The Pony Gifts Us With A Christmas Monkey Wrench

Genius is coming for Christmas! Plans were solidified on Tuesday evening. The days he will arrive, attend the party of my sister the ex-mayor's wife, show up at the Mansion for dinner, and partake of the annual holiday casino trip.

I informed The Pony on Wednesday morning. Who tossed a little monkey wrench into the plans. We know that The Pony has to work on Christmas Eve. Late. But usually makes it to Sis's soiree. He's off Christmas Day. Since Tuesday is his regular day off, it fit right in for the casino trip before Genius departs for Pittsburgh. Not anymore!

The Pony is getting his own route. He's been a regular for quite some time now, but has not bid on specific routes because he does not like the vehicle assigned to it, or the businesses to which it delivers, or the general locale. So he's been earning regular pay, but taking routes that are assigned to him. Sometimes for weeks, sometimes days.

Anyhoo... The Pony bid on a route that suits his preferences, and as the unassigned regular with most seniority, will most likely be awarded that route permanently. It's virtually a done deal, but without a specific date when it is officially on the books. The catch is... the day off is WEDNESDAY.  

The Pony is pretty sure Wednesday will be his official weekly day off by the time Christmas gets here. Which presents a dilemma. Go on the casino trip without The Pony. Or see if Genius can delay his departure by one day.

I think we can get it worked out over the next month. Poor Pony missed the casino trip two years ago, due to work. He was able to go last year, and we all had a great time. Genius would like some down time once he gets back, to relax for the remainder of his vacation. It's a difficult decision. I imagine there will be several discussions by text, with me being the middlewoman.

The Further Transgressions Of Farmer H

Sometimes, Farmer H annoys me. Yes. I see you all, turning to each other, shrugging, palms to the sky, muttering, "Who woulda thought..."

I can hold in my peevishness for a little while. It takes a lot of effort. And then my nerves of steel snap like Young Future Mrs. HM's ulna when she took a tumble roller-skating on the sidewalk around her grandpa's fireplace.

"WHY DON'T YOU JUST LICK THE BOWL!!!"

Farmer H is a clinker. I shudder every time I serve something that is eaten in a bowl, using a spoon. Every single bite, Farmer H clinks the metal spoon against the glass bowl. Oh, and he eats with a serving spoon. So it's an extra-loud clink. This time, he was eating my vegetable beef soup. That clink carried, unmolested, not even muffled by the couch cushions and carpet, from recliner to the kitchen table, where I was listening to music while scratching lottery tickets, until Spotify went down.

Sweet Gummi Mary! Is it really necessary to clink each dip of the spoon? He sounded like he was trying to get a ballroom packed with wedding guests to pay attention for a toast. It was bad enough when he had just sat down, with a bowl full of soup. As you well know, it was solid soup. Though not a towering bowl. THEN, near the end, Farmer H was scraping the remaining particles of soup off the side, with the vigor required to remove barnacles from a ship's hull.

I might have been able to deal with this transgression, had Farmer H not already used up my good will (granted, it's about the size of a mustard seed, and could be worn in a see-through heart-shaped charm like the one I had in grade school) a few days earlier with his shenanigans of entitledness.

I came home Monday to find that Farmer H had poured his own drink during my absence, using MY Shasta Diet Cola from the second shelf of FRIG II. Farmer H's sodas are on the top shelf. Always have been. His Diet Mountain Dews, and this past week's Diet Cokes which he bought instead. Along with a can of Shasta Diet Cola that I put there for when he has a Wild Turkey. Never mind that our Shasta Diet Colas are identical. It's the principle, dang it! I want MY soda from my shelf. Not to reach into an empty space, and have to look around for it. He has his soda on his shelf. When pressed on the reason for his decision, Farmer H replied,

"I just took one when I saw it."

Oh, but that's not all! To accompany his cocktail, Farmer H had an individual bag of chips. He chose the plain chips with ridges. They're his favorite. I always leave them for him in the multi-pack of assorted chips. However... Farmer H opened the new multi-pack and removed his bag of chips. When there was one left from the old multi-pack with an expiration date of December 4. It is only logical to use the older chips first. But no. Farmer H was entitled to the NEW chips.

"I figure I should be able to eat anything in my own house."

Yes. Anything thought of, put on a list, searched for on a shelf, purchased, bagged, loaded, unloaded, carried in, and put away by Mrs. HM.

The King of the Castle rules the Mansion. Mrs. HM just lives there out of his good graces.

One Down, Three To Go

A while back, I bemoaned the fact that I have been unable to find certain items in the new 10Box store that replaced Country Mart. Let the record show that on Monday, I found

MICROWAVE POPCORN!

Was it on the chip aisle, where I might have overlooked it? Nope! It was on the BREAD AISLE! Funny how I have been down the bread aisle several times, yet not actively seeking microwave popcorn there. So it went unnoticed by logical Mrs. HM. 

I was actually planning to ask the cashier, for future reference, when I walked by on the main front aisle, and happened to glance over at the bread aisle. That's because I originally thought I was going to get bread, but of course that's where three employees were congregating while one put bread loaves on the shelf from a big metal cart. I had decided we could go without a new loaf, and was just looking to see if the triumvirate had disassembled, when the bright orange of the Blast O' Butter popcorn box caught my eye. Yay, me!

Anyhoo... now I only have to discover where they're keeping the canned potatoes, Puffs With Lotion, and baby corns.

I might not even look for the potatoes, because on Tuesday, I'm making a pot of vegetable beef soup, and using frozen cubed hash brown potatoes. For once, Mrs. HM is able to think outside the can...

Santa Needs A New Pair Of Shoes

Farmer H is in demand during the holiday season. He's a Santa's helper for an early childhood program. He used to only don his gay apparel for the Parents As Teachers program, and an occasional daycare. He has been down to the one "client" for years, but got a call from one of her acquaintances last week requesting his (free) services.

"I don't mind to do it. I can't give out little presents to the other one, but I can show up and talk to the kids and hand out what she wants me to. I need to get a new pair of black boots. I can't bend my ankles to fit into my old ones. I want shiny black boots. Not the dull rubber ones."

Farmer H went to Tractor Supply on Sunday. I suppose he found what he wanted, since he gave me a receipt for $37.34 for "BOOT LDS WORK BU 10." Not sure exactly what that means...

Santa is a hick! He can use those boots during the off-season, for mucking out the reindeer stalls.

