you have some of those other noodles? The bendy kind?"

"You mean elbow macaroni noodles?"

"Yeah. That's it. Those."

"Um. I'm pretty sure we're out. The Pony had some, but he makes them often, with just butter and garlic. I'm pretty sure they're gone. I WAS JUST AT THE STORE again this afternoon! And I went on Saturday! WHY didn't you say you wanted macaroni then? I thought you LIKED spaghetti."

"I do. I just wanted the other kind."

"Well. I'll look in the pantry and see what I might have. Huh. There are four kinds. Ziti, shells, rotini, and wheat rotini. The rotini expired in 2016, and the wheat rotini in 2017. So they're out... The ziti is 2020, and the shells are 2019."

"Those last two are probably okay."

"Yeah. I don't really think they go bad. I just poured them out on a plate. They look normal. No bugs or anything. There's not enough of one kind, so I'll mix them. I'll just have to start the ziti first, because they cook three minutes longer."

The Pony was a bit surprised to walk in after work and see me draining ziti and shells instead of spaghetti. But not at all surprised to hear the expiration dates. Not that it mattered to him. He ate a giant plate of them. 

I must say, they turned out well. A few were left over after serving Farmer H and The Pony mass quantities, and putting two (mushroom and non-mushroom sauce) in large Chinese soup containers for leftovers. I dumped the extras in the can of Chef Boyardee sauce that I'd added to the other sauce, and swirled them around in the dregs. 

I kind of like spaghetti when it's not spaghetti...

I'm pretty sure that when I buy some elbow macaroni, Farmer H will want spaghetti noodles.

The Pony Is On The Case

During his Sunday deliveries of Amazon packages, The Pony made a discovery. There was a FedEx package in a mailbox. He was shocked! FedEx is not allowed to deliver packages to USPS mailboxes.

"I took a picture of it, Mom. See? It's sitting on top of the regular mail. That means it was put there after the mail got delivered. It's not one of our packages. The only other thing I could think of is that a well-meaning neighbor got this package delivered by mistake, and just stuck it in the mailbox of the real owner. But they're not supposed to do that, either. If something like that is in the box, we might think it's meant to be sent back. We're supposed to pick up letters and stuff in the box. Outgoing mail.

I called my supervisor, and sent her the picture. She said, 'Um. NO! That's illegal! Bring it in!' So I took it back to the office, and she put a note on it about how I found it and was told to bring it in. Just in case another manager is there when they have to deal with it. The postal inspectors will try to figure out what's going on."

As you might suspect, there's a bit of competition between the USPS and FedEx. SOME packages are sent FedEx, and then delivered by the USPS. In which case they would have the proper label on them. A FedEx delivery person can't just stuff a package in a mailbox to get rid of it.

The Pony is a stickler for rules. Always has been.

My Head Too Big To Rock The Togs

Spring has sprung, summer has simmered, and fall has felled the temperatures in Hillmomba! Friday night, the temps were in the 40s! Saturday brought pouring rain. Just thinking about the poor street-walking Pony sent a chill through my bones.

My basement lair has been getting colder! Now that I don't have my underdesk heater, I freeze. Despite wearing a fleece jacket with toasty pockets. It's hard to type with my hands in my pockets! Or even to scroll the mouse, and click to play Candy Crush. 

 

I mentioned to Farmer H that I need a nice warm sock cap. Not the one with the ball on top, the striped, sparkly one the boys gave me a few Christmases ago. It works, and had those nice ear flaps, but the big ball on top strains my neck to keep it balanced, and I have to tie the chin straps behind my head. Oh, how I rue the day that I went out on the back porch and had The Pony cut off the length (more than I wanted!) of my lovely lady-mullet. It at least kept the back of my neck warm.

Anyhoo... I used to have a medium brown sock cap, so comfy, that I wore in the days I walked a couple miles in the driveway or around the porch. I don't know where it is. Probably got wind of the atrocity suffered by my baby blue sweatshirt at the hands and privates of Farmer H, and went into deep hiding.

I mentioned my sock cap to Farmer H, who said, "I HAVE sock caps!"

Of course he does. Though he mainly sells hardware items at his Storage Unit Store, he sometimes has some togs. Perhaps gloves. A jacket or two. And sock caps. Bright orange sock caps for hunters! I think he bought some at an auction, even before he had the Storage Unit Store. Because I remember him making the boys wear them if they went outside during hunting season. He may have purchased more since then.

Anyhoo... Saturday, Farmer H said, "I put your sock cap on the table. You won't like it. It's orange."

"I don't care! I'll be wearing it in my office. Who's going to see it? I don't care what color!"

 

I took it down with me. Set it on my non-working printer, for when I got REALLY cold. Which took about two hours. I put on my new orange sock cap. Huh. 

 

I THINK THEY MUST BE CHILD SIZE!

 

It is not comfortable. Feels like my head is being squeezed. It keeps working its way up. Like it might shoot off the top of my head, similar to when Howie Mandel was just a stand-up comic, and would put the surgical glove down over his head and nose, and blow it up like a balloon, and then it would shoot off his noggin.

 

 

It's better than nothing. It might keep my core temperature half a degree warmer. But it's not holding in enough heat to keep blood flowing to my hands and feet. My body thinks I'm going hypothermic, and is rerouting blood to my vital organs!

 

Too bad Country Mart doesn't sell fluffy sock caps. I don't want to traipse around the Devil's Playground. Maybe I can try Tractor Supply, which is quite near Farmer H's Storage Unit Store.

The Deconstruction And Reconstruction Of Mrs. HM's Taco Salad

Last Saturday, I treated myself to another Hardee's Taco Salad. Yes. I know. When will I ever learn? No time soon, I fear. When I got my Taco Salad home and opened it up, I was not pleased. I'm sure that comes as a big surprise to you. NOT.

