Here We Go Again. Two Lies And The Truth.

Farmer H has been picking up the mail. He brings it in and puts it on the kitchen counter for me to peruse. Meaning for me to throw away the holiday junk mail, and pick out the bills to pay them.

 

Tuesday, Farmer H was over at the BARn when I came home from town. Well, near the BARn, at the Freight Container Garage. I don't know what he was doing there, since he's under doctor's orders not to lift more than 10 pounds. Anyhoo... my loving fleabags were over there, and missed their treat. 

When Farmer H came to the house, he fed Juno her special canned dog food and some dry dog food. She gets it twice a day, and is looking much better. I could hardly feel her ribs through her fur coat. Anyhoo... when Farmer H came in, I told him to give the dogs their treat. So he went back out. Then when he came in again, I asked if he had picked up his medicine, because the pharmacy kept calling. He had, but left it in SilverRedO. So he went back out again to get it.

"I didn't notice any mail in the counter. Did you get the mail?"

"There wasn't none."

"We didn't get ANYTHING?"

"Nope."

"I guess I can check when I go to town tomorrow. Maybe it's really late."

"Alls we got was a gift certificate for me from the lumber yard."

"So we DID get mail?"

"Only the gift certificate for the next time I buy stuff."

"That's different from not getting anything! Now I know not to get out and walk across the road to check."

"Whatever."

What in the Not-Heaven is wrong with Farmer H??? Why can't he just say, "We only got a gift certificate from the lumber yard."

Baiters And Switchers Have A Heyday With Mrs. HM

I'm not doing any Christmas shopping this year. Farmer H says he doesn't need anything, and the boys are grown. I'll still give my Chex Mix, and some scratchers to Farmer H and the boys. But I don't really have a need to hit Black Friday sales, or take advantage of Cyber Monday. Except...

Farmer H has worn out his shoes. His feet had been hurting him during the summer, and I got a catalog from ordering work shoes for The Pony. He thumbed through it and found some shoes he'd like to try. Skechers. I made another order for The Pony, so he could have a spare pair to switch off if his shoes got waterlogged on a rainy day. There was a sale back then, 40% off.

Of course Farmer H's shoes were not on sale! So I still paid full price, because he wanted them. He loved those shoes! But they've started to wear out. So he asked if I could get him another pair. I said I'd get two, because usually you find something you really like, and then they change the style or "improve" it, and it's not the same.

Anyhoo... I kept getting emails from this company about their Cyber Monday sale with 30% off sitewide. I checked my old emails and found the order for Farmer H's shoes, and got the style number and size. I went into the site to order, looking forward to my 30% off of two pairs. You know what happened, right?

I used the discount code, and a message popped up in red that the manufacturer didn't allow this product to be discounted. Huh. I wonder how many brands on that site come up with the same message? I didn't waste my time trying. I just ordered Farmer H's shoes at full price. Oh, and they've gone up $10 a pair since summer!

This is an annoying tactic to drag people in hoping for a discount. It could at least say "30% off on selected merchandise." And not appear as if everything is 30% off.

At What Point Do The Lies Become Truths

Farmer H is a habitual liar. He thinks he can get away with it, even though I constantly prove he cannot. Doesn't stop him from trying. A while back I mentioned how Farmer H moved my washcloth from the towel rack where I had place it on my towel, to the side of the big triangle tub in the master bathroom where it just so happened he was going to have a soak. I didn't buy his excuse THEN. And I'm pretty suspicious of his most recent washcloth manipulation.

Farmer H has a tell. Rather than just answering a question directly, he will repeat the question while trying to buy time to fabricate an answer. Then he proposes alternate scenarios until flat-out caught in an untruth. He's less transparent than a toddler with crumbs on his face denying a forbidden dip into the cookie jar.

Saturday afternoon, I draped my used washcloth on the side of the big triangle tub in the master bathroom, on the area where there's a built-in plastic rod for such items. There are two. One near the corner by the toilet where the faucet handles are, and the other along that side of the tub towards the sink. Mine was on the sink end. That allows it to dry, and then I put it in with the dirty clothes to wait for washing.

Sunday afternoon, I went to move my dried washcloth, and saw that it was not in the same position as I had left it. I drape it a certain way, with the border oriented along the side so it's not in contact with the edge of the tub, since this part takes longer to dry. Now the border was hanging down against the inner tub side. Hmm. What a curious discovery. I know that washcloth didn't move itself. AND Farmer H had taken a soak in the tub Saturday night, forgoing the auction. Of course I had to open an interrogation.

"What happened to my washcloth?"

"Your washcloth? Nothing happened to it."

"The blue washcloth I had draped on the side of the tub."

"It's still there. Nothing happened to it."

"Funny how it's not hanging how I left it."

"Oh. I knocked it into the tub. But I wrung it out and put it back."

"Really... is that the truth, or is it a lie like your first two answers? How in the world did you knock it into the tub when it was hanging there on the rod?"

 

"Getting in. I knocked it into the water while I was getting in."

 

"I don't know how you did THAT. How do I know you didn't use it to wash with?"

 

"I didn't. I don't know why you're always accusing me!"

 

Oh, I don't know... could it be... perhaps... that you are always LYING about what happened?

 

Seriously. What if I had plans to re-use that washcloth for a second day? Do I want to use something that's been in Farmer H's buttwater soup, even if he DIDN'T use it to wash with? NO! I do not. Once it is contaminated by Farmer H's bathwater, it must be washed. Who knows what he REALLY did with it!

 

A sane person would have answered immediately, upon being asked what happened to my washcloth: "Oh, I knocked it into the bathwater as I was getting in the tub. I wrung it out and hung it back on the side." See how simple that is? But a liar has to stall for time, and only propose that story when he's been caught.

The Pony's Mom's Eyes Are Bigger Than His Stomach

I sent The Pony home with Thanksgiving leftovers, and told him to not eat them past Sunday night. That's four days. Don't wanna take any chances with his delicate digestive system, heh, heh. He had deviled eggs, stuffing, roasted vegetables, and turkey.

Saturday evening, I got a text from The Pony.

"I didn't actually eat any leftovers yesterday. I didn't get off until 7 and fell asleep before I was gonna warm them. Then I did eat half a dozen deviled eggs."

"Don't fart around me!"

"You gave me 18 of them! And they've gotta be gone by tomorrow night!"

"Dad said they MIGHT be okay on Monday."

"The eggs? I doubt that. The veggies would be fine, but the meat is iffy and the eggs would not."

 

"Don't make yourself sick over my generosity! It's okay to throw them out. The meat is likely okay. People commenting online about a news article saying to throw them out after four days say THEY eat their Thanksgiving leftovers for SEVEN days!"

 

"Internet commenters are not always the brightest bulbs in the box!"

 

"And yet they're still alive to comment!"

 

"Fair! But I doubt they have to walk and drive 8 hours a day away from a bathroom!"

 

Anyhoo... The Pony went on to say the he was ordering a pizza to have with a drink since it's a night before a day off. And that later he planned to have more deviled eggs and warm up a bowl of vegetables. AND that he could use turkey as a topping on the pizza, especially for the leftover pizza.

 

I hope I don't make The Pony develop a dislike of my deviled eggs! I just had that many left over to give him, since Farmer H and I wouldn't eat a bunch for leftovers. And to be fair, I DID give him two Chinese Tupperware containers of the roasted vegetables.

 

Enough is as good as a feast. I don't want The Pony to stuff himself into queasiness.

The Treatment Is Worse Than The Injury

Sweet Gummi Mary! I think Farmer H's surgeon/doctor was right! The most recent redness around his rumpus was from the BANDAID used to cover it! Of course, he still had the half-stitch left in his incision that needed to come out, to stop the constant irritation, and let his incision close completely. But what I discovered Friday evening makes me a believer in this bandaid conspiracy! That surg/doc wasn't just whistlin' Dixie.

Remember how I mentioned that my leg was itching almost unbearably on Wednesday night? It was all I could do not to scratch. No way do I want to infect my gaping gouge from T-Hoe's door. Anyhoo... I figured it would eventually stop. Must be the healing process. I mentioned it to Farmer H, and he said, yeah, stuff itches as it heals.