The Pony Goes With The Flow

The Pony has been dealing with the heavy load of mail after the Thanksgiving holiday. Some because the workers had a day off, and some because it's been Black Friday Week, with businesses offering early deals online. AND Cyber Monday is coming...

Anyhoo... The Pony has had some overtime. He clocked out at 6:00 on Saturday evening. Then saw something as he was leaving that might complicate matters even more.

"Water main break right between the post office and the library."

"I might have been the first to report it. Or, well, to tell the manager to, since I don't have the number."

I think that's one of their mail delivery trucks backed up at the loading dock. Not sure if this break will require the water to be shut off. That might be a problem for the bathrooms, and of course for the drinking water. Not sure if this will affect The Pony's house a few blocks away. That last break affected the post office, but not The Pony.

Still Living In A Man's World

Farmer H was kind of on his best behavior for Thanksgiving. However... he's still a man, living in a man's world. You know, that entitled world where other people, 99 percent of them being women, do things for you that you don't want to do, because it's beneath your station.

The Pony and I were still chatting and chowing down on our main courses when Farmer H finished and was ready for the first of his three desserts. He got up from the table and walked around the counter to get it out of FRIG II. But not before first shoving his empty plate and salad bowl down the table, to his left, and out of his way for dessert-feasting. Because, you know, carrying his empty plate and bowl to put beside the sink, or even setting them on that kitchen counter an arm's reach away, would have been a chore much too tedious for a MAN.

I was having none of that! As Farmer H got up to fetch his second dessert, I called him out.

"Uh. Why are you leaving your dirty dishes on the table for ME to fetch later? There's nothing wrong with your arms. Take them to the sink."

Farmer H grunted, which is his manner of showing how displeased he is with picking up after himself. But he took his plate to where it was supposed to rest and wait for me to wash it. Saving me (but more likely The Pony) the effort of transporting it.

For our supper of leftovers Friday night, I warmed the pan of roasted vegetables on the stove. I had the slotted spoon I'd been stirring it with laying on a paper plate next to it. Farmer H's plate had been set out on the cutting block, along with all silverware he might need. But he was in charge of getting the foods out of FRIG II to spoon out his portions, and warm in the microwave.

I was back at the kitchen table, out of his way, when Farmer H came to heat his meal. I turned to look just as he was up to something shady. He had placed his plate in the microwave, full of ham, hash brown casserole, and rolls. He closed the microwave door, and reached for the slotted spoon.

"Wait! What are you doing? Cover your plate so it doesn't spatter all over the microwave!"

"I was going to..."

"But you already closed the door. And you're holding the spoon for the vegetables."

"Well. I was going to use the plate you have the spoon on to cover my food."

"What then? Lay the greasy spoon on my counter, so I'll have to clean it?"

"No."

"So you were just going to hold the spoon until the microwave was done? I don't believe you. You just didn't want to lean over two feet and get another paper plate out of the holder."

"Whatever..."

Uh huh. Caught red-handed and one-paper-plated! Either way, he would have been making more cleanup work for me, whether it was microwave or counter. 

I really don't know how Farmer H's mind works. Other than overtime to make my life harder.

Mrs. HM Is Foiled Again By The Pony

I was lucky to have The Pony to help me during the last hour of Thanksgiving Dinner preparations. I had most things ready to go, due to prepping them on Wednesday. So they just needed to be slid into the oven, except for the 7 Layer Salad, which took two hours. 

I made sure to set out the Kerrygold butter so it would be warm enough to spread. I bought the big block, which fit on my butter dish on its side, but was twice as tall as it should be for the lid to fit. That didn't matter. I figured I'd wrap up what was left in the original gold foil wrapper. I folded its sides in, so as not to get butter on anything, and set that wrapper over on the counter by the stove, on top of the bag of onions that I keep there.

The Pony got everything else warmed up and set out, while I directed him from a comfortable sitting position at the kitchen table.

As we were finishing up the meal, I commented that I wished people had sliced their butter along the top of that block, rather than straight down, on the end.

"Then the lid to the butter dish would have fit on it. But that's okay. I'll just wrap it back up like I planned, if you can get me the wrapper."

"Um. What do you mean?"

"I put it over there on the counter."

"Wait! You wanted to save that? I threw it away."

"PONY!"

"I can get it out of the trash for you. It's on top."

"No! I'm not George Costanza eating an eclair off a doily on top of a magazine in his girlfriend's wastebasket." That reference was lost on The Pony, who was never a Seinfeld fan. But Genius would have caught on in an instant. Here's a 43 second clip on YouTube.  

"I thought it was trash! It was on the onions!"

"Did you throw away the onions? No. Why would I carry it AWAY from the wastebasket to put on the counter if it was trash?"

Anyhoo... I sliced the butter chunk horizontally, so it was short enough to have the cover on the dish. We had eaten enough that the two sections just fit, end to end. 

And The Pony reminded me:  "I did the same thing last year..."

Mrs. HM Is One Of THOSE People

The people who go to the grocery store on Thanksgiving Eve! I am one. At least I wasn't buying my whole Thanksgiving meal shopping list, like a few of them I saw. The parking lot of 10 Box was about 1/3 full. Unfortunately, my favorite parking spaces were occupied. So I parked next to a cart return. That's so nobody could close-park and block T-Hoe's door, and so I could wheel in a cart/walker.

Oh, no! An employee was coming to gather the carts! NOOOO!

"Hey! Could you leave one of those, and I will take it in?"

"Sure can."

"Thank you!"

Not only did she leave it, she took it out of its metal cage, and parked it beside T-Hoe where I could just walk back and start pushing. Their employees are really nice!

My mission was to get bananas, because we ran out Wednesday morning. And black olives, because I had wanted to make myself nachos on Tuesday night, but no black olives could be found in my pantry. I also enjoy black olives with my Thanksgiving meal, whether it be ham, which Farmer H requested, or turkey. I also picked up a bottle of vegetable oil, 2 lbs of Great Northern Beans, and four boxes of corn muffin mix. Guess who's having beans next week with the hambone?

I had to wait in line behind two gals with a full cart. Of course it was two separate orders. And they had their phone app coupons. One of them bought a CASE of green beans! And some of those crunchy fried onions that Farmer H just decided he liked. I'm pretty sure she was the designated green bean casserole bringer, since she also had a can of Cream of Mushroom Soup.