 

You gotta hand it to those Taco Salad makers. Just when you think they've run out of ways to mess up your Taco Salad... you discover that they have not. I'm sure that waxed paper was quite flavorful with its coating of sour cream, but I did not give it a taste test. I took my taco salad out of the box, took it off the waxed paper, and noticed a LOT of lettuce again. The limp lettuce. It almost looked like parsley this time, only bigger.

Again, like unraveling a sweater, by pulling out a strand of lettuce, it led to more lettuce, which led to MORE lettuce... until I had removed all the limp lettuce from my Taco Salad:

 

That's way too much limp lettuce in my Taco Salad! So... I chopped up some romaine lettuce, using the crispy parts, and rebuilt my Taco Salad. Adding more shredded cheddar, and a plentiful amount of sour cream. It was delicious!

 

I would make my own taco salads at home, if only I could find those delicious crispy shells! But wait! I DID make taco salads for myself and Farmer H a few days later. Just to see how they'd turn out.

Farmer H wanted a Frito Taco Salad. Kind of like the Sonic Frito Chili Pie. Only with taco meat and salsa instead of chili.

 

I started with my Chinese Tupperware. Put down a layer of story-brand Fritos. Then the hamburger cooked with taco seasoning. Then diced onion. Then shredded cheddar. Then chopped romaine. Then salsa. That's the order he asked for his ingredient layers. Farmer H loved it. The second night, he asked for a little more salsa.

 

I went for a regular taco salad. With no crunch, I put a flour tortilla on the bottom of the plate. Put on a layer of refried beans. Then the hamburger with taco seasoning. I sprinkled in some Franks Original Red Hot Sauce. Then diced onions. Chopped romaine. Shredded cheddar. Salsa. Sour cream. IT WAS DELICIOUS! 

 

I had some triangle-shaped tortilla chips on the side, for crunch. It's not quite the same taste, without the shell, and with regular hamburger instead of that fine-grained meat product used by Hardee's, but it is certainly less infuriating to sit down with it on my plate.

The Wages Of Sin Are Death, The Love Of Money Is The Root Of All Evil, And The Sidewalk Beautification Project Is An Accident Waiting To Happen

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not a Bible-quoter. She knows the more mainstream references, and uses them at her whim. Like for today's title, just to illustrate the seriousness of the latest tomfoolery by city leaders in town near Hillmomba.

I was on my way home from gassing up T-Hoe, and mailing Genius's weekly letter. Driving through the area just past the School-Turn Casey's. The town got a federal grant a while back, and spent an entire year with detours on the main street, putting in fancy sidewalks and wrought-iron light poles. Like putting lipstick on a pig. The houses along the street are still pigs. To me, the fanciness of the wrought-iron light poles only accentuates the pigs. But the WORST part is the sidewalk.

I don't begrudge pedestrians a safe place to walk. I DO begrudge those wrought-iron light poles having their own fat peninsulas that stick out into the street. Not into the driving lane, but up to the edge. There might be space in between the peninsulas for two cars to park, maybe three. But an LLV driven by a mailman cannot just park and drive along the shoulder area to to stop and deliver packages, like they could in the glorious days pre-peninsula. Days when, if you heard a siren, there was room enough to pull over and let the emergency vehicle pass. Not so these days!

Of course I heard a siren, and saw a city police car coming up behind T-Hoe. I was nearing a peninsula. I could not get over, because a resident was parked in part of the open space. I got as close to the parked car as possible, with T-Hoe's front tires almost against the peninsula. The oncoming traffic also scrambled to find a way to clear the road. We were able to clear just enough space for the police car to get down the middle.

As traffic moved on, the car ahead of me was lagging. Only going 20 mph in a 30 mph zone. I wanted to round the curve, to see which direction that police car went. If it went up the lake road to Hillmomba, I would change my route. No need getting held up while an accident was cleared. But the police car was gone by the time I got around the curve. I decided not to risk it. I'd go on the the traffic lights by the Devil's Playground, and up the road that passes in front of the cemetery, and behind the high school.

WAIT A MINUTE!

On my right was an accident! No police car in sight! A white sedan had driven off the right side of the road, and was sitting nose-down in a ditch. The trunk of the car was almost pointed to the heavens. The undercarriage was stuck on a pipe that ran under a driveway to a financial advisor business. One car was pulled over there, with a man standing as if to help. His car was not damaged.

This made me wonder... was that police car on the way to this accident, and overshot his mark? Or did that police car CAUSE this accident? With the driver trying to get over and out of the way, and not judging that culvert pipe in her haste?

The beautification peninsulas had stopped at the curve, so they were not to blame. BUT THEY COULD HAVE CAUSED AN ACCIDENT! Like somebody hitting a wrought-iron light pole while in a hurry to make room for an emergency vehicle.

The Business Part Could Have Been Done In 5 Minutes

Farmer H and I had our yearly appointment with our financial advisor on Wednesday. Kind of. Our ACTUAL financial advisor retired. So now our meeting is with his daughter, who took over his business. She's a smart cookie. I trust her with our electronic money. I saw on the big TV screen where she projected our accounts, that she had budgeted 45 minutes for our meeting. YAY! Her dad used to give us an hour. Another plus, FARMER H DOES NOT HAVE AS MUCH TO DISCUSS WITH HER!

Don't get me wrong. She has a pink gun, but they've talked about it before. She also shared some things about constructing her new house (I guess Daddy's business is profitable!), and some trim work she had designed for the office. For example, the wall where the big screen TV was mounted had a wooden thingy that hides the wires from the computer and TV. It looks like a line with up and down pointy parts. She says it the stock market logo. I can't do it justice in my description. She told the woodworker what she wanted, and it took him a couple months to get the right design.