 

I was preoccupied with getting the Thanksgiving foods ready on Thursday. Too busy to get in the shower before the big meal. Once it was over, and right before I got up to wash the dishes, I told Pony that I was taking off my bandaid from the day before, to let my leg breathe a bit. It came off easily (the bandaid, not the leg, heh, heh!).

I decided to leave the bandaid off overnight. I was busy cleaning up the kitchen, and reuniting with HIPPIE at the kitchen table. Farmer H went to bed. So I just skipped my shower. Took one on Friday before going to town. Farmer H was off at his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2), unavailable for bandaiding me. So again, I let my wound breathe.

When I got home and changed out of town clothes, I asked Farmer H to take a look and make sure my boo-boo wasn't getting infected. He gasped.

"WHAT? Is it infected? It doesn't hurt."

"No. But those bandaids are definitely causing a reaction! I'll take a picture for you."

Welp! Or should I say "WELT!" Here's the evidence. Look away, if the thumbnail didn't already scare you off. The gaping wound is not the focus, but the ITCHY RED SKIN AROUND IT!

 

No mistaking that shape! And that's AFTER a day without the bandaid! The bandaid that came off easily, one half of it already flapping and unstuck. We're not using them any more! I have half a mind to write Band-Aid and send them this picture. But the other half of my mind is lazy. Besides, they'd probably just send me some coupons for free bandaids. Something is definitely wrong here! Maybe a bad batch of glue.

What are the odds that both Farmer H and I, two completely unrelated people, would have this reaction?

Farmer H's Rumpus Grows A Tale

Farmer H went to the doctor on Wednesday. You may recall that he was having rumpus trouble in the area where that electronic shocker stimulator thingy was implanted to zap his bladder if it misbehaved too frequently. I'm pretty sure I mentioned how he asked me to look at the right rumpus area, because it was hurting. This was a couple weeks or more after the implantation. You'd think it would be getting better. However... when I took a look, the area was red, and when I reached to touch the edge, pus shot out!

I put antibiotic ointment on the area, and a bandaid. It seemed to be doing better. I'd change the bandaid every day or two. The left rumpus, where the external wires had been implanted to test if the experiment was going to work, was healing and scabbing over nicely since the wires had come out. Then a few days ago, Farmer H said his right rumpus was really hurting again.

THE WHOLE AREA WAS RED! Not "hot" red. But red. A rectangle around where that device is under the skin. I told Farmer H that didn't look normal! So he called the surgeon/doctor, who told him to come in. Here's the scoop:

The surgeon said that Farmer H did NOT have an infection. He said it looked like his skin was having a reaction to the bandaid. Oh, and by the way, he poked around in the incision area, and found a STITCH! Not a whole stitch. He said it was a half stitch. One that he'd used to close the outside of the incision, and should have dissolved. Then he sent in a prescription to Farmer H's pharmacy for an ANTIBIOTIC pill! So unusual, with no infection...

I say that this is a case of CYA. Cover Your Rumpus. Don't admit that you left a stitch in there that caused an infection! Oh, and the antibiotic, which Farmer H can't remember the name, but says it's a huge horse pill... can cause a problem with potassium. So now Farmer H has to go Friday for a blood test to check his potassium, in addition to stopping his regular daily potassium pill. You don't want to mess around with potassium levels, people! It can affect your heartbeat. 

Anyhoo... I guess the scenario as presented by the surgeon/doctor is plausible. Thursday night, Farmer H's right rumpus looked better. It was scabbing over, and the red skin area was less red, and parts looked like it was peeling like snake skin.

Farmer H thinks that little 1/4 inch of stitch was poking out just enough that it got irritated every time he pulled his tighty-whities up and down. I think sitting in the buttwater soup of the big triangle tub in the master bathroom for his aching back/legs did not help the "stitchuation."

The antibiotic is for seven days. I hope Farmer H's lab is open Friday, so he can see if his potassium level is affected. Otherwise, it will be Monday before he can get the blood test. The sixth day of the seven days of antibiotic.

Oh, and the bandaid situation? I asked why it hadn't done that all the other times I put a bandaid on it for him. But this was one of the new bandaids Farmer H had picked up for ME. It has sticky on all four sides, while the others we'd been using had the typical two-side sticky. 

 

Funny how my leg was itchin' like the dickens Wednesday night. I could hardly stand it. When the bandaid loosened itself and came off Thursday, I left it off. No more itching...

No Rest For The Wicked Weary Mrs. HM

Farmer H offered to forego Thanksgiving dinner for a trip to the casino. Don't think he was thinking of Mrs. HM. Not wanting her to work so hard over several days to prepare dishes and then clean up and make use of the leftovers. That was not his motive. 

"I get tired of hearing you complain."

Well. I get tired of doing all the work! I could gladly plop myself in front of the TV, and listen to Farmer H complain while getting the whole meal ready. 

I don't know why Farmer H thinks he is in charge of commanding me not to complain! It's not as if I'm yelling at HIM. If I want to whine about dropping something on the floor, or forgetting to carry items to the table that I need for chopping, what business is it of his? He can't hear anything ELSE I say from the kitchen. Ignores me, or gives answers that have nothing to do with my questions, even when I holler them in. But let me say something to myself when things don't go my way, and he hears every word of it, and it makes him uncomfortable! Wait. That's not true. It makes him spittin' mad! For nothing! It has nothing to do with him!

Anyhoo... with The Pony living so nearby, I hate to rob him of Thanksgiving. He works hard. He had Tuesday as a regular day off. And Thanksgiving Day off. Farmer H also told The Pony we could go to the casino for Thanksgiving. But then he'd have no leftovers. AND the casino doesn't serve deviled eggs, The Pony's favorite. So rather than rob The Pony of a proffered casino trip (we hadn't been for two months), I said we could go to the casino on Tuesday, and I'd still cook to have Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday.

I did scale back my menu. Poor Pony isn't getting his Oreo Cake. He said that was fine, he can make one for himself when he wants it. We are still having Pony Favorites: deviled eggs, stuffing, roasted vegetables, and Sister Schubert's rolls. I even bought him some Kerrygold butter! We'll have turkey breast and a 7-layer salad, too. Plus cheesecake for dessert. So we're not going to starve.

Right now I'm typing this at 1:30 a.m. The deviled eggs and the vegetables are done. The first set of dishes is washed. I was going to make the salad, but I'm tired, and only feel like making four layers. So I will do that Thursday morning after I put the turkey breast in the oven. Then the table and counter need cleaning off.

I doubt I'll get much sleep, what with Farmer H not going anywhere, and probably laying abed BREATHING when I want to rest. I guess one day without sleep won't hurt me.

Oh, yeah. It's also our 33rd wedding anniversary.

Revenge Would Be So Easy, But Mrs. HM Is Not A Vindictive Woman

While Farmer H was out and about Monday morning, he went to get me some larger bandaids to cover my door-slammed leg. It's not a big wound. Maybe a quarter-inch of a little hole, and a scratch. T-Hoe's door was not as bloodthirsty as that of A-Cad, which left a deep gouge of more than two inches long, and an inch wide. So this owie doesn't require a large bandaid to cover it. We already had some 2 x 4 inch bandaids that I got at Country Mart, to cover the place on Farmer H's rumpus where the incision was made to insert the shocker thingy he got a month or so ago.

Farmer H returned from town, bearing bags and boxes and pouches. He had a skin thingy excised from his shoulder, and his doctor gave him gauze squares and tape. He was sure to state:

"Them are for me. For my shoulder. We have to change it every day. But I got you some bigger bandaids. They're 4 x 8."

That sounded awfully large! How would I even have him apply it? Across my calf? Up and down? I picked up the box to look at it.

"Um. These are NOT 8 inches! They're 2 7/8 inch by 4 inch. So barely bigger than the ones we already have two boxes of."

"Are you sure? Huh. I guess that must have been the OTHER box I picked up..."