Anyhoo... the first gal would not move forward to start bagging, so I couldn't get to the conveyor to set out my stuff. Then they left the cart between them, rather than pushing it to the end of the conveyor by the bags. I had another gal on my heels, waiting to buy her full cart of Thanksgiving meal.

Other than that, the last-minute shopping wasn't too bad. And I won $50 on a $10 scratcher out of their left lottery machine. So life is good.

This Is What Happens When You Leave The Inmate Roaming Freely About The Asylum

Perhaps you recall that I have been troubled by a cloggy sink for about the past three months. It has been mentioned numerous times to Farmer H. Who has reacted with the same sense of urgency he displays when I tell him T-Hoe is making a noise, or has low tires, or a dead headlight. I took matters into my own hands on Friday, and bought some Drano.

I have been planning my schedule around preparing Thanksgiving Dinner. On Tuesday afternoon, I was going to use that Drano to unclog my sink. The bottle has been sitting on the cutting block for five days. I figured that after I got back from town, and before Farmer H got home Tuesday evening, I would use that Drano. It has to sit for 30 minutes, and then be flushed down the drain with hot water. Well. That's a problem in my sink, since it has to run about 5 minutes until the water is hot. So I thought I'd get out my big chili/soup/ham and beans/egg-boiling pot, fill it with water, get it to boiling while the Drano was sitting, and then pour it down the sink. Easy peasy.

Of course Farmer H had to alter his schedule on Tuesday. Came home at 1:00! I hadn't even showered for town yet. As I was leaving the Mansion at 2:00, hurrying to get to the bank before it closed, Farmer H said,

"I figured while you was gone, I'd unclog your sink."

"NOW? Of all the times you could have done it? Are you using the Drano?"

"No."

"How are you unclogging it?"

"I'll get it done."

"DO NOT USE THE TOILET PLUNGER!"

"I'll get it done."

"Stop saying that! I'm going to be cooking and washing dishes and really busy. I don't want to have to clean the sink before I can do that."

"I'll get it done."

"I DO NOT want a poopy plunger in my kitchen sink! And what about my clean dishes in drainer in the other sink? What are you going to do with them?"

"I'll take care of them, HM."

Of course the whole time I was in town, I was worried about what Farmer H was doing. That's just like him, to ignore the problem for three months, then decide to fix it when it's the least convenient time for me.

When I got home, the sink LOOKED like he'd done something to it. My clean dishes were still sitting in the drainer. There was one large blue plastic cup sitting on the side where I put the dirty dishes. When Farmer H came back in the Mansion from burning cardboard boxes by the BARn, he turned on the water in the sink as I sat at the kitchen table.

"There."

"I don't know what you're doing. The water has always worked. I can't see down into the sink."

Farmer H let it run. Stuck his hand in the stream. "There. It's hot now. And the water didn't back up."

"If you say so. I can't see it. Did you use the plunger?"

"Nope."

"Well, did you use the Drano?"

"Nope."

"What did you use?"

"Vinegar."

"Sure. You just poured vinegar down the drain, and it cleared?"

"I plunged it with this cup here."

"How in the world did you do that?"

"I ran some water in the sink, and then used the cup to push it down."

"Where did you get the vinegar?"

"Under the sink."

"That's MY vinegar! That I used to clean the hard water stains out of my water bottle and Bubba cups. and on the pans when they get discolored."

"Not the little bit in the front. A whole gallon in the back."

"That's what I use to fill the little jug. So I can lift it. You and Pony always had your own gallons of vinegar, for running through the jets of the big triangle tub in the master bathroom. But you had to use mine. Now I'll have to get more."

"I'LL GET MORE VINEGAR!"

Sure. In about three months...

Funny how the Mansion did not smell a bit like vinegar. That's usually very obvious. I hope I've not been bamboozled.

Even The Pony's Hooves Are More Dainty

Be forewarned: if you continue reading, you will hear about FEET! I tell you that, because I, myself, abhor feet. Especially the feet of other people. Except for babies. Tiny infants. The feet are my favorite part of a baby. Once they exit toddlerhood, that's it! 

I wash my hands of their feet!

When my boys were in their tweens/early teens, and took to fightin' like only brothers can do... I threatened them into good behavior. "This needs to stop right NOW! Or when I'm old, one of you is going to push my wheelchair and pull my oxygen tank through the casino, and the other is going to clip my toenails!" To which Genius would respond, "I get the wheelchair and oxygen tank!" And The Pony would whimper.

The Pony once sent my heart racing when he took off his slides while riding behind me in T-Hoe, and stretched a bare foot onto the console to PINCH MY ARM WITH HIS TOES! We are lucky I didn't crash. The Pony might as well have been found under a cabbage leaf. He did NOT inherit those fingerlike toes from me, nor from Farmer H, whose toes are even stubbier than mine.

Anyhoo... I have an issue. A pinky toe whose nail refuses to be trimmed. I am not like Farmer H, who gleefully forks over cash for a pedicure once a month. Nope. I don't want anybody touching my feet. I clip my own toenails. All nine of them. It's the left little piggy who goes WEEE WEEE WEEE whenever I try to snip it. Unlike Farmer H, I am able to reach my toes to groom them. Except for that one, which contorts itself so getting the clipper jaws on it is impossible.

Matters are not helped by the fact that this pinky toenail is more like a HOOF than a toenail! Try as I might, I cannot get that thing between the clipper jaws! I have tried from both edges. Just when I think I've got a piece to snip, the clippers twist themselves so there is no leverage to squeeze the blades together. That dang pinky toenail is growing into a point like a talon! A thick wedge with a little point at the end that is trying to curl under! Are you gagging yet?

Our toenail clippers are sturdy and silver, with handles about 3 inches long. I cannot get a good grip on them to snip. The twisting! The space between the blades not wide enough to fit my fat talon. So... I ordered a toenail clipper from Amazon.

This one had handles about six inches long. I didn't read the specs, but from the size of the hand in the picture, that's the length. And the description said it has a wider space between the blades, for seniors' toenails.

WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN???

Do the elderlies grow hooves? Nobody had told me about this effect of aging! Why would oldsters need extra-wide blades on their toenail clippers? Might as well call a farrier, with those hoof-snippers that have three-foot-long handles! Don't even get me started on Amazon's other version of toenail clippers for seniors, that looked like a selfie stick!

Anyhoo... an aid for pruning my recalcitrant pinky-toenail is on the way.