Also, she said she'd been looking at houses online, for ideas she might want to include in her own house. She came across a story about new homeowners who were re-doing their closet, and found a DOOR in the floor, under the carpet. They got it open, and it had STAIRS to a room under the house, with 2-foot thick concrete walls, and a dehumidifier, and its own air and water supply. 

"Oh, a PANIC ROOM!"

Farmer H didn't know what I was talking about. Financial Daughter also looks a bit confused.

"You know. Like the movie. For a while it was a thing. People putting in hidden PANIC ROOMS in case their house was invaded. So they could be safe."

Funny how Farmer H designed his own similar room, the similarities ending with thick concrete walls, a concrete ceiling, and a steel door. No ventilation or water. He sees his as more of a walk-in safe.

Anyhoo... Financial Daughter said that people online were going crazy about this hidden room, saying stuff like "creepy," and "serial killer," and why didn't the previous owner disclose the hidden room when selling the house. She figured since the seller had built himself a new house in the same town, he wouldn't reveal it, because he probably also put one in his new house, and why advertise that fact.

Anyhoo... we got to discussing how nobody can do a job right any more, except her wooden wire-hider builder guy. When I mentioned the making-change problem, she blew my mind.

"You know how Country Mart got bought out by the new store? Have you looked at the new registers they have now? When they punch in the amount you give them, THE SCREEN SHOWS PICTURES OF QUARTERS, NICKELS, DIMES, AND PENNIES, and HOW MANY OF EACH TO GIVE BACK!"

"No way! That's crazy! But they also have signs on the door that they wish you would pay with plastic, due to the COIN SHORTAGE!"

"Yeah. That's bull, too."

Every day I learn something. Some days, the information is more useful than others.

People Doing Their Jobs Only As Well As They Were Trained

I believe some people who give me questionable service are actually trying to do their best, but are hindered by a lack of training. These are usually the young whippersnappers with a shortage of real-world experience. Like the window guy at Hardee's last week.

My bill for a taco salad [YES! I'm glad you asked! There WILL be a report on the quality of my most recent taco salad, coming up soon!] was $8.12. I didn't have small bills. I DID have 12 pennies that were not up to the standards of the Woman Owner of the Gas Station Chicken Store. I gave Window Guy a twenty, and 12 pennies for my $8.12 bill.

He looked at me like I had two heads. Even though I said, "I have the 12 cents, and here's a twenty."

I don't know if he didn't punch it into the register right, or what was going on. He stood there with the cash drawer open for a couple of minutes. Looking. I swear, I heard him digging in the change tray. Then he turned and said, "Here's your twelve dollars change. Even." Which was correct. But he didn't sound convinced. 

 

I really wish these cashiers would get training on counting back change. The Woman Owner of the Gas Station Chicken Store absolutely trains her people that way. Then again, she can't keep a cashier! I guess they think she's too demanding. But at least they would know how to count back change if the power went off, or the register broke. Which has happened more times than you would imagine at the assorted convenience stores I frequent.

The other lackadaisically-trained cashier last week was a young lass at the School-Turn Casey's. I have all the patience in the world with these newbies. I don't mind at all waiting for them to figure it out. She had to ask the other cashier how to scan a scratcher winner. And how to use that receipt to subtract from the price of my purchase. However...

I asked for one Cash4Life draw ticket with EZ Match, for The Pony. She punched it in, then held it out to me after it printed.

"Is this what it looks like?"

"No, you don't have the EZ Match. That's just a Cash4Life draw ticket. It's $2. When you get the EZ Match, it gives you five extra numbers to win instantly. It costs $3."

I can print these tickets myself from the machine at Country Mart. I imagine Young Lass's ticket terminal would work the same way. It gives buttons on the screen for which game, and then other buttons for EZ Match, or perhaps Power Play if it's a PowerBall ticket. Not rocket science, but if you're nervous and new and trying to hurry, it might be hard to concentrate. So I was calm in explaining it to her. She turned back to do it over, and got the ticket right. But here's the thing:

Young Lass had that first $2 Cash4Life ticket in her hand. She STARTED TO WAD IT UP!

SWEET GUMMI MARY! You can't do that with lottery tickets! The lottery is regulated within an inch of its life! So many safeguards against fraud. You can't just throw away a ticket that you misprinted, and then not have the money in your cash drawer! That is tantamount to STEALING! It took all my self-control not to yell, "STOP WADDING UP THAT TICKET!"

While she was preoccupied with printing the right ticket, Young Lass relaxed her hand. She laid the crumpled ticket on the edge of her lottery terminal. I really hope she asked her co-worker what to do with it! Most of them will just let it sit there until somebody asks for such a ticket, and then sell that one to them. I don't think they're supposed to buy it themself. I think there's a rule about buying lottery tickets from the place you work.

Anyhoo... a bit more thorough training would have made these two workers more self-assured. Maybe the Woman Owner of the Gas Station Chicken Store could hold seminars for prospective cashiers! Which nobody seems to be able to hire enough of these days.

A Cautionary Tale Regarding "The Current Situation"

No, this is not about my banking experience, although I borrowed their "Current Situation" euphemism they use to excuse NOT-ANSWERING the phones. Nope. I've got a bank tale, but I can't deal with it today. Today, we will examine a depressing scenario concerning one of Farmer H's acquaintances. Yes. I know that makes all (2) of you pull your chair closer to your device, eager to dive right in...