Which is not a tragedy. I don't need an 8-inch bandaid. These will cover it, but won't be any different than the others. It will cover, and then get sodden, and peel off. So I'm not faulting Farmer H with his purchase, but only with his inattentiveness to detail. In case size might have mattered.

Here's the bone I have to pick. After my shower, and before I headed to town, Farmer H put a bandaid on my leg for me. He could have been ready. I told him I'd be out of the shower at 2:30, and he said he was leaving at 2:45 to meet a guy at his old storage locker for something. Yet when I went to the living room at 2:30, Farmer H was still in his recliner. Nothing ready.

"You know we always need a paper towel, to make sure the area around it is dry so the bandaid with stick."

"I'll go get one."

"And the ointment."

"It's already here on the table, from doing my hip this morning."

So... I stretched out my leg while leaning on the marred coffee table. It seemed to take Farmer H forever to rip open the bandaid, put on ointment, dab at my leg skin, and then position the bandaid. Sill, all was going fine, until...

"YOUCH!"

"That didn't hurt you."

"I think I'M the judge of what hurts me! You pushed RIGHT ON THE HOLE!"

"No I didn't. I was smoothing the edge."

"I think I know where you pushed, and how it hurt! You always do that! Push RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE INJURY!"

"No I don't."

Yes. He does. I guess he thinks he has to pat in the middle of the bandaid to make it stick. I don't know his motives. I'm pretty sure it's not malicious intent. Just stupidity.

I could really make his life miserable, poking the center of his shoulder incision, or that rumpus thingy that is not looking right. (Farmer H has an appointment Wednesday for that.)

Good thing I'm not vindictive.

Farmer H, My Personal (Un)Care(ing) Giver

With the most recent slamming of my leg in a car door (there's a sentence you never want to write), I am dependent on Farmer H to bandage the wound. It's around back on my calf, near the knee bend. I can't see it without contorting or using my cell phone for a picture. Props to Farmer H for applying my first aid accoutrements, but he does not have the best couch-side manner.

 

As with last time, the initial few days of such an injury result in a weeping wound. The bleeding lasts a few hours, then peters out as the plasma floods the injury, carrying away crushed cells and possible pathogens. Of course I'd like the flowing fluid to stop, but I know it serves a purpose. I have to devise a way to deal with it. A bandaid with triple antibiotic ointment covers the broken skin, but still allows the injury to weep.

 

Farmer H thinks LIQUID BANDAID is the solution.

 

"I'll put some of that on it, and that'll stop the fluid! Of course, it WILL hurt. It burns! Unless maybe there's a spray version now, which might not hurt as much. But it will cover it up so the fluid stays in." 

That was Farmer H's stance on Monday morning. After I'd already told him several times the night before that I did NOT want to use Liquid Bandaid.

"NO! Enough with the Liquid Bandaid talk! I already told you I don't want that. I'm afraid my leg might explode if it gets sealed up and can't let the fluid out."

"HA HA HA HA HA!" He had to stop here for a coughing fit, but then continued: "Your leg isn't going to explode, HM! Ha ha ha!"

He doesn't have to be so mean...

Oops! I've Gone And Done It Again.

No rest for the weary, no luck for the losers, and no ablebodiedness for the gimpy.

I closed the car door on my leg again.

 

This time, it was T-Hoe's giant door. Of course I blame Farmer H! No. He did not hold my leg out and slam the door. He wasn't even there. But it happened when I parked at the FREE AIR hose at the Gas Station Chicken Store to put air in T-Hoe's right rear tire. I've been getting a message to check it. Supposed to have 35 pounds of air, and only had 26. With the cold weather, all the tires show low air. The front two have 30 pounds. So I was leaving them alone until Farmer H can drive T-Hoe over to the BARn, and check all the tires, and fill them with his compressor.

 

Anyhoo... because I turned to walk to the BACK of T-Hoe, my routine was thrown off, and I closed the door before I had fully stepped out of the way. I immediately knew I was in trouble. I could feel fluid flowing down my left leg. To add salt to my newly-ripped-open wound, the tire had stopped with the valve stem at the very bottom. The six o'clock position. Almost as if Even Steven had measured it with a compass. That meant I was virtually standing on my head to remove the cap, and hold the air hose nozzle against it.

 

A puddle of blood was forming at my heel. Dang it! I hated to go inside, but I wanted my scratchers cashed in for more. I didn't so much mind that the back of my pants leg was sodden, because nobody looks over the counter at that. But I didn't want to leave puddles. I made sure to stand on the tile, not the rugs. I'm thinking my pants and sock kept soaking up my fluids, since the pants were against the leg while I was standing normally.

 

I called Farmer H to report my predicament. Thank the Gummi Mary, I had already completed my Thanksgiving shopping in two stores, and was headed home. Farmer H came out to help, but he has been forbidden to carry anything due to his back discs. So I had to be quite stern with him, so he only held the door open, and watched the dogs so they didn't eat my turkey breast and bacon while I set two boxes and three bags on the side porch, before climbing the steps and transferring them into the kitchen.

 

Once inside, I changed into my sweatpants and hiked the leg up. I put my pants in the washer to soak, along with the squishy sock. Farmer H wiped down my leg and patched it with triple antibiotic ointment and a 2x4 inch bandaid. He forgot to take a picture so I could see the wound, but said it looked like a 1-2 inch horizontal scratch. No hole like on the gambling trip. It doesn't hurt hardly at all. So I'm hoping for a quicker recovery. 

 

Of course, the fluid is still seeping, because my body is rushing reinforcements to that area to carry away damaged cells and start the healing. I have my foot on a towel, and when I get up, I put a paper towel in my Croc so it doesn't grow so squishy.

 

It's going to be a long week...

Mrs. HM Might Be Losing Her Mind. Or At Least The Memory Part Of It.

Well. It seems that leaving a crucial ingredient out of Farmer H's hot toddy was not an isolated incident, as far as Mrs. HM's cognitive skills are concerned. Or else Even Steven is exacting revenge on Mrs. HM, at the behest of Farmer H. Who doesn't even KNOW about his Hot Toddy Light. So that's unlikely.

Friday was quite chilly. The temperature was 31 degrees when I left for town. Bright sunshine, but still 31 degrees, and a brisk wind around 10 mph. I had on a long-sleeve shirt and my seafoam green sweatshirt-like baseball-style jacket. Normally, that keeps me warm enough unless I'm outside for a while in the wind. The layer of warm air between my shirtsleeves and the jacket sleeves is toasty.

Still, I felt a chill while driving in T-Hoe. You never know. Sometimes the heater/AC system works better than other times. I haven't figured that out. I know there's some kind of electrical problem that Farmer H seems resigned to leaving unfixed. We paid his buddy Mick the Mechanic over $100 a couple years ago, to fix the seat heater. And all that we gained was a broken side-mirror controller. So technically, we paid to have nothing fixed, and left with another problem! Farmer H said sometimes those things happen when you take the cover off the door and monkey with things. He does not seem to be much of an advocate for my preferred vehicle. Yet he has not been back to Mick since that flapdoodle over getting SilverRedO fixed a while back...

Anyhoo... I drove to town. Stopped at Orb K, where the clerk gave me the wrong scratchers, two $2 tickets instead of the two $3 tickets I asked for, which I took anyway, so as not to slow down the line. I'll give them to The Pony. On I went to the Gas Station Chicken Store, where they were out of one of my $3 tickets. Further to the Casey's, which at least gave me what I asked for. And then to Country Mart to cash in my $6 winner for two $3 tickets.

Sweet Gummi Mary! I was FREEZING! Even inside T-Hoe. Even in the sun. And then it dawned on me:

I DID NOT TURN ON THE HEATER!

Once I pumped up the fan a couple speeds, nice warm air flowed out the vents onto my hands gripping the steering wheel, and onto my feet. MUCH BETTER!

I can't believe I forgot! Every day when I pull into the garage, I turn off the blower. The heat itself is still set on 75, but won't blow until I turn on the fan. I keep it off, because I don't want to start up T-Hoe in the cold garage, and have that frigid air blasting at me. Once I get past the mailboxes, it's usually warm enough to turn on the fan.