The Pony Is Still Kickin'

The Pony recovered from his sickness of Thursday, and was able to volunteer on Sunday. At 11:58, he sent me a text:

"Just finished. Did a bit under 4 hours. So I'll make $120ish after taxes."

"That's a good deal!"

"Also pretty sure I set the alarm off since the garage door was open but something started beeping when I came in through it after parking, since my Metris goes down under."

Since The Pony used his sick time for Thursday when he was off, this extra work Sunday was overtime for him. So he got overtime pay.

The main post office has an underground garage, which is where The Pony parked the Metris van that he used on the route. Not sure why the alarm went off. I am sure he's not the first person to ever do that! Possibly not even on this day, since I am sure there were others still working when The Pony was done at noon.

The Pony had plans to stop by the store for supplies to make hamburgers, and have some wine. Hopefully he didn't cook up a batch of food poisoning...

With Her Helicopter Up On Blocks, Mrs. HM's Radar Is Not Functioning

Thursday, an LLV (Long Life Vehicle) parked next to me at one of my regular errand stops. I recognized the driver as someone I'd spoken to before, who sometimes parks where I do, to have break. Once inside, with the Posty in line behind me, I said

"Hope I didn't park in your spot!"

"No, no. That's okay."

"My kid works for the Post Office."

"I know that. We miss him today."

"He's not at work??? I'll have to get to the bottom of this! I wonder if he's sick. He has migraines."

"Don't say who told you! But we really could have used him."

Well. This was news to me. Farmer H is usually my tattletale source, from driving by and seeing The Pony's car still at home. It's not that I'm nosy. I was just worried. So at my next stop, I gave The Pony a quick call.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I vomited this morning three times all over myself in the shower. So I figured I probably shouldn't go to work."

"Are you sick? Is it snot? Like from allergies?"

"No. It's from eating Little Caesar's over in Bill-Paying Town, I think. I had it on Monday and Tuesday. They just let their marinara sauce sit out at room temperature."

"Huh. Well. I hope you feel better."

The Pony reported on Friday mid-morning that he was at work. That he'd vomited again on Thursday around 3:00, and again that evening, but felt well enough to go to work. Oh, and that his poop stomach was rumbling, but he was okay. And that, in fact, he had signed up to work some overtime on Sunday, to help out, because he felt bad about leaving them so short-handed on Thursday.

"I said I could to two routes. They are long streets. And one is my neighborhood. So it won't be too bad."

That's gonna be some good work karma for The Pony. And also overtime.

An Improvement, Yet Not

I am getting used to the new 10Box store that replaced Country Mart. I don't like their cart arrangement. But the prices are definitely lower than before. Plus the store still smells new when you walk in the door.

The only down side is that some items cannot be found! I would think maybe I was just stupid, and did not look in the right place, except I've gone up and down every aisle. Here are the items I could not find on Friday.

Microwave Popcorn. I looked in both places where they had the chips, and crackers and cookies. No brand of any kind of microwave popcorn.

Canned Potatoes. I wanted some canned sliced potatoes for making soup. I'm not taking the time to cut up regular potatoes for that. But there were none. Anywhere. I went down the entire canned vegetable aisle twice. They had everything else. No potatoes. Not even in the big trough of piled cans in the produce section. Just green beans and corn and peas there.

Puffs With Lotion. Not only no Puffs, but no tissues of any kind. I looked on the aisle with the toilet paper and paper towels, where they used to be. And on the diaper aisle. And the aisle with the feminine products. No tissues! I asked the cashier for next time, and she motioned to the three aisles I'd just looked on, and said, "All I know is they're over there someplace." Unless they were on the opposite side of the store, by the shampoos and painkillers, I don't know where else to look next time.

Baby Corn. I like to have a can to add to my leftover Chinese takeout, to get three meals out of it. I found the water chestnuts and other stuff, but no baby corn. That's where it used to be. With the Chinese items.

I DID find the cubed hash brown potatoes this time. I suppose they were out a few days ago, because they were in the place I looked and found none at that time.

These items are not vital to my Thanksgiving menu, so I will put off the search until after the holiday meal and leftovers.

The Lengths Farmer H Goes To Simply To Be Contrary

Farmer H is forever ridiculing things I say, and declaring that the opposite is true. No matter what the subject, he has a better explanation. 

For a week, there has been a deer carcass beside the road down by Mailbox Row. The ribs and spine and pretty much the whole deer shape. On the way to the doctor nurse practitioner on Tuesday, I made a comment to Farmer H.

"I guess that means poachers have been out here."

"No."

"Then why is there a deer carcass here?"

"Somebody dumped it after they took the meat they wanted."

"Yeah. Poachers. They shot it, butchered it, and left the carcass. Then animals drug it out of the woods."

"No. Somebody was hunting, and brought it back after they got their meat."

"You mean they legally hunted it, drove it to town for tagging, butchered it somewhere, and then drove it back out here?"

"Yeah."

"I don't believe that for a minute! Nobody is driving their deer to town, then driving it back out here to leave the carcass."

"Yeah they do. They don't have anywhere to get rid of the bones. So they bring it back."

I beg to differ. No city person is going to take a deer to town and cut off the meat, then drive the rest back out here. Somebody killed it in the woods, didn't take it to the check-in station because they probably didn't have a deer tag, and then left the rest. Or tossed it out of their truck as they started to town. Nobody's bringing it back here! There are plenty of places closer than our Mailbox Row. They could have tossed it in the creek at the low water bridge. 

If I had suggested that town people drove their deer carcass back out here to dump, Farmer H would have declared that it was poachers!

The New And Improved Method For Irritating Mrs. HM In The Convenience Store

Just when I thought I'd experienced every method my fellow convenience store patrons could devise to annoy me... a dude upgraded his game on Wednesday.

I stepped into the Gas Station Chicken Store, and was pleased to see only one person at the counter. He was an Old Man around 60-something, in jeans and a flannel shirt, despite the 66 degree temperature. Old Man was paying for gas, because I heard Clerkie (not the favorite) ask him if he had $20 on Pump 4. He nodded.

The reason Old Man nodded and didn't speak is because he was already busy speaking to his wife on his phone. I hate it when people do that! Just put it down and do your business. Here's how it works: "Just a minute. I'm paying." See? Relatively painless, no matter what relative you are speaking to!