Please, please, people! Do not get sick during The Current Situation! Don't so much as let a hangnail go unattended, lest you need to visit the hospital during this panicdemic. No good comes of visiting the hospital. Perhaps an urgent care (despite The Pony's workman's comp difficulties) would be better. Or a plain old doctor (or nurse practitioner) appointment IF you can get them to see an actual sick person during The Current Situation. If you MUST go to a hospital, be prepared to be forceful, and insist that the medical personnel pay attention to your main complaint.

Farmer H knows a guy who comes up to the storage lockers. The Guy works for the county road department, putting up signs. Several weeks ago, he scraped his lower leg. Didn't think anything of it. But then it started to hurt, and developed red streaks emanating from the scrape. I'm no doctor, but BEFORE my favorite TV show ER was even thought of, I knew that RED STREAKS MEAN A SERIOUS INFECTION! You'd better watch those red streaks, and if they spread, get yourself to a doctor. It's what we used to call "blood poisoning."

The Guy developed a fever, and his leg hurt. His Wife said he needed to go to get it looked at. They went to the ER (not sure if they couldn't get to a doctor, or if they needed it seen right then) over in Bill-Paying Town. It's our only local hospital now, except for the ER North version of it in Hillmomba, which has no beds, just an ER.

Anyhoo... The Guy went in, and the first thing they did was say he needed a VIRUS test. The Guy said, "I don't have the VIRUS. I've been vaccinated. I'm not sick. It's just my leg I need looked at. I think I have an infection." 

 

Then they said he needed a VIRUS test. Again, he explained it was just for his leg. "Oh, no," they said, "you have symptoms of the VIRUS. We HAVE to give you a test." So The Guy agreed, and the test was negative for the VIRUS.

After they examined his leg, the ER people diagnosed him with the VIRUS. They said this leg infection is one of the symptoms, along with his fever. They sent him home with some medicine for the VIRUS. Farmer H didn't remember what it was, or if The Guy even said, but all he knew was it did NOT include an antibiotic, which is what most people would expect to treat an infection in their leg, with red streaks.

Two days later, The Guy's leg hurt worse. The red streaks were longer. His Wife took him back to the ER. Again, they said he needed a VIRUS test. Again, he explained that he did NOT feel sick like he had the VIRUS. That he had been vaccinated, and had just taken a NEGATIVE VIRUS test two days previous. Again, they insisted. The Guy took a VIRUS test. It was negative. This time, he was sent home from the ER with nothing else. Just told that he apparently had the VIRUS, but was getting a false negative test result. And to come back if he felt worse.

The next day, The Guy could hardly put any weight on his leg. He still had the fever. His Wife loaded him in the car and said, "We're going to St. Louis to a bigger hospital." Farmer H doesn't know which hospital chain. It might have been the one that bought out the Bill-Paying Town hospital. You know how insurances usually have a preferred hospital chain.

Anyhoo... the St. Louis hospital ER examined The Guy's leg. Farmer H didn't know if they first subjected him to another VIRUS test. But they DID say The Guy had CELLULITIS in his leg, and would only have lived another 24-48 hours without further treatment. They put him on IV antibiotics. They thought they might need to amputate his leg.

The Guy spent 13 DAYS in the hospital. They wanted to only release him to re-hab for convalescence, to have someone taking care of changing the dressing on his leg. His Wife said NO WAY was he going to re-hab. Since she was a nurse, SHE would change his dressings for him, and take care of him at home.

The Guy was cautioned to be extremely careful with the leg, because any little bump or scratch could start the whole cycle again. He will never be able to work that job again, and has to file for disability. The Guy came up to the storage lockers, glad to finally feel well enough to get out now. While he was there, he bumped his leg on the car door when he got out. Just a little bump. Farmer H said blood immediately started oozing out of his leg dressing. That it had a bandage, and some kind of pressure bandage sleeve thingy, that looked like support hose, but was a looser weave, and not tight.

The Guys said not to worry, it would stop pretty quick. And it did. But that's just his life now, always looking out for that leg, and not able to work any more. Farmer H thinks The Guy is around late-40s or early 50s.

Makes you wonder what his outcome would have been if he had gotten antibiotics for his infection when he FIRST WENT TO THE ER. If they hadn't been so blinded during The Current Situation, blaming every symptom under the sun on the VIRUS. Which The Guy still doesn't have.

An Emu Is Not Just A Big Bird In Hillmomba

Farmer H has been working over at Pony House almost every weekday. On Thursday, he was starting home, and decided to drive by HOS's (Farmer H's Oldest Son) house to see if he was outside, to stop and talk. He didn't find HOS, but he found HOSS (Farmer H's Oldest Son's Son), who just turned 13, walking a couple blocks away.

"I stopped to talk to HOSS. Asked him how he liked going to school this year, instead of the at-home thing. He said he LOVES IT, and that he can't wait to go back on Monday. I told him I'll give him a call next week, and we'll go have pizza again.

 

I asked what he was doing on the street, and he said he was taking a walk. That he was on his way to the park, but changed his mind, because there were a bunch of EMUs in a yard!

I said, 'Big birds? There were a bunch of EMUs in a yard? We used to have peacocks that lived over here, across from your house now, but EMUS? And HOSS said, 'No, Grandpa. Not big birds! EMUs! The people who dye their hair black. They're crazy!'

I don't know what he was sayin'. But it sure sounded like EMUs to me..."

"Oh, you mean EMOs. The emotional kids. They wear all black, and use eyeliner, and have lip piercings, and are always depressed, and wear skinny jeans. It was a big thing in the 2000s. I can't believe you've never heard of EMOs!"

"Well. That makes more sense than big birds in a yard! But I guess he could have been afraid of EMUs, too!"

I guess Farmer H didn't have too many EMOs working at his saw-blade factory in the 2000s, but I sure had a bunch of them in my classroom at Newmentia.