Sometimes I'm my own worst enemy. But usually, I'm Farmer H's worst enemy.

A Hot Toddy In The Old Mansion Last Night

I made the hot toddy as promised on Thursday night, for poor pitiful sickly Farmer H. He wasn't acting all that sick. But still, I babied him. IF you consider plying him with alcohol something you would do for a baby...

 

A hot toddy is comprised of whiskey, honey, lemon juice, and hot water. You can also add cinnamon if you want a little kick. Yes. I have to look up the recipe every time Farmer H is sick. 

 

I even heated the big cup before putting the hot toddy in it. So it would stay warm longer. It's not like you chug a hot toddy. You sip it, letting the alcohol dilate your blood vessels, and the steam seep into your sinuses, and the honey coat your throat, and the lemon... well... do whatever the lemon does, which I assume is provide vitamin C to help your immune system. 

Farmer H coughed up some loose-sounding phlegm. He seemed less congested. And he grew tired, and was in bed by 8:00. The ill need their rest, you know.

Of course he was congested again by morning, and sounded like his head was in a bucket. But he said the hot toddy helped him sleep. So I promised him another one Friday night after supper.

As I was sitting at HIPPIE at the kitchen table around noon, while Farmer H was roaming the countryside like Typhoid Mary, I glanced at the dishes I needed to wash up from the previous evening. Something on the kitchen counter caught my eye.

THE HONEY BEAR!

I had completely forgotten to add the honey to Farmer H's hot toddy! He didn't mention it. And neither did I. Once he's over his sickness, I might offhandedly let that info slip. Or not.

Denial Ain't Just An Attitude In Farmer H

Farmer H has the crud. He says he doesn't. I asked him a couple times on Wednesday, but he was adamant that it was my imagination. Sure. I know his annoying habits. He sneezes 10 or 12 times when he's done eating. Whether it be a meal or snack. Within a couple minutes of finishing, he sneezes. But on Wednesday, he did not. Until about 30 minutes later. And it was fewer sneezes.

 

Overnight, I heard a couple of coughs. Deep coughs. Not the nasal drip lisinopril cough. So when Farmer H dancing-beared his way across the front of the short couch Thursday morning, narrowly missing my feet, I asked him again.

 

"Are you sick?"

 

"No. I don't think so."

 

"I heard you coughing."

 

"I DO have a little bit of a sore throat..."

 

AHA! Caught in the act of denial! Farmer H went to work on Pony House for a couple hours. Ate ham and beans at the Senior Center for lunch. Then came home to while away some hours until an MRI of his back at an imaging center. I caught him covered up with the orange/yellow/brown afghan made by an old family friend in Alaska. 

 

Farmer H does not seem to feel bad. From the sickness, nor the denial. He was planning to go to his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2) on Friday morning as usual. Even though temps are in the 20s, rising into the upper 30s.

 

"I have a heater," he says. 

 

Still, I made a special trip to get lemons to make him a hot toddy for after supper Thursday, plus some cough drops. Put him back on our vitamin regimen for the winter. Took him his own box of Puffs With Lotion to the recliner, and a bag for trash. I am fairly confident he will be over this in 7 to 10 days. It has to be something he caught on Monday. Not sure where he was. It isn't The Pony's crud, because he hasn't seen The Pony since last Friday, and the symptoms are different.

 

Farmer H DID agree that if business is slow, he will close up the SUS2 and go to lunch at 11:00 at the Senior Center. Then come home and loll around, perhaps in bed, and drink water to keep his mucus moving. There's another hot toddy in his future.

 

Now all I have to do is avoid it. My hands and face shall be strangers for a week. I have some GermX on the table where the Farmer-H-infected remote control lives. I shall shun the spray of Farmer H's breather, and do my sleeping once it is off.

Some Days, Even The Weirdos Shun HM

There is nothing of interest to report today. Not even a weirdo encounter! No snow. No more dead deer. The dogs avoided me as I left for town, and as I came back. Farmer H was gone all day, at SUPPOSEDLY his last day of working on Back-Creek Neighbor Bev's new old house in the middle-er of nowhere. Tomorrow he is going to move his tools over to the Double Hovel, in preparation to start working on the main house.

Sometimes, boring is good...

Spare No Cost, Spoil The Pony

I still miss having The Pony under my thumb roof. When I'm out and about, I sometimes pick up treats for him. Not as many as when he was living here, because I only see him every couple of weeks. But I still think of him. 

Last week, I saw a jacket at Country Mart. Yes. A grocery store jacket! It wasn't even one of the school mascot jackets, but a nice fuzzy neutral kind. The best description would be a zip-front hooded sweatshirt, but made of soft material like a fleece throw blanket. It was off-white and beige, kind of mottled. Of course since I'm always cold, I worry that The Pony might get a chill this winter.

The Pony has always been averse to certain textures. He refused to wear jeans as a child, preferring "slacks," as he called them. Or khaki cargo pants. When he broke his elbow both times, he had to wear sweatpants to school. Not the drawstring fleece kind, but more of a track pants with a stripe version. Once his arms healed, he refused to ever wear sweatpants again!

Anyhoo... when he moved out, The Pony left me a fleece throw that he'd brought home from college. It is SO SOFT! It's red and white, a zig-zag stripe pattern. I used it every night to bundle up on the short couch while I watch TV. I have thanked The Pony numerous times for leaving it, and he says he has a million fleece throws. But he always mentions how this one is SO SOFT. And so was that jacket. I figured it would be good for a quick trip to Steak N Shake, or to wear around the house, or take out the trash.

The jacket only came in two sizes: S/M and L/XL. The Pony is kind of average or below in size. So after spreading a jacket out on my cart, I chose the S/M. It only cost $19.99. Which I think is really cheap, considering the price of groceries there!

Farmer H dropped off the jacket for The Pony last week, and said he was trying it on when Farmer H left. When I stopped by to pick up the house payment check on Sunday, I asked The Pony how he liked the jacket.

"It's fine. I don't usually zip my jackets anyway. So it fits okay."

"Oh. I can get you the bigger one if you want. It only cost $19.99."

"NO! You don't need to get me another jacket."

"Isn't it SOFT?"

"Yeah. But you know how sometimes your hands are almost chapped, but not quite, and they get caught on stuff? It's like that when I run my hand over the jacket."

"You don't have to wear it. You can take it to work and give to somebody if you want. It only cost $19.99!"

"You might find this hard to believe... but I'm one of the smallest people at work! So I'm not sure it would fit anybody else..."

Heh, heh! You'd think postal workers would be smaller. It's not exactly a desk job.

The Farmerer Has No Clothes

I am freezing my nose and fingertips off sitting at this kitchen table trying to type. There is no verifiable draft, but I cannot get warm. The wood surface of the kitchen table is like ice. I have on a shirt and two jackets. I try to rest my wrists on the table with a buffer of the two jacket sleeves, but I'm still freezing. I have to warm one hand at time, against the skin of my neck, under my lovely lady-mullet.

 

Meanwhile, Farmer H lolls about in his recliner, wearing only a pair of tighty-whities! What in the Not-Heaven is wrong with him! AND he just got up to go to bed, but made a stop at the front door, opening it to peer out and see if the snow that's forecast for Monday night has started! No snow, but the draft he let in found its way to the kitchen to surround me.

 

"I am SO COLD! I'm putting on my other jacket. I need some gloves without fingertips."

 

"It's not cold in here, HM."

 

"You know the 12-pack of my Shasta soda sitting on the floor by the wall in the kitchen? It's ice cold when I take it out to put in the fridge."

 

"Ha ha. It's cold from sitting on the floor. Not because there's a draft."

 

"I don't think that's normal, for soda on the floor of a heated house to be ice cold!"

 

Farmer H says I'm crazy. That it's NOT cold in here. That there's NOT a draft in the kitchen. That if I can prove to him there's a draft, he will plug it up. Heh, heh! That's bold talk for the man who left the kitchen door open an inch-wide crack yesterday morning from 6:40 a.m. until shortly after noon when I discovered it! 