But that's not the worst part. Old Man was on SPEAKER PHONE! So we had to listen to the whole conversation. Me while itching to get to buying scratchers, and Clerkie while trying to move her line. Which was only Old Man and me. But you know how it goes in a convenience store. One minute you've got one customer, and the next minute there are seven lining up in the aisles.

The conversation was about somebody wanting permission to deer hunt on their property, and wife agreeing to it, but then the somebody demanding that Old Man move his trailer. Which I assumed was a camper some guys use for deer hunting, which must have been on the somebody's land, or just in the way of where he wanted to hunt. I came in on the middle of the conversation, so don't have full details. Not that I wanted ANY!

Then Wife says, "Well, I guess I'm done complaining..."

WHAT? How can someone EVER be done complaining, heh, heh!

Anyhoo... Old Man was still talking to her when he almost knocked me over turning around to put his red tickets in the box for the weekly gas drawing. See? He could have been hurt, by not paying attention to his surroundings. I'm not at all mobile. In a game of chicken, I'm going to win, because I can't side-step. My balance is not good, and I'm not quick.

Surely there can be no new way to draw my ire in a line now...

Mrs. HM Is Treated At The Utopia Clinic

It was unbelievable! Like a fever dream! Only Mrs. HM had no fever. No sickness at all. Nothing to cause hallucinations. She's lucky she didn't inflict future festering wounds on her skin from pinching herself to test whether she was awake.

Farmer H dropped me off for my doctor nurse practitioner appointment at 7:59 on Tuesday morning. I took the elevator to the 3rd floor, where there's a bathroom right next to the elevator. After making use of the facilities, which had been freshly mopped and cleaned, I took the elevator down to the 2nd floor, where my appointment was.

It was 8:05, and the window was OPEN! A cheerful young gal asked for my insurance card and ID, which I was already holding out to her. She typed in the info, and made copies. I told her I had tried to do the online check-in on MeChart, but it wouldn't take my policy number.

"Oh, that's okay. Some people can do it, but others have a lot of trouble and can't get it to go through. I'll just ask you the questions, and you can sign on that little box."

It was SO EASY! Took less than five minutes. I asked if I should make my co-pay, since there was a sign on the window saying payment was due at the time of service.

"No. This shows you don't owe anything. It's considered a yearly wellness appointment."

Can't beat THAT with a stick!

I sat down in the middle of three chairs to discourage company. It's not like they were busy. There were three more chairs on the other side of the window. At the stroke of 8:15, a nurse opened the door to the inner sanctum, and called my name. She was quite young, and very patient as I hobbled in to be weighed, and directed to an exam room.

Nursie pulled up my account on the computer. Reviewed my meds. Said she had to ask me the Medicare questions. Then asked if I wanted a flu shot, pneumonia shot, ColoGuard test, or mammogram. No, no, no, and no. 

"But I WOULD like to know what I need to do to get a handicap card to hang on my car mirror."

"Oh, we have those right here!" She grabbed a set of papers from the shelf and gave them to me. Then set about pinching a pulse-ox on my finger, pointing a thermometer at my temple, and taking my blood pressure. She was quite pleasant, and not at all anxiety-inducing. From the time she left until the doctor nurse practitioner came in, it was less than five minutes. I was looking over the handicap papers when NP came in. 

"What do I do, just fill these out and send them in?"

"I need to sign it. Of course I will do that for you!" He signed the form and handed it back. Then asked if I needed refills. Said he would schedule me for the lab upstairs for bloodwork. Listened to my lungs and gut. Looked in my ears. Made small talk for a while. He's really a personable guy. Then said they'd contact me with the lab results, and see me in six months.

From there I went back to the 3rd floor, where I was THE ONLY PATIENT AT THE LAB! Well. For about two minutes. Then five more people showed up, but I was there FIRST, by cracky!

The phlebotomist called me within five minutes. She was an older woman, though probably not as old as me. She liked both my arms, but chose the left. She was a normal conversationalist, not like those cold fish who won't speak to you while sucking out your blood. Didn't hurt a bit. 

It was 8:50 when I went downstairs to be picked up by Farmer H. I think that was the best experience I've had at a medical appointment since my old retired Army doctor left the clinic to work for the VA.

The Old Ways Are Sometimes The Best

As this pops up on the innernets, I will be cooling my heels in the waiting area at my doctor's nurse practitioner's office. It is a regular 6-month appointment, though I haven't been there for 10 months. Not my fault! I haven't been sick, and they have been renewing my prescriptions all willy-nilly without requiring me to come in. Probably has something to do with my insurance changing from high-dollar private to Medicare...

Anyhoo... the office called me a couple months ago, and said they wanted to schedule an appointment for me. Thinking my sweet, sweet live-saving meds might be cut off, I agreed. Then last week I got a reminder, in an email, with a link to confirm. Which I did, by going online to that MeChart thingy. Which wanted me to do a pre-check-in.

You know how that goes, right? You finally get into that dang MeChart, and it wants your updated insurance information. Which I dutifully typed in. THEN it wanted me to upload the front and back of my insurance card.

Sweet Gummi Mary! I am your employee??? You pay office personnel to do that! I typed in the requested information. But I stopped short of going all data-entry-clerk, and did not spend an hour trying to get a good enough phone picture of my card to try and figure out how to upload it. What in the NOT-HEAVEN? Are they trying to sell higher doses of blood pressure meds?

I will go back to my former procedure of arriving at the office 15 minutes early for my 8:15 appointment, to find that they do not open their office window until 8:15 or 8:30. At which time they will allow me to step up to that window, and hand them my insurance card, which they will copy, and type in the card information into my chart. I will then sign a confidentiality paper, and be allowed to sit 30 more minutes before being called in for a 5-minute visit with my doctor nurse practitioner. Who will suggest assorted shots, and various diagnostic tests, which I will decline. And then go upstairs to the lab to sit amongst sick people while waiting to give a blood sample.

Whatever happened to the old days, when the doctor made Mansion-calls with his little black bag, and accepted a chicken as payment?

Not On MY Watch

Farmer H spouted out one of his preposterous schemes on Sunday evening. We had plans to go somewhere on Monday morning. He always gets up early and makes a run to town under the pretense of getting gas in A-Cad, but mainly to get donuts at Casey's. But he's been driving A-Cad for two days now, because he has something in the back of SilverRedO. So I knew he had already gassed up A-Cad before coming home.

"I seen a big round trash can in the medium (no matter how many times I tell him it's the MEDIAN) on the highway, just before the bridge before the exit to go to Walmart. I'm gonna go get it in the morning. There won't be no traffic that early."