__________________________________________________________________________

It wouldn't surprise me if Farmer H would have said, "IMO'S? There were a bunch of thin-crust pizzas with provel cheese in a front yard???" [That's a reference to the IMO'S Pizza chain, for anyone who isn't familiar with this St. Louis icon.]

__________________________________________________________________________

In Which The "H" Stands For "Helpless"

Funny how Farmer H prefers his meals made to certain specifications if I MAKE THEM, yet suddenly has a different standard if he will be making them himself! Yes. I know you are flabbergasted to hear this revelation.

One night this week, I was going to make BBQ pulled pork sandwiches for Farmer H. I normally start his supper at 6:30, because Farmer H is a gadabout, and also utilizes every minute of sunlight when he's on the Mansion grounds, working outside. The days are growing shorter. It's still daylight at 6:30, but Farmer H is returning to the Mansion earlier. 

I think it was Thursday, when I'd been having a really Not-Heavenish day, dealing with the bank stupidity, and the credit union forking over tree-trimming cash (two days after giving me a check with the wrong phone number on it for Pony House supplies), and then dealing with the RumpusHole blocking T-Hoe in at the Gas Station Chicken Store. So I had my DELICIOUS Dairy Queen chicken basket waiting for me, which I had intended as LUNCH. It was now 4:45.

Once Farmer H turned up underfoot, I told him, "I will be back up at 6:30 to make your supper." Farmer H had that look on his face like he was quite put-upon by my statement. "I am not doing it now. I am going to sit down with my LUNCH, and enjoy it, and then I will be up later." Still, the look. 

"You know, if you want it now, I guess nothing would prevent you from getting your own supper. All you have to do is cut open the plastic bag of BBQ pork, and warm it in the microwave in a glass bowl. There are Hawaiian rolls or those round steak rolls in the cabinet. Oh, and your pickle you wanted sliced..."

"I don't want to eat it just yet. I can get it myself."

"Okay. The big pickles are in the bottom shelf of the refrigerator door."

Again, that look. 

"Oh. I guess I can go ahead and slice the pickle before I go downstairs. Do you want me to put it back in the fridge?"

"No. It will be fine there."

See what I mean? Farmer H couldn't even slice his own pickle! Otherwise, he would have said, "I can slice my own pickle." Or he would have said, "I don't really want a pickle." But no. He wanted it, as long as I was the one slicing it.

Here's another example. Friday evening, I had to carry in THREE BOXES of groceries from Save A Lot. HEAVY boxes, with canned goods and jars. I called to see if Farmer H was home to help me, but no, he was sitting at his buddy's business for the third hour, chewing the fat with his cronies. I was planning to make him a frozen rising crust pizza from Save A Lot. The 3-meat kind. I always add mushrooms and onions to it, and a little extra cheese to hold on the toppings.

Of course Farmer H showed up right as I was carrying my meal down to my lair. Right after I'd carried in the stuff, and had put part of it away. Those canned goods could wait.

"I was hoping for help with carrying. I didn't know you were staying at your buddy's until almost 5:00. You're usually home by 4:00. I'll make your pizza when I'm ready. I don't feel like standing here a half hour getting it ready. I'm not rushing myself. OR I can make you something quicker."

 

"No. The pizza is good. I can make it myself."

 

"So you're going to slice an onion? I'll set one out. And the mushrooms are in the pantry."

 

"I don't need all that stuff. I like it just fine the way it is."

 

"All right. Want me to set out the holey pizza pan?"

 

"No."

 

"What are you going to cook it on? I always use the holey pan, so the crust gets done in the middle."

 

"I'll use the holey pan."

 

"Okay. Do you know where it is?"

 

"No. I don't know where you keep anything. There's no rhyme nor reason to it."

 

"I've only kept it in the same place for 23 years. In the thin bottom cabinet that has all the flat pans standing in it, next to where a dishwasher would go. I'll set it out. And you better watch that pizza, and check it 10 minutes before it's supposed to be done, because the crust edges will start getting done sooner than the directions say. AND put that holey pan on a flat pizza pan before slicing, because I don't want all the crumbs to fall through into the burner and stink up the house next time we use it."

 

Farmer H managed to make his pizza. I don't know how it turned out. Well enough, I guess, because he ate the leftovers for supper Saturday night. Sunday, I'm back on cooking duty.

In Our Continuing Series On People Doing Their Jobs Not-Right...

It will come as no surprise to you that The Pony's credit card issue has not been resolved. In fact, The Pony's credit card issue is exactly the same as it was 12 DAYS AGO when I called the credit card company on Oct 4.

You may recall that the rep told me to have our branch bank fax them the documentation they have on file, and that nobody at the bank would answer the phone. But the next day when I called, I got a real person, only to find out that she WORKS FROM HOME and has nothing to do with in-bank operations. And informed me that fax is an old technology, rarely used. SO... I drove to the bank, where an office-lady offered to fax, but I told her my call-back to a different credit card rep pointed me to EMAIL the info. So she did. She said to give it a week to get in the system.

With the bank holiday for Columbus Day (now Indigenous Peoples Day) on Monday, I waited. Waited until Thursday to follow through. I called the credit card company. Heh, heh! I got one of the reps I talked to before. He looked it up, and said there is nothing showing that has changed. No record of info received. I asked if I could email the documents myself. No. It is really best to FAX the documents. He gave me the fax number.

Of course nobody at the branch bank would answer the phone. Straight to the corporate number again. So I had to drive out there, rushing, since I'd spent 15 minutes on hold for the credit card rep, was in the midst of reading off my account number when we were cut off, and then waited another 10 minutes on hold to get the guy I'd talked to before. Anyhoo... I rushed to the bank to make it by the 2:30 lobby-close time, only to find out I had misunderstood, and it closed at 2:00.