I don't know how I'm going to stay warm this winter while trying to keep up with my innernetting. I need one of those Russian hats like George Costanza got on Elaine's account while she was running J. Peterman, and then left it at a date's house, where it disappeared. I will NOT be getting the Nutria version of that hat...

  [:47 YouTube video of the hat]

The Pony Ponies Up

I normally pick up The Pony's house payment during the first few days of the month. Depending on how the dates fall with his days off. This month, we had problems connecting. The Pony used a day off to go with Farmer H to pick out the stain for the back wall of his house, and they had lunch. Then I had a doctor appointment, and The Pony turned up sick. So I did NOT want to be around him and risk catching something. That did NOT work out well last January!

 

The Pony was off for Veteran's Day, but he and Farmer H took The Veteran out to lunch at a Chinese place. So yesterday was really the first opportunity I had to go collect The Pony's house payment. It's no big deal. Not like we have a loan or anything. I just put the money back into our account that we used to buy and upgrade Pony House.

 

It's just as well that this transaction was delayed. Because in the meantime, the county tax bills arrived! So I also gathered the yearly tax payment on Pony House, and half of the taxes due on the Double Hovel. We are responsible for that, because that was part of the closing agreement. Farmer H told the seller to just bring him the bill when he got it, but the county clerk had handwritten our address on it, so it came to us. 

 

Anyhoo... The Pony forked over his house payment, the county tax that was just about that same amount, and the half of the Double Hovel taxes that were about half his house payment amount.

 

"Is this a hardship for you, Pony? To pay all that at one time? Because we can stagger it if you need to."

 

"Nope. Not a problem. As you can see."

 

The Pony pulled up his bank account info on his phone. He's right. NOT A PROBLEM!

 

I made him write out three separate checks. For his records. So he'll know what he paid. The Pony is not the best record-keeper. 

While I was there, I dropped off The Pony's winter coat. It has been laying across the back of the long couch since last winter, when The Pony no longer needed it while delivering mail. He really likes the hood, and the vertical zip pockets for putting his phone in to listen to music and podcasts while he works. Every time he came out to the Mansion, I thought he might take it home with him. But you know how that goes. He moved into Pony House in May, and it's been warm ever since.

"Pony. Do you want me to bring your coat when I come by for the house payment?"

 

"Not sure what you're talking about, but yeah. Go ahead."

 

"That red and gray one I got you in college. That you wore when you walked instead of driving or taking the shuttle. The coat you wore to deliver mail in the winter, with the hood. The one we tried to wash because it had ink from the mail on it."

"Oh. THAT one! Yeah, I'll need it for winter. I thought it was in my car all this time."

Good thing he didn't try to wear it during the snow on Saturday...

Something Stinks In Hillmomba

I know deer season started this weekend. On the way to town Friday afternoon, I saw two pickup trucks in the middle of a field at the house by the low water bridge. Two guys were standing beside them talking. I know that hunters get stuff ready and head to deer camp. Or just secure permission to hunt in somebody's field, and go out before sunrise to sit in a tree stand. I'm pretty sure the legal hunting time is between dawn and dusk. I know there's a law against "spotlighting," which is shining a light on deer to mesmerize them for easy shooting.

So I figured this was a couple of hunters taking stock of their plans or successes or failures at 3:30 p.m. I went on up the road about a quarter mile, and saw a dog in the field across from the old sheep farm. He was sniffing something. IT WAS A DEER! A small deer on the ground. Not moving. My mind deduced that perhaps this was a deer that had been shot, which had continued to run, until it succumbed to its wound. A deer doesn't just lie down in a field late-afternoon. It was bigger than a fawn.

The more I considered the scenario, the more I became convinced that those two hunters had shot this deer, and were discussing why they could not find it. There was another house with lots of acreage between this property and the field across from the sheep. It's not like they could track it by walking or driving through other people's land.

On the way home, the dog was gone, but the deer still lay in the field. Not moving. Had those "hunters" been closer to the road, I might have stopped and shared my info on the deer location. Just in case it was theirs. It's a shame for a deer to go to waste.

When I got T-Hoe down our driveway, I called Farmer H, who was at his regular Friday afternoon bull-shooting session with his buddies.

"Hey. Is it deer season yet? Did it start today?"

"No. It starts Saturday morning. Gun season. It's bow season now."

"Well, I saw two guys and their trucks in the field where people are always mowing, and I think maybe they killed a little deer that's in the field across from the sheep farmer. I didn't see an arrow sticking out of it..."

"They coulda shot one."

"If they were closer, I would have stopped and said, 'The deer you poached is in the field up the road, by the curve.' Heh, heh! Probably not. But still, a deer shouldn't go to waste. You can see it on your way home if you look."

"Yeah. I'll look for it. They coulda shot one early, and were gonna wait till morning to check it in."

We'll never know. That poor deer is rotting in the field. Needlessly.

You Could Cut The Condescension With A Knife, And Shovel It Into A Wheelbarrow

Just one more way Farmer H spreads his joy around Hillmomba, if not the world...

When we left my doctor appointment on Monday, the first thing I did upon climbing into A-Cad was take that mask off my face.

"Do you ever need a mask? Like when you go for one of your tests? Do you want me to leave this one in the car? I only had it on less than an hour."

"Nah. If they say I need one, I tell them that THEY have to provide it for me. So I don't need yours."

"Okay. I guess I can leave it in here just in case. I can tuck it up here on the sun visor, unless you think it might be in the way."

"Nobody else rides in here. It's fine."

"I mean, if you use the visor, the mask will drop down."

"Heh, heh! Why would I use THAT visor? I'm driving! I don't ride over there!"

Such an air of superiority oozed from Farmer H that I felt the slime seeping out of him. Sweet Gummi Mary! It's amazing that I've managed to live to this ripe old age, what with me being so clueless about the usage of sun visors.

"Um. Many people flip down the passenger seat sun visor when the sun is blazing in from this side while they're driving..."

How could Farmer H not know that?

Handbaskets, Handbaskets, Get Yours Now Before Society Collapses

The tale that follows is perhaps the strangest encounter I ever had in a hospital lab setting. Which includes the time I went in for knee surgery and they mis-labeled my blood and tracked me down 30 minutes later to draw more.

I went upstairs to the clinic lab and signed in. It was 11:45. The waiting area was crowded, so I expected to wait a few minutes. It usually goes pretty quick. People are there for different tests, and different staff come out to get them and spirit them away.

While waiting, I observed two people approach the window. I assumed it was a young mom and her teenage son. The Gal was tall, about 5' 8", and a bit chunky. Not overly fat, but a large woman in short frilly skirt and fashionable blouse like young people wear. She had bleached blond hair that was shaved on the back of her head, and flapped over from a side part. Tasteful makeup completed her look.

The Boy looked perhaps 13 or 14, with a mop of tousled dark-brown hair barely visible at the front of his dark gray hoodie. He had black jeans-type pants, and tennis shoes. As they stood at the window, he leaned on the edge of the counter, while The Gal rubbed his back lovingly. I assumed that may he was developmentally disabled. He was very quiet, and The Gal did all the talking, giving the birthdate info as August something of 2002. Which I assumed was hers.

The receptionist asked if they had seen the doctor.

"No. Not today. We're just here for a test. They need the depo shot. I'll get mine another time."

The receptionist acted a bit confused, but told them okay, emphasizing that if they wanted both today, they'd need to go down to the hospital lab. The Gal didn't want to do that. So said they'd just do the test. They turned away from the window, and a man moved so they could have seats together.

With the kerfuffle of the FREAKING OUT TEEN taking so much time with the phlebotomist, the clientele thinned out as they were called for other tests. It was down to just ME, and The Gal and The Boy. The Mom and 2bee were down at the end of the alcove, waiting on TEEN to come out.

REEEEEE

The noon whistle sounded in town. Yes. They still do that here. At first I thought it might be a fire, or a weather warning, but then I realized the time. Living in the middle of nowhere, we don't hear the noon whistle, and it's been a while since I was teaching and heard it at school. A young woman in dark blue scrubs came up the hall and spoke to the receptionist at the window. She buzzed the phlebotomist door, and Scrubby went inside. They mentioned LUNCH.