"NO! You are NOT doing that. There's always traffic on a highway. That's how people get killed. They stop to help somebody having car trouble. Or pull over for a minute to check something. And then THEY'RE DEAD! Somebody hits them! I'll give you money to BUY a round trash can! You don't need a round trash can bad enough to leave me here all alone to deal with everything by myself!"

"Well. No. I don't NEED a round trash can."

"So you're not going. RIGHT? You are NOT going to park on the highway and cross two lanes of traffic to pick up a big round trash can and carry it back across two lanes of traffic."

"Okay. I won't."

I'll kill him if he goes and gets run over on the highway just to pick up a used trash can.

Mrs. HM Sees An Invisible Car

I was on my way home from town Saturday, around 3:00, on the county blacktop road. I'd just passed the house where my mom hit a dog (didn't hurt him, she wasn't going fast, and he kept walking toward his yard, but of course The Pony made a big deal of it as a young'un). And was heading toward the corner house with a Great Pyrenes they shaved for the summer, who has been getting out of the yard lately. The sky was overcast, with the light purple-gray cloud bottoms that come before a rain.

Anyhoo... I was tooling along in T-Hoe, thinking how I needed to pat out some hamburgers for Farmer H to grill for supper. Coming up a hill, the crest which was in front of the Great Pyrenes house. Then something seemed off. 

"Huh. What's different here? The sky looks funny..."

Then the sky was coming towards me!!! Or at least a small car, the exact color of the sky!

I can't even describe that color. Except for the bottom of a thunderstorm cloud before it goes all dark. It's not gray. Not purple. But a combination.

Sweet Gummi Mary! Can you buy a more invisible car??? It's like a pastel gray/lavender color. Silver cars, and gray cars, are hard to see at dawn and dusk, but at least they have a metallic glint that makes you realize it's a car. This little Easter egg hue is quite unnoticeable on an overcast afternoon, coming out of the sky like that. It's like a stealth bomber at night!

I hope I don't see another one. Well. I guess I mean I DO hope I SEE it, if there's another one. I just don't want this color to be a new trend.

Farmer H Must Be Supervised

Farmer H cannot be left alone in the kitchen. Friday night, he wanted to grill hot dogs out on the porch, on the new griddle-type gas grill he got a bargain on. 

"I think I'll cook all ten hot dogs."

"Um. They come in a pack of eight. Just like the buns."

"Okay. Eight, then."

"I don't care if I have any. I can have something else."

"Then I'll take them to the locker for my lunches on Saturday and Sunday. I'm going to cut them open, since I can cook them on my griddle."

"Fine. I'll set out a plate and knife for when you're ready. You'll do it on the cutting block, right?"

"Yeah."

Of course Farmer H got out the pack of hot dogs and had trouble cutting it open by stabbing it with the knife. Rather than using kitchen shears to cut along the top. THEN he set the plate on the counter beside the sink, and started slicing!

"WHOA! You need to do that on the cutting block, or get the cutting board sitting there in the clean sink. No cutting on the counter!"

Once he accomplished that feat, Farmer H took 30 minutes to cook HOT DOGS! Because he only turned on one of his burners for his griddle. Then he came in, and immediately put two hot dogs in a baggie!

"You should have waited until they cooled. That's going to get all steamy and wet."

"That's why I'm leaving it sit out with the top open. I'm getting tomorrow's lunch ready."

Farmer H went on to bag up two buns. Then he got his food and went to his recliner. Leaving four hot dogs on the pan he'd set on the stove. I finally bagged up his other two lunch hot dogs, and put them in FRIG II along with his wet and steamy baggie of hot dogs. I stopped short of putting another set of buns in another baggie. He can just take them in their original bag with a twist tie.

Then I warmed the other two for my supper, after cutting excess bread off the buns, which are too bready for these small hot dogs.

I shudder to think of what might have happened had I not been sitting at the kitchen table supervising. A permanently-scratched counter, food poisoning from left out hot dogs? 

I secretly think Farmer H does these things so I WILL TAKE OVER AND DO THEM FOR HIM!

Such Odd Timing, Or Perhaps A Warning To Mrs. HM To Mind Her Business

Every afternoon, when I go to town and return home, I notice a congregation of birds sitting on the power lines in front of the prison. Hundreds of birds. Perhaps a thousand. Just regular birds, like sparrows. They are not on the other wires in town, or in the country. 

On my way home, I was wondering WHY those birds sit there. And all at once, PLOP! Some bird poop dropped right onto T-Hoe's windshield, exactly in front of my eyes. Not somewhere I could avoid looking at. But right there, where I had to look through it! Almost as if it was on cue, the second that thought popped into my head!

Lucky for me, it was not a chunky poop. Mostly liquid. So I turned on T-Hoe's window washing function, and swiped that mess off before the air dried it on the glass.

Sweet Gummi Mary! Why would one of those birds fly off the wire, spread its feathered, not-so-ample rumpus, and drop poop on T-Hoe??? That has never happened before.

I have since consulted my estranged BFF Google to see why birds like to sit on power lines. I found no satisfactory answer. The excuse seeming to be that they can sit high up, away from predators, and survey the ground for feeding purposes. I call shenanigans! Why would hundreds of birds want to compete with each other for food, when they can go off on their own and get it without a struggle?

This does not explain why all those birds choose that very wire to sit on, eschewing others that overlook more fertile fields.

The Pony Protection Plan

I was shocked to open up the online local newspaper, and see that The Pony's town was under a BOIL WATER order! Apparently, a pipe broke on Sunday night, and the news just got reported! I think the city sent out notices to those who were signed up for them.

The Pony must have signed up, because when I sent him a text Wednesday afternoon about the boil water order, he said he already knew. That work was included in it, but his house was not! So he's been filling his water jugs at home. That's better news than when the water break was right beside The Pony's house!

Anyhoo... he's only about three blocks off the area designated for boiling. I guess three blocks is as good as a mile!

I suppose seeing ladybugs every day this week is a good omen for The Pony! SOMETHING out there is protecting him!

Even Steven, Please Review Mrs. HM's Permanent Record, And Apologize

Yesterday, I revealed how I was drawn into a conversation with a weirdo outside the Sis-Town Casey's, on my way in to cash $45 of winning scratchers. What a difference that few moments could have meant!