So.... I went to the drive-thru. Sent documents through the tube. Got a greeting this time.

"How are you doing?"

"Not well. I thought I had this issue taken care of last Tuesday. But NOTHING has been done."

"Oh. I think I'm the person who helped you that day."

"Well, they have no record of receiving our documentation. The credit card rep says it really should be faxed, and that I can't email it myself. So the papers I sent in have the fax number. He didn't give me a contact name."

"Oh. We really don't use our fax. Anything I send just seems to go out there and float around. Nobody gets it. We have two fax machines, and they're both the same way."

"He said to fax the documents. What if I go over to your main bank in Bill-Paying Town? Can they do it for me?"

"Oh, no. They are the same as us. We just don't send faxes any more."

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

"Do you want me to try and fax them?"

"Yes. I sent in the number."

She came back after about 5 minutes.

"I tried, twice, but it's not sending."

"I don't have any other way to get the information to them. I guess the only solution is to cancel this credit card, and open a new one."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that. This one has such a history to it."

"It's no good if we can't use it!"

"I will make a copy of your papers, and tomorrow I will reach out to the credit card company."

"Good luck with that. I was on hold for 15 minutes, then another 10."

"If I need any information from you, I will give you a call. I can't do it now, because I'm the only one here. Tomorrow I will have staff, and I can do it then."

When I got home, I looked at my papers she sent back. She included a copy of the fax report that said the document had not gone through. I saw the number she had put into the fax. I might be crazy, but I'm pretty sure it works like any long-distance number, and you have to first put in a "1" and then the area code and 7-digit phone number. She had not put in a 1. I might be crazy, but I'm thinking that could be the reason why these dimwits can never get their fax machines to work!

I told Farmer H that I was thinking about DRIVING OUT TO THE BANK (25-minute trip for me) the next morning, to ask her to try sending it with a "1" before the fax number. Because you KNOW that nobody would answer the phone if I tried to call and explain it. The more I thought about it, I decided NO. Why should I get up early, and waste T-Hoe's gas to drive to the bank at 9:00 a.m. and tell them how to do their job?

I will go back to the bank on Monday. I have other business to do there anyway. I will ask what the progress is on this credit card issue. If nothing has been accomplished, I'm going to ask what The Pony needs to do to open another credit card, and then I'll spend my last 15 minutes ever on hold with this credit card company to call and cancel this one. Like The Pony says, closing a credit card does not affect his credit rating that he's built up over the past 3-4 years. It's not like it gets erased.

Funny how "during the current situation," as the bank automated line calls it, the bank can't do business with you over the phone as normal, and their lobby hours are reduced. You know, because THE VIRUS can only attack you before 9:00 and after 2:00, and over the phone. Yet a doctor won't renew your regular prescriptions for 6 months with a telephone appointment, but only if you drag yourself into the office (mine located in the hospital building) where you have to rub six-foot elbows with possible sick people.

Maybe the doctor should meet with patients in the bank lobby between 9:00 and 2:00, where and when nobody can be infected...

Extreme RumpusHolery In Hillmomba

You know how easygoing Mrs. HM is, right? So shy and timid that she doesn't complain when people step in front of her in line. Doesn't take back damaged foods from the drive-thru line. Will not call out haughty rudeness from customer service personnel. She makes lemonade out of those sour lemons, scathingly dragging them over hot coals in her supersecret blog.

Thursday, Mrs. HM reached her breaking point.

I was in the Gas Station Chicken Store, having parked T-Hoe in the space at the side of the building near the FREE AIR hose. Thus leaving the handicap space behind T-Hoe vacant for those who may need it more. A light rain had started. I procured my magical elixir and scratchers, and returned to T-Hoe. No cars around that side of the building. Nobody pumping diesel fuel at the pump on that side.

I was writing CH on the back of my tickets, so I'd know where a potential winner came from. CH stands for CHICKEN. A big winner would mean that I wouldn't buy that ticket there for a week or so. Anyhoo... I put the tickets in my purse, and was strapping on my seatbelt when

A BLACK TRUCK PULLING A CAMPER TRAILER CUT ACROSS T-HOE'S BOW!

I thought he was just leaving out the back alley. DANG THIS GUY! He was way too close. I was afraid he was going to scrape T-Hoe's right front bumper area with the side of that camper! Camper-pullers are not nearly so skilled as semi truck drivers. They can get very close, but you know they're not hitting you, just steering the right angle to get their big truck though a turn. I had my hand hovering over the horn, the right hand turning the key to back up out of the way, when

THE BLACK TRUCK STOPPED WITH THE CAMPER ANGLED 2 INCHES FROM T-HOE, AND THE DRIVER GOT OUT!!!

 

That rumpushole was walking toward the FREE AIR hose! He had deliberately BLOCKED ME IN so he could put air in his precious camper tires!

 

The end of that camper extended past T-Hoe's passenger door. I wish I would have taken a picture right there, but I was SO MAD, and in so much of a hurry to back up before some handicapper parked there and pinned me in, that I just backed up to get around that camper and off the Gas Station Chicken Store parking lot.

 

Let the record show that Mrs. HM was cussin' a blue streak! I know that rumpushole heard me through T-Hoe's closed window. I HOPE he heard me. I did not call him a rumpushole. That was too nice for him.

 

I was absolutely shaking with rage! I think steam was coming out my ears. My face felt red as a fire engine. My blood pressure probably shot high enough to ring the bell on one of those carnival hammer games.