The Gal gave me the side-eye. I raised my eyebrows. Then The Gal stood up and said, "What the F**K?"

 

I raised my hands, palm up, like "Whatcha gonna do?" 

 

"I am NOT waiting an hour for them to eat lunch! Come on! Let's go. We'll come back another time." The Gal grabbed The Boy by the shoulder of his sweatshirt, and they went off down the hall.

I also was not happy. I figured I'd give it a half hour. I did NOT want to come back another day, after fasting again, driving 30 minutes from Hillmomba. Luckily, within five minutes, the phlebotomist came out for the Mom, and they got that drama done, if not so much solved. A blond lady in dark blue scrubs came up the hall and told me, "We'll get you in in a minute." So that was good news.

Blondie went back down the hall and around the corner where the other phlebotomy room is located. And immediately came back with The Gal and The Boy. I guess she had seen them leave, and promised them that the lab would not close for lunch until they were seen. They came back to their original seats. We looked at each other and sighed with relief.

Scrubby came out with a little plastic cup, and called for The Boy to follow her to the pee room that was near where I was seated. Gave the standard instructions of how to obtain the pee sample, and to set it on the shelf inside the pee room, and then he was done and could leave. They would contact him with results.

The Gal stood up and leaned on the corner of the wall, chatting with me.

"That lady who brought you back told me she'd get to me in a minute. So at least I know I'm not waiting until after lunch for my blood draw."

"Yeah. We're just here for my partner to get a pregnancy test. I'm pretty sure they're not pregnant. I said, 'You're on the depo shot, stupid! It keeps you from getting pregnant! So why would you need a test?' But they still wanted to come get a test to be sure. I'm 20 years old and know how that works!"

"Oh. Well... I guess maybe you can never really be sure unless you rule it out."

MY MIND WAS REELING WITH THIS REVELATION!!! 

Thank the Gummi Mary, the second phlebotomist came out to call me down the hall. So I didn't have to try and keep my jaw from dropping to the floor any longer.

WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN???

Turns out The Boy was 20 years old! Born in 2002. I'd heard the birthdate given at the window. And now it appeared that maybe The Boy was not a boy at all!!! 

SO MANY QUESTIONS!

If they were partners, why was THE BOY getting a pregnancy test?

If THE BOY was a biological girl, on the depo shot, who was "he" fooling around with to get pregnant if "he" was in a relationship with THE GAL? Who was obviously a "real" gal.

If THE BOY was a biological boy, what kind of insurance pays for "him" to get a depo shot and a pregnancy test?

It's none of my business. But I didn't ask for all those details! How they live their life does not affect ME. I bear them no ill will. I'm just curious about the medical aspect and unnecessary treatments.

They Might Need To Build A Crying Closet

I took the elevator up to the 3rd floor of the clinic to get my blood drawn at the lab. My NP gives me the option of using the hospital lab on the ground floor, but there's usually a longer wait, and besides, they charged me $178 one time because of using a wrong code, rather than having the insurance pay as usual.

Anyhoo... the waiting area is an upside-down L shape. All the seats across from the check-in window were taken. So was one down on the end of the L. Since there were 3 chairs there, I pulled one over by itself a bit, and sat in it. Down a little back corridor at the end of the L were several more chairs. They were past the door that leads to the bathroom where they give pee tests.

A teenage girl, mom, and 2-year-old boy were sitting in three chairs together there. I figured they were keeping that active little boy away from people. You know how kids can be when they get bored. The lady by me got up and left with another gal who came out of the blood-draw door. So I had those three seats to myself. Then the phlebotomist came out and called a name. It was the teenage girl in the alcove. She left her coat with her mom, and went with the phlebotomist.

Sweet Gummi Mary! There must have been nine of us waiting for assorted testing. Yet the staff seemed to be at a standstill. Knowing I was waiting for the phlebotomist made me interested in what was taking that Teen so long. She was in there 15 minutes! Everybody knows a blood draw only takes three minutes or less! Mine do, anyway! Go in, verify your name and birthdate, stretch out your arm, get the rubber tubing tied off, POKE, suck it out, and you're done! Easy peasy.

The phlebotomist came out and wandered down to the end of the L, looking for Mom. Who was on the phone, making some kind of arrangements for the 2-year-old who was not as verbal as a 2-year-old should be.

"I'm gonna have to call you back. What's wrong. Is she being uncooperative?"

Phlebotomist nodded her head. So she and Mom and 2bee went through the blood-draw door. That place is small! Two chairs and a side table. That's it! It must have been like riding in a clown car with all of them inside. I heard a bit of talk. Not really understandable. Then about five minutes later, Teen, Mom, and 2bee all came back out, and went to their secluded chairs. Where they sat. No putting coats on to leave.

Teen: "I just wasn't feeling it. Then she said I had to let her take my blood, and I started to freak out."

Seriously? How long are the medical professionals going to humor these kids? If Teen wasn't mature enough to go in on her own, Mom should have accompanied her from the beginning. Not let her go in alone, get all hard-headed and think she can get her way. That makes it even harder. I don't know if they were going to try again later or what. Kids these days. I can understand if she had a fear of needles. She needed someone there to hold her hand. Or a tranquilizer. But she can't just take up everybody's time like that! 

I'm no phlebotomist, but I think I would have given it one try, then told the Mom that if she couldn't persuade Teen to let her blood be drawn, she would have to leave. You can't keep coddling and coercing at the expense of everyone in the waiting area. If a patient refuses, they refuse. No negotiating.

Apparently, The OLD MORGUE Is The Best-Kept Secret In Hillmomba

I had a regular appointment with my doctor Nurse Practitioner on Monday, to get my prescription refills and give some blood for analysis. Since we would be in Bill-Paying Town, Farmer H and I had decided to vote early and avoid the church basement steps at our regular polling place.

Although this early voting place has been operating for two or three years now, there is little information about it online. I had tried looking up the hours of operation, but couldn't find them, or the exact location on the county website. All that popped up from my estranged BFF Google was a two-year-old story from the local online newspaper. Which denies me access, because, well, you know... I don't pay for a subscription. Which I WOULD, if they'd allow me to pay by check, and not by providing a credit card to be charged every month.

Anyhoo... from voting, we headed the mile + to my appointment. I must have gotten five reminders of my appointment since Friday. I even texted back that I was confirming the appointment, but still they bombarded me with reminders. Each one said to WEAR A MASK. Huh. So we're back to that. I dug out my Kansas City Chiefs mask, my casino standby, the one I bought at the liquor store, handmade by some pothead who works there.

As I stepped through the double doors of the hospital on my way to the elevator, I put on my KC Chiefs mask. Then at the elevators, there was a little rack of masks in boxes, with a somewhat obscure sign on one saying only hospital grade masks were allowed. They were all pale yellow. I couldn't see a difference, so grabbed one from the middle box. It fit just right. I think maybe it was for a child. A child with a giant Mrs. HM head and a lovely lady-mullet. But still. It was not all bunched up to my lower eyelids, preventing me from looking down to see where I was walking.

I rode the elevator with one lady. I told her I didn't much like having to come out among sick people just to get my medicines that keep me healthy. Then I wondered if maybe she was a sickie, but she was not giving off any symptoms of illness, and didn't act offended. While sitting in the waiting area outside my NP's office, I had a small coughing fit from breathing whatever impurities are in those masks imported from China. So I pulled it down under my chin. The only people who could see me were those getting off the elevator, which was over 50 feet away. My back was to the wall of the sliding window, so they had no idea. 

When I checked in, one gal asked if I had my picture ID handy.

"Yes. I just voted, so it's in my pocket."

Another gal across the office said, "You just voted? Where can you do that?"

"Over by the old hospital. The one that closed. Where my husband used to go."

"Oh. Blankety-Blank Hospital."

"Yeah. Across the street from it, in that office area."

"Oh, you mean the OLD MORGUE."

"I guess so..."

Once inside, during my appointment, my NP asked how things had been going. Offered me several diagnostic tests, which I turned down politely, one of them having cost me $700 in the past. 