Nobody was in line. I stepped up the the center of the counter, since three employees were milling about, and I didn't know which one might actually be working. The older guy who is usually so polite and efficient stepped over to the left register, and said he'd help me. He was talking to a young woman who might have been in training.

I said I was only there to buy scratchers, and handed him my winners. "That's $45, and I'm going to spend it back on tickets." I'd had a good day previously, raking in a total of $190. So I didn't think twice about spending the $45.

I asked for a $10 ticket, two $5 tickets, and five of the $5 crossword tickets.

Mr. Guy was talking over his shoulder to that new gal. Telling her that she could write down the numbers for him. I guess he was getting ready to go off shift, or put in some new tickets. Anyhoo... he stepped up and laid my winners in front of me on the counter, after scanning them and printing out a ticket for the total.

"Wait. What am I doing? I don't give those back! What would you like?"

I told him my tickets. He got them out of the lottery case. Scanned them by beeping his sensor thingy over the $10 and each of the two $5s, then once over a $5 crossword, and entering it in the register by multiplying it. All the stores do it this way most of the time.

I thanked him, took my tickets out to T-Hoe, and instead of writing on the back of them at that instant, I headed to the bank, figuring I could do it while waiting at the drive-thru. At the bank, I tore my string of $5 crosswords apart before writing on the back.

WAIT A MINUTE! I ONLY HAD FOUR!

I looked all around the seats. In my purse. Nowhere did I find that fifth crossword! I had been shorted a $5 ticket! I was only given $40 worth of tickets, not the $45 that I'd traded in $45 worth of winners for!

How unfair is that? For Mrs. HM, who has driven 10 miles out of her way to go back to a Casey's and return $5 that was mistakenly given to her? Who won't take a ticket found lying in the bottom of the lottery machine! Who always tells the clerk when they have not rung up a ticket!

I did not want to go back to the Casey's after the bank. Mr. Guy was probably gone after his shift. I'd have to find a suitable parking space amongst the after-school traffic. And walk back inside and stand in line and try to explain why they should GIVE me another $5 crossword. Just not worth the struggle for me. 

Somebody's register was going to come up $5 off on lottery. Let the chastisements fall where they may. 

When I got home and scratched my tickets, I won $52. So there's that...

Everyday Common Weirdo, Or A Bad Omen?

I was in Sis-Town on Monday, on a bank mission to withdraw cash for Farmer H, which he'd spent on the flip house during the month of October. Of course I stopped by the Casey's to cash in some scratchers.

As I parked T-Hoe in my favorite parking space there, next to the striped walkway, a man came around the corner of the store. I swear, for a moment I thought it was a leprechaun leaning on a shillelagh. But no. It was just a withered little man with a twisty gnarled walking stick. He might have been 55, or a rough-life 40 years old. He was holding a 44 oz cup. 

At first I thought he might be begging. I don't like being accosted. Nor even greeted by weirdos. As I stepped out of T-Hoe, scratchers in hand, Weirdo initiated a conversation. That's half the battle, you know, according to a line in Big Daddy.

"Please tell me you have a big winner!"

"Uh. No. I won $45, on these four tickets. Not great, but not bad."

"Yeah. I once won $25,000! But that was twenty years ago."

"Wow! That's better than anything I ever won."

"Good luck to you, ma'am. I hope you get a big winner."

Not that I didn't believe him. Twenty years ago was long enough for him to have spent his fortune. It just seemed odd that a guy like him hanging out beside a Casey's would have won that much. Then again, he might have been a millionaire, with his limo parked a few blocks away, itching to mingle with the common people.

At least Weirdo was gone when I came out. But then starts the tale of bad luck... 

Some Days, You're Cruising Along, Delivering Mail In The Beautiful Fall Weather, Seeing Ladybugs And Tiny Snakes... And Then The Bottom Drops Out

Poor Pony! A few hours after sharing his tiny snake photo with me on Friday, he picked up supper at Subway. And was hit with misfortune.

"Dropped my sandwich on the first bite!!!!"

"Noooo!

"It was so sad!!!!"

Even the festive pink nail polish was not enough to cheer up The Pony.

"Hope you were able to salvage part of it."

"Yeah. I ate it all. But sadly."

That is misplaced karma. The Pony should at least be able to enjoy a take-out supper after a week of work.

Sometimes, Jack Can Be A Little Devil

Jack has adapted quite well to having Scarlett join our family. Even though Farmer H originally thought Jack and Copper Jack were leading the unleashed Scarlett off the property and leaving her, I did not agree. Anyhoo... Jack has never growled or snapped at her, instead following her around, sniffing her butt, humping now and then, and romping.

At first Scarlett ignored Jack, not knowing that she was a DOG. She now interacts with him. Sometimes by growling or snapping when she objects to the humping. She also goes after his food and treats if he's not quick enough.

When I leave for town, it is Jack's time for petting. He is calm and whimpers as if talking back to me, when I hug him on the side porch, and let him put his nose under my lovely lady-mullet. I think he remembers back to when he was a pup, and we sat on the front porch pew, with him crawling around the back of my neck like a heeler/dachshund stole when I put him up on my shoulder to pet him. Scarlett has no interest in me when I leave, other than the thumb-sized scrap of bread I toss both of them. It's when I come back that Scarlett goes nuts.

Return time is for Scarlett-petting. She meets me in the garage. She knows now not to jump up on me. If I open T-Hoe's rear, she will put her feet on the bumper. This is our preferred petting method. She has stopped trying to jump into T-Hoe. She does not put her feet on me. When she leans too heavily on me, creeping to get closer, the petting ends. So she's been better about that. She gets a hug. Then I tell her to get down, so I can carry in groceries.

At the side porch, if I only have my purse and water bottle on my arm, I will pet Scarlett if she stays calm. She is always poised to leap at me. So I have to stand at arm's length, talking calmly, venturing a head pat. If she stays calm, I will go a little closer to pat her back and shoulders and rub her chest. She's always trembling with excitement, just one bad choice away from leaping at my shoulders, teetering on the edge of the porch like a circus elephant on top of a ball.

Jack stands beside Scarlett at these times, and often gets a peripheral pat if Scarlett doesn't notice. An overflow pat, if you will, as my hand slides off of Scarlett momentarily. Other times, Jack goes straight to sniffing Scarlett's butt while she's preoccupied.

Friday, Scarlett was trying SO HARD to be good. To get a more lengthy petting on the side porch. Trembling with excitement, but maintaining her position without springing at me. 