 

I was heading over to Dairy Queen for the BBQ Chicken Strip Basket that I'd been looking forward to all day. And let me tell you, what a day it had BEEN, up to this point. This was just the rotten cherry on top. I was just starting to calm down as I pulled out of the street between DQ and my pharmacy, BBQ Chicken Strips wafting a pleasant aroma from their bag on the passenger seat, when I spied THAT STINKIN' RUMPUSHOLE at the stoplight up ahead!

 

 

Yes. I took a picture while driving 12 mph in the turn lane. I actually took TWO pictures, but my phone is apparently rumpushole sympathetic, and the closer one didn't snap. But I'm zooming in!

 

Too bad his license plate is unreadable. I could have called to report him for driving with only one headlight!

 

I'm pretty sure he saw me taking his picture. Heh, heh! Maybe that enraged him! He headed toward Country Mart. I don't know any other reason to go up that road. If he'd made a right turn at the light, he would have been able to get on the highway within 100 feet, and drive north to the state park less than 10 miles away. 

I didn't turn around to go block him in. I had my BBQ Chicken Strips whispering EAT ME!

Whatever happened to that old thing called WAIT YOUR FREAKIN' TURN IF SOMEBODY IS PARKED AT THE AIR HOSE AREA AHEAD OF YOU???

Even The Elderly Want To Help Mrs. HM

Wednesday, I took the SPRINT bill for mailing. I'd planned to go to the main post office because it's more reliable, but time got away from me, and I didn't want to use more T-Hoe gas. So I went to the dead-mouse-smelling post office. I thought about parking in their lot, and using the ramp, not the stairs. Such a toss-up. Walk four times farther, or go up six steps? I opted for the steps. They have a sturdy rail.

I parked in front, on the street. I got out and hobbled behind T-Hoe, holding on to his rear to step up on the sidewalk. An older gentleman was walking down the sidewalk toward me. He had gray hair, and was wearing shorts. I thought he was going in the post office, so I stopped to wait. He slowed down.

"Oh, I thought you were going inside, so I was going to let you go ahead of me. Because I'm really slow."

"Are you just mailing that letter?" the Old Man asked, coming to a stop. 

I realized he was going to offer to TAKE MY LETTER IN AND PUT IT IN THE SLOT!

"Yes, but I can do that. Thank you, though."

You know you're really feeble when old people take pity on you and want to help!

THIS Is Why We Can't Co-Exist

Let the record show that Mrs. HM is a murderer. She will not suffer a house spider to live. Not in her Mansion, not on her watch. Nope. A spider is an invader to be dealt with. The wages of invasion are death.

I would never needlessly kill an outdoor spider. That's nature. Spider turf. Even on the porch. I don't live on the porch. I don't sleep on the porch where a spider might crawl in my open mouth while I'm sawing logs, nor in my ear canal or nostril. Carry on, outdoor arachnids. I have no business with you today. Or any day. Even when I drag my face though your inconvenient webs stretched across the walkway to the garage.

Tuesday, I was a bit preoccupied, needing to make a doctor appointment for my six-month blood work and prescription refills, and also needing to call my credit union about an imminent financial transaction concerning Pony House. I reached into my purse, sitting there on the kitchen counter beside the sink, to take out the checkbook for a deposit slip.

YIKES!

A spider ran up the edge of the bank envelope I had wedged beside my checkbook! Up over the side of my purse, and onto the counter SOMEWHERE!

No. That just won't do! I will not have a spider living in my purse! No siree, Bob! It was not a round spider, with legs branching out like wagon wheel spokes. It was a long spider. With four legs forwards, and four legs back. Not a hairy spider, but not smooth, either. Kind of velvet-looking. Dark brown, close to black. 

Sweet Gummi Mary! I HAD to find that spider! For the express purpose of KILLING HIM! I caught a glimpse of him as he skittered from the under-purse area to a pack of peanut butter crackers. I keep them on the counter, and every two days I put a little 4-pack into a baggie to take along in T-Hoe. My lupper has been coming later and later, around 4:00-5:00. While on my travels, I sometimes eat two peanut butter crackers if my stomach demands a deposit. This pack had four of the original eight 4-packs left. Enough cover for a spider to hide under. 

I grabbed a paper towel and went around the counter towards the kitchen table. For a better killing angle. I lifted the cracker pack, and off skittered the spider! Under a manila envelope holding some Pony papers. DANG IT! I went back around the counter, and lifted the manila envelope. That spider darted into a stack of regular envelopes, the mail from Saturday that I had not yet sorted, seeing as how we got no mail on Sunday or Monday.

Great. There were 4-5 envelopes there. No bills, or I'd have already dealt with them. On top was some junk mail from Direct TV. I didn't care what was under it. I smashed down on the stack. Waited. I didn't see any movement. I started lifting off one envelope at a time. 

AHA! There was the spider, kind of stuck to the third envelope down. Taking no chances, I jammed the paper towel down on him, pinched it, and opened it up to look.

GOT 'IM!

Yes. The spider was all curled up, just like The Pony enlightened me, having apparently lost his hydraulic leg-moving system. Into the wastebasket waiting below the counter, in the opening left for a dishwasher.

Good riddance to bad company.

Too Many Cooks Foil The Trough

The Mansion kitchen ain't big enough for the both of us! The Pony gets a rare day off, and uses it to take over my meal prep time! Almost as if it was premeditated. Which it wasn't, because The Pony is not a planner.

The Pony's last day off before Monday was the previous previous Sunday. So he's worked 8 days straight, all but one of them more than 10 hours a day. I understood that he would probably sleep in. By 1:30, I was getting concerned.

"PONY! Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"You haven't been out of your room for anything!"