"Things have been great. I won $500 on a lottery ticket, and I'm doing pretty much nothing all day. No offense to you, but I really hate coming here! I want to be around sick people as little as possible. So this is done for another six months, and while over here, we voted, so there's another unpleasant thing I've checked off for today."

"Oh! Where did you vote?"

"Over by the old hospital that closed."

"Oh. The OLD MORGUE. Do you know how late they're open?"

"No. I tried to find out, but couldn't. We go there to avoid the steps to the church basement where we vote."

"No kidding! I have to vote in a church basement, too! I'd go to the morgue and vote if I knew it would be open when I get off."

Small world, huh? From there, he sent me up to the lab to give my blood sample. THAT is another story entirely. TWO other stories!

First one coming up tomorrow.

Farmer H Feels The Guilt Of A Two-Timer

We had business down in Bill-Paying Town on Monday. I met Farmer H at Pony House, to keep him from driving all the way back to the Mansion. Since I was a bit early, we decided to kill time by voting. Actually, we had planned on voting all along, but AFTER the purpose of our business in Bill-Paying Town. With about 20 minutes to spare, we went to vote first. 

The county election commission or some such entity has a polling place where you can vote early. I think it opens two weeks before the election. It is quite handy for those who don't like walking up and down steps to the church basement that is their regular polling place. Truth be told, this new voting center is the OLD MORGUE from the hospital that closed. At least that's what I've been told, whenever I try to explain where it is.

We went there last year, or perhaps the one previous, when The Pony was living with us. As then, Farmer H pulled up under the entryway, and I got out of A-Cad and walked up a slight ramp and through two automatic glass doors, to wait in line to show my ID. Easy peasy. Four women were ahead of me. We arrived during rush hour, I suppose, as we watched each husband drop off the wife before going to park.

There was a long folding table on each side of the entry to the rectangular room. It was about the size of a classroom. You gave your Missouri driver's license or state ID to one of the workers, who scanned it and flipped a screen around to ask if your name and address were correct. Then you had to sign the screen with a little rubber-tipped short pencil thingy. The worker told another worker which voting precinct you belonged in, so they could give you the right ballot.

From there, you took your ballot to a long folding table to vote. ONE PER TABLE! With a cardboard science-fair-ish divider so nobody could see. The pens to use for voting were on the table. ONE PER TABLE! Last time they made a big show of having you turn in your pen after voting, so they could SANITIZE it and give it out again. Not this time! I asked what to do with the pen, and the lady told me LEAVE IT ON THE TABLE. Yuck. I would have brought my own. Lucky for me I had my GERM-X in the car in my purse.

Anyhoo... by then Farmer H had arrived, and took his ballot to the table across the aisle on my left. We finished about the same time. He said,

"Here. I can take your ballot back to the scanner. So you don't have to walk."

Fine with me! I'm not sure if that table-top thingy actually scanned the ballots, or just collected them. You feed them in like a document into a fax machine, but then the ballot stays inside. When it's full, a worker locks them in a box, and resets the machine to accept more. Last time they were doing that, and we had to wait a minute.

Anyhoo... I didn't want to start out without Farmer H. He had the keys, and knew where A-Cad was parked. But people were coming in to vote, so I didn't want to keep sitting at the table next to my soiled pen. So I got up. But that darn Farmer H was still holding the ballots, yukking it up with a worker in the back of the room. He'd chew the fat with anybody.

When he came out, I asked what took so long. He said,

"Well, I didn't want him to think I was VOTING TWICE! So I pointed to you so he'd know it was your ballot I was bringing."

Huh. Hope he didn't add some comment about how BLOATED I was like his friend that died! Besides, who would think Farmer H was illegally voting twice? As if those workers would have given him two ballots. Or maybe he'd slipped another voter a mickey, and took his ballot. I never would have thought someone might assume I'd voted twice. Around here, couples come in together all the time. So it would seem logical that a spouse was saving the other some steps.

As we went out the double doors, with Farmer H going to get A-Cad, a dude was lurking around. He'd been inside, trying to make small talk with the ID scanner lady after he voted. Not cool! They had a job (unpaid) to do!

I opened up A-Cad's door, and said to Farmer H,

"That was WAY easier than walking down and up the church basement steps!"

DUDE said, "Oh, do you normally vote in Somewheretown?"

"No. We vote out past the prison. At.. uh... what's it called?" 

Neither Farmer H nor I could remember the name of that church! We've never forgotten it before. But we both drew a blank. Probably because of the nosiness of Dude! Who went on to say, 

"Oh. That sounded like where I vote. We have to use the church basement, too."

You're not gonna believe this, but when I got to where I was going, somebody there ALSO said they vote in a church basement. More on that visit tomorrow...

Mrs. HM's Very Sought-After Brain Nears Its Exploding Point

Mr. Needy McNeedypants, Esquire, is overworking his public servant. It's a wonder she has strength left to type up this tale, after having just lost one hour of her life she will never get back.

 

Farmer H requires specific forms to be submitted concerning the delicate nature of certain items he offers for sale at his Storage Unit Store. The move to a new address means a review of the new information is necessary before the items can be sold there. So everything must be done again, and submitted to the licensing authority.

 

Farmer H would be non-compliant if left to his own devices! Oh, he means well, and thinks he is doing the right thing. But he lacks a certain attention to detail. Plays fast and loose with written instructions. Such as, if told to ATTACH certain information, Farmer H decrees:

 

"Just write it in on that line below. It's the same thing. Here. I'll read it to you."

 

Even after having that form with the precise instructions waved under his nose, with the explanation that ATTACH means to include it on a separate page... Farmer H STILL wanted it written under the instruction. Yet 3/4 of the way into it, he suddenly decided that yes, perhaps the paper he had COULD be attached.

 

Sweet Gummi Mary! Two forms. 25 Questions. Five attachments, only four of which Farmer H had at his immediate disposal.

 

Do you know what Mrs. HM was paid for her services? NOTHING. Well. Unless you count harsh words when she asked for proper details...

YO-YO Night At The Mansion

It was 79 degrees Friday when I got home from town. Had to kick the Mansion thermostat back over to COOL. A round 10:00 p.m., I could hear the winds picking up. There was an advisory for thunderstorms, and 30-40 mph winds from midnight to noon on Saturday. For once, the weather forecast was right!

I was sitting on the short couch at 12:30, watching TV, when the power went off. And came back on. That was a relief. I heard Farmer H get up. His breather shuts off when the power goes down. Of course my TV automatically goes off to save itself. I turned it back on, but had to wait for the DISH satellite info to load [may take 5 minutes], and then the DISH information guide to load [may take 10 minutes]. 

I passed the time watching the bars as the programs loaded. No rhyme nor reason. The first two took 15 seconds each. Then the last three loaded randomly. It did not take the full five minutes. Once the information guide had loaded, my Incredible Dr. Pol automatically came back on. It was the episode where Dr. Emily joined the practice. I've never seen this one in its entirety. Still. Because after a promising four minutes, the power went off again. Then came back on. 

I once again turned on my TV. Watched the DISH info load. Watched the program guide load. Saw a couple minutes of a young lab with his tongue protruding who wasn't quite right. Then the power went off again.

That scenario played out EIGHT TIMES over the next 90 minutes! EIGHT TIMES, the power went off. The DISH programs loaded.

Do you have any idea how frustrating that is? At least the power kept coming back on. At least I was able to watch an entire movie later. The Chocolate War. Which was pretty stupid. At least I won't try to watch it again, as I might have it I'd missed chunks of it.

I don't think Farmer H had a very restful night.

Looks Like I Worried Needlessly About Playing Favorites With The Dog Treats

Leave it to Farmer H to reveal how futile it is to dole out treats fairly to the dogs. I had split up some of the previous day's chicken bones. Stop frothing at the mouth! I've never had a dog get ill from eating a chicken bone, in my umm... considerable years of feeding dogs chicken bones. I left the bones in a baggie overnight. They were moist.