THEN SCARLETT WENT TUMBLING OFF THE PORCH!

Not at all gracefully, like when she makes a leap and I sidestep. This time, she landed half on the steps, half on the sidewalk. I asked is she was okay. She didn't answer, but came back up and got another pat. 

The cause of Scarlett's awkward ejection from the side porch was JACK! He poked her hard, with his nose, in her right haunch. Jack is a sturdy fellow. Muscular. Low to the ground, with digging toenails. He braced himself and HERDED Scarlett right off the porch! Jack used to do this with our black tuxedo cat, Stockings. Poke him right off the porch for sport, even though Stockings clung till the last minute with his claws.

That darn Jack! I guess he might be a little jealous of Scarlett these days.

The Pony's Wild Life

The Pony had good weather for working on Friday. Bright, sunny, temperature around 60. He sent me a picture at noon:37.

"Got to see a tiny snake!"

"That's the best kind of snake. Unless it's a baby copperhead, with more potent venom."

I can't see this snake's nose clearly enough to tell if it's a pit viper. Which means poisonous. I don't think it is. The pattern is not typical of the garter snakes I've seen, which are usually green, or a solid color with a stripe. 

It looks way too long to be a baby copperhead. I saw six of them one time on the blacktop walking trail out at the state park by my mom's house. They tried to bite the sole of my New Balance! So aggressive. Good thing their mouths were too tiny to chomp on my shoe!

Just one more hazard (or not) for The Pony on his job.

Mrs. HM To The Rescue

Wednesday morning, I stepped into the laundry room to do what people do in a laundry room: wash a load of towels and socks. I noticed movement through the window of the door to the back porch. It was Scarlett, with Jack sniffing at her rumpus.

Scarlett was getting a drink at the water bowl. Except she wasn't. The water bowl was FROZEN!

That was our first freeze. Good thing Farmer H had listened to my nagging, and put fresh cedar shavings in the doghouses when he came home Tuesday evening. Apparently, he had not checked the water bowl the next morning. He usually fills it from the laundry room sink, using a plastic pitcher he leaves on the back porch, on top of an old student desk that sits just outside the door.

I watched Scarlett licking the top of the ice. She was an inside dog until she came here. I'm sure she never experienced a frozen water bowl. I stepped out and took the pitcher and whacked at the ice with the bottom of it. Cracked through, so Scarlett could have her drink. 

I sent Farmer H a text about it. He said it only needed to be plugged in. We've had a heated water bowl ever since we got our first pound puppy, Grizzly, the half beagle, half chocolate lab, back when The Pony was an infant. In fact, the original heated water bowl was sitting next to the current heated water bowl. It having stopped heating a few years ago.

The plug-in cord to the new bowl was missing when I looked. But Farmer H said it was there. So I went back, and yes, it was coiled over next to the old water bowl, and I had mistaken it for belonging to that one. So I plugged it in. Water for all! Copper Jack regularly stops by for hydration, receiving a barking from Scarlett in the process. My Dear Departed Juno used to growl at him.

Anyhoo... the dogs have been frolicking in the cool morning temperatures, and snoozing in the front yard in the sun most of the day. Now they can once again quench their thirst at will.

Morning Palpitations In Hillmomba

It was a chilly Wednesday morning in Hillmomba. I sat on the short couch at 9:30, under the fleece throw that The Pony left for me when he moved to town, watching People Puzzler with Leah Remini. I mean, she's on the show. Not that she was watching with me. We are not that familiar! My superior game-playing was interrupted by a text from Farmer H.

"Looks like your Pony didn't go to work"

"Hope he's okay. Or his car isn't broken."

Of course that took my mind off of people-puzzling. I was seeing the Hillbilly-Mom-Signal in the sky! Even though the morning was bright and sunny, crisp and below freezing. The Pony must need me! Darn my disabled helicopter! 

I debated on sending The Pony a text. What if he was sick? He'd been off the day before, but I hadn't talked to him. He just finished taking an antibiotic for a previous ailment. What if he had a relapse? What if he had a delayed reaction to the antibiotic? It was one that I am allergic to. What if he slipped on his wood floor, and cracked his head open? But what if his car wouldn't start, and he walked to work. He might be sorting his mail, unable to check his phone. Or driving on his route, and shouldn't look at the phone. I didn't want to get him in trouble or distract him. But maybe he was sleeping after calling in, and his phone was on the charger...

I sent The Pony a text.

"Everything okay with you?"

Then I tried to call Farmer H, to ask why he was near Pony House. My phone wouldn't connect. Farmer H has a replacement phone ordered. I figured it was his problem. Then I tried to call The Pony, since he hadn't responded. My call wouldn't go through! I did a restart of my phone. It took a while. Then it had a box pop up that said it was notifying the server of my new update. PLEASE WAIT. While I was waiting, my phone buzzed with a text.

Now what? Did I keep waiting? Or cancel that notification thingy? It's hard living in the middle of nowhere with barely any phone reception. Though we could send men to the moon numerous times in the 1960s(!) with less technology...

After 20 minutes, I gave up. I cancelled that notification thingy. I had to find out if Farmer H discovered something, or if The Pony had responded. It was The Pony!

"Yeah! Why? Walked to work this morning, if it's Dad saying my car's at home."

"Yes. That's what he said. I thought maybe you had car trouble."

(No need to tell The Pony all my dark thoughts!)

"Nope! I just like the cold. Even my carpet was cold this morning. I need to find where I stashed my fuzzy slippers back in April!"

"I hope you have your heat on!"

"Duh! 66 or 68 usually. Just the floor always being cold."

I was so relieved. I sent Farmer H a text. Just to let him know he was wrong about always assuming that The Pony is shirking work. I'm pretty sure none of those other scenarios entered his mind.

A Simple Word Of Advice To Parking Lot Anarchists

When cutting diagonally across three rows of parking spaces, as I am driving in the arrow-marked traffic lane at the top of the parking lot, it does not behoove you to have your passenger throw up her hands to mock me when you cut in front of T-Hoe to get into the arrow-marked traffic lane.

You see, I am the one in the right, driving across the parking lot as marked, while YOU are scoffing at the newly-painted unwritten rules of driving in that lot. I am not a psychic, nor a twisted-mind reader. As far as I know, you will continue cutting across parking spaces, and not dart in front of me, requiring a brake slam.

People piss me off.