Normally I would hear him clanking ice into his metal cup, or thumping to the bathroom. But not this time. He DID come out of his room shortly. I had just made a pot of noodles, chicken, mushrooms, peas, and parmesan cheese, tossed with part of a jar of alfredo sauce. The Pony won't touch that. It's like kryptonite to him. I'd asked Sunday night if he wanted some left without the mushrooms and peas, but he did not.

Anyhoo... The Pony said that when I went to town, he'd be making tacos with leftovers in the freezer. Namely diced chicken, and the remains of some instant Spanish rice from last Sunday. He often (when he has time off) makes his one meal of the day while I'm in town. 

However... when I returned from town, The Pony was just starting his "lupper." I'd been gone from 2:30 to 4:00. You'd think that would have been enough time to make food and GET OUT of the kitchen. I was wanting to strap on the old feedbag. Belly up to the trough. To warm up my noodle dish and grab a couple of Hawaiian rolls, and head to my lair with a fresh 44 oz Diet Coke. But there was The Pony, standing at the stove.

"Oh. I guess I'll wait until you're done before I can have my own lupper."

"I guess."

"Hey! Don't do that!"

"I'm just breaking up the rice."

"Not like THAT! I heard that fork stabbing my nonstick pan when you stabbed it through the rice chunk! You should have microwaved that first, before putting it in a skillet."

"I didn't stab your pan! All you heard was this. The pan rattling on the burner when I broke through the rice."

"I don't think so! Do it again, then. Show me."

"I don't need to do it again."

"Uh huh! Thought so! You KNOW you stabbed my pan! So you won't do it while I'm watching."

"The chicken will be easy to warm. It broke apart."

"Yeah. Because I diced it before it was put in the freezer! All you had to do to the rice was bang the baggie on the cutting block, and it would have separated itself. But wait! Don't try to change the subject!"

"Fine. I'll buy you another skillet, and I'll take this one when I leave."

"It doesn't work that way! You can't just take what you want."

"I guess my pans will be all right. I think they're in that tub in the garage..."

"Huh. I guess I might as well go lay down until I can get my food out and warm it. I guess my soda will get all watery, since I can't put more ice in it, with your laptop taking up the cutting block, and your food all over the counter."

"Yeah. I'll holler at you when I'm done."

"I thought the plan was for you to get your food while I was in town for an hour and a half."

"No. I didn't specifically say that..."

Too bad he was too tired to drive down to Steak N Shake like he used to on his days off.

A Disconcerting Glimpse Of The Pony's Package

The Pony has no qualms about flashing pictures of his package(s) that are a bit out of the ordinary. The packages, not the pictures. Whether it is an oddly misshapen box, or a colorful enigma like this one, The Pony is not shy about documenting random deliverables that he's tasked with handling.

 

"Oh, Mom. Wait till you see this package I had to deliver today. I want to know what YOU think it is!"

 

 

I shall not reveal my response. Let's just say that it may have included the words snap-on, tool, and orifices. Of course The Pony and I had a good snicker, and I don't mean the tasty fun-size treat available for Halloween.

"I KNOW, right? I was thinking: 'Why would they put this in a see-through package?' That's just wrong. And then I read on the package what it really is..."

Do YOU know what this is? Here's a hint. It may not be fit for man, but it's fit for beast. 

A four-legged beast.

______________________________________________________________________

Here. I'll spell it backwards. It's a hsurbhtooT goD.

You put it on a smooth surface with the suction cup bottom, and as the dog tries to chew on it and get it loose, he brushes his own teeth. So sayeth The Pony.

______________________________________________________________________.

SOMEBODY Needs To Invent A Better PurseTrap

I guess it's that time of year again, although I don't know if there really IS a season for begging outside convenience stores. I'm not talking about somebody down on their luck, with a cardboard sign. It's the organized beggars. Not that there's anything wrong with begging. If that's the most efficient way an organization can find to rake in donations, I don't begrudge them their effort. I am free to make the decision whether to open up my purse or not.

You may recall that Mrs. HM does not like this type of soliciting, and rarely gives anything to such a set-up. I have my charities or organizations that I donate to by mail, with a check for my records. I don't like to be bothered by random beggars. I don't like surprises, or variances in my routine. When I patronize a business, my plan is to enter and exit unmolested. No extra effort needed for small talk or refusals.

This week I have seen beggars outside the Gas Station Chicken Store on two consecutive days, at the Hillmomba Caseys, the Sis-Town Casey's, and Orb K. Even if I gave to one, how would the others know? Or should I just say, "I gave at Casey's." Whether I did or didn't. Well. That's a moot point, because so far, 

NOBODY HAS ASKED ME IF I WANT TO DONATE!

Yeah. They just sit there. Or stand there. And look at me as I walk by. Sometimes, one will say, "Hi. How ya doin'." And I reply "Just fine, thanks." Sometimes they are in pairs, busy conversing with each other, and I get a glance, then forgotten. I prefer it this way.

Here's the thing. If they want a donation, they should greet me, say what they're collecting for, and ask if I want to donate. I can either say, "Not today, sorry." Or I can toss a few dollars their way. I always have a few ones in my shirt pocket for an extra scratcher for The Pony. Depends on what they're collecting for. Which I DON'T KNOW!

I think the two early-30s men I passed at Orb K today were wearing aprons that said Knights of Columbus. Which still doesn't say what they want the donations for, even though I've heard of their organization. If I see a man blocking traffic at a stop sign, holding out a big rubber boot, I figure he's collecting for the firefighters. If I see an old man sitting in front of Country Mart with a small table covered with fake wire poppies, I figure it's the American Legion collecting for veterans. But these other beggars do not give me any clue what they are collecting for. They are not mainstream enough for me to recognize.

So... Mrs. HM's purse will remain closed.