Juno got a slice of bread (better to bind to the bone fragments during passage) and the breast carcass and the wing drumstick bone. Copper Jack got a slice of bread and the thigh bones (which includes a back-looking flat part). And my little Jack got part of a bread slice, and the pointy wing bone that nobody eats, with skin all over it, and the two little bones from that other wing part that are like the radius and ulna of a human forearm.

Of course Juno darted out of her house and snatched Jack's two small bones while he was eating the skin-covered one. Darn her greedy self! She already got more because she's bigger, and skinnier. Copper Jack minded his manners. Little Jack took his bread and ran around the corner to keep it from Juno.

 

Farmer H arrived home, and fed Juno her evening can of beef chunks in gravy. He hollered at Jack to get away. Which also scared off Copper Jack. When he came in, I again chastised Farmer H for the harsh voice while Juno was trying to eat.

 

"Oh, she ate her food. Jack run off, and I seen him in the front yard eating a rabbit when I came in."

 

I'm pretty sure Jack wasn't sharing. No wonder he looks so portly, even though I try to minimize his treats. He has no self-control!

Transitory Excitement In Hillmomba

Thursday was fairly uneventful for the weekly errand day. Until I was within three miles of the Mansion. I had passed the prison, and the road where the car was in flames a few weeks back, and was coming up on the approach to the long tall bridge. A gravel road shoots off to the right, and it was here that I saw some excitement.

A county sheriff's white-and-tan SUV was parked on that road, just far enough to be off the blacktop. In front of it was a faded, copper-colored Dodge Caravan minivan. A woman sat in the passenger seat with the window partly down. It was 77 degrees, a bit warm for November.

A county sheriff's deputy was directing a man toward the hood of the SUV. The man looked dirt poor. He was wearing an old t-shirt of the color Farmer H used to buy for work: dust brown. Dirt Poor Man had the sleeveless version of the t-shirt. He was pudgy, as were his arms, which were handcuffed behind him. He just looked tired and downtrodden.

I have no idea why such a stop might occur. The law does not chase gas drive-offs these days. Won't even go arrest them with pictures and license plate numbers. I doubt a driver running a red light would be chased two miles out of town. So that leaves, perhaps, reckless driving? Maybe related to alcohol? I didn't see any broken glass or signs of a collision. 

I'll watch the online newspaper for a headline.

Mrs. HM, Your Kitchen-Table Diagnostician

Hope you didn't click on this thinking I could solve a problem with your kitchen table! 

I know nothing about furniture. But I DO know how to spout an unqualified medical diagnosis while sitting at my kitchen table.

Remember how Farmer H has been having pain in the back of his thighs? Such a bad pain last week that it curtailed his Friday afternoon fat-chewing session with his cronies, an activity that requires nothing but sitting on his rumpus. AND he skipped an auction, because when he got up to leave the last one, he was afraid he couldn't walk to SilverRedO.

Anyhoo... I first thought he had overworked himself while putting flooring in Back-Creek Neighbor Bev's new old house. And that he needed some slow stretching exercises to limber up. But no. Farmer H said he only CUT the boards, and had his Old Man Buddy put them down. 

I moved on to asking if he was on any new medication. And if he was taking statins for cholesterol. He is. He asked the pharmacist, who said they COULD cause muscle pain. But I figured it would be odd to only have pain in those back-thigh muscles.

When Farmer H was so debilitated that he had to hold onto furniture while walking through the Mansion, sighing so heavily that I thought his lungs might fling themselves out his pie-hole... I suggested that maybe he was having issues with his back. Namely, a disc pressing against a nerve. He's had surgery, you know, for such a thing in his neck, and has also had further treatments for it, to relieve the pains in his arms. So it would make sense that a disc problem lower on his spine could affect his legs. The pain was worse in the morning. Which was the case with his arm pain as well.

Anyhoo... Farmer H's nurse practitioner sent him for an MRI of his legs, and an ultrasound to check the circulation. Which came back fine. No circulatory problems. He didn't get the results of the MRI, but made an appointment to see is his NP on Tuesday. That's the only day she works! Which would have me getting a new NP, since the odds are only 1 in 7 that I would be sick on a Tuesday. 

Anyhoo... he was feeling a bit better, with the severe pain having lessened over the weekend. When he got home from his Tuesday appointment, he said his NP had sent him for a back x-ray. I swear, they have made Farmer H a six million dollar man, with all the tests he's had over the years from that office.

Anyhoo... Farmer H had a revelation that he learned from his NP:

"She thinks it's my back. In the discs. She put her thumbs on my lower back and pressed, and I about went through the roof! That's exactly what is causing my leg pain. She said she could give me a steroid shot and clear that pain right up."

Which is also what I'd told Farmer H about immediate treatment for his severe pain. He's not one to take pain pills. They make him queasy. He has some from his most recent surgery, but hasn't taken them. I don't know if the NP is waiting on x-ray results, or what. She did NOT give Farmer H a steroid shot. Maybe next Tuesday...

I guess I'm as good as a one-day-a-week nurse practitioner for diagnosing back-of-thigh pain. And without expensive tests.

Persona Non Scratcha

I am usually in no hurry when I have to wait in line at a store. But Monday, I WAS in a hurry, because I needed to meet Farmer H with The Pony's car key so he could change a flat tire before The Pony was off work. Of course THAT would be the day when I wanted to pull my hair out while waiting in line!

I had a half hour before I needed to be at Pony House. I had ten minutes of that left when I stepped into the Sis-Town Casey's for scratchers. It's only a couple minutes from Pony House. Plenty of time. Except for the ONLY customer ahead of me.

She was a 40-something gal with a handful of scratchers. Don't get me wrong. I don't begrudge anybody cashing in scratchers. IF they know what they're doing!!!

Scratchy had neglected to scratch off the bar codes at the bottom of her tickets! AND she had six tickets! They were the $3 version. That poor clerk had to get a coin and scratch off that part before he could scan them. He's a string-bean of a kid, with corkscrewy hair. Always very calm and pleasant. This was no exception. She DID apologize, and he told her it was okay. 

THEN Scratchy pulled ANOTHER ticket out of her purse. She scratched off the bottom herself, right there on the counter. THEN when he had the total, she started questioning him. He remained calm and courteous. I don't blame her for wanting answers on the amounts. Turns out she had forgotten to put one of her winners in her purse. Her total winnings were $75. I think she thought it should be $100.

Of all the days...

I was five minutes late in meeting Farmer H. No big deal. His Old Man Buddy was just walking from SilverRedO to his car. Farmer H was standing between the front passenger door and the back passenger door of SilverRedO. Peeing in Pony House yard.

The Universe Even Shines On Mrs. HM's Rumpus Some Days

It goes without saying that Mrs. HM uses the hand rail when she goes up and down steps. But I'm saying it anyway. The hand rail Farmer H put by the steps at the side porch, leading down to the garage sidewalk, is not the best hand rail ever designed. It's a 2 x 6 board, skinny side up. Still, I can rest my hand on it for support.

Last week, I was preoccupied with sweet-talking Juno, who is plumping up nicely, and also shedding most of her matted hair. Plus smelling sweet from the fresh cedar chips Farmer H put in her house. Juno had trotted from the side porch (using her back foot that was lame!) to the top of the four steps. She stepped down on the first one, so I patted her while absentmindedly putting my left hand on the hand rail to start up.

YUCK! I felt something under my palm! I figured one of the birds who like to steal dry dog food had perched there waiting for an opportunity, and had pooped on the hand rail. I looked with disgust at the rail as I lifted my hand. And saw

A STINGING INSECT!

It looked to me like a hornet or yellowjacket, although such an aggressive beast would have been upon me, wreaking fierce havoc, like that floggin' rooster after Nicole Kidman as Ada Monroe in Cold Mountain.

It was about an inch long, with a yellowish, black-banded nether region. I must have stunned it, because it sat a moment, then buzzed off.

I was quite happy to avoid a sting. Aside from tiny sweat bees, I've only been stung once or twice in my life, one of those times being early childhood when I walked barefoot through clover. This is one area where I have an advantage over Farmer H, who seems to be a Sting Magnet.