Freezer Nutrition For The Pony

The Pony has been cutting back and making wiser choices. Some of those choices include frozen dinners. Here's a particular favorite:

"It's Chicken Pesto Rigatoni. Only 430 calories I think. And somehow has 25g of protein!"

"Chicken has a lot of protein."

"Yeah! I was just shocked because that's 43% of the daily value in one thing that's only a third calorically!"

"That's why I eat a lot of chicken."

"Texture leaves a little to be desired, but yknow, it's microwave chicken. I like these for days I don't feel like properly cooking. Just to mix into the lineup."

"Yeah. It's good, and convenient."

And a better choice than ordering something delivered, The Pony agrees.

Feed A Farmer, Starve A Patient

Farmer H's minor surgery was scheduled for Thursday. I wouldn't really call it minor, because general anesthesia is involved. But as surgeries go, it doesn't compare to his neck surgery or back surgery. The Pony was tasked with driving him home, though Farmer H planned to drive them both to the hospital, which is 30 minutes north.

Since I knew the surgery was coming up, I asked Farmer H what he wanted to eat for his "last supper." I thought it might be something light. Surely you don't want to go into a surgery feeling all stuffed and bloated from a hearty meal. Or DO you? Farmer H apparently does.

"I'll be starving to death! I cain't eat past midnight. I have to be there at 10:45. The surgery is at 1:00. It's supposed to take an hour. Then recovery. I'll be really hungry by the time it's over!"

So I made generic hamburger helper for Farmer H's supper the night before surgery. It's egg noodles and a powdered sauce, to which you add milk and hamburger. I didn't have any milk, but I substituted sour cream. The skillet had a pound of ground beef. Plus I added two cans of mushrooms. It turned out well.

Farmer H didn't eat the whole thing. I divided it into thirds. That gave him a large bowl of the noodle dish. It looked like beef stroganoff. He also had two biscuits with butter. Then a Little Debbie cake and a piece of watermelon.

Right now as I type, he's out of surgery and in recovery. The Pony says he's not asking for food. He says his throat hurts. Which is understandable after having a tube stuck down there.

Somebody DID Tell Him

This week is supposedly chock full of activities for Farmer H. He has been planning ahead, telling me what each day will bring. 

"Monday I have a dentist appointment. Then Tuesday is the monthly meeting for the apartments, in my new office. Wednesday I'm going to Illinois to pick up stuff for my store. And Thursday I have my surgery."

So many activities, so little time, for WORKING ON TWO FLIP HOUSES!

Anyhoo... Farmer H came in Monday evening. With a story.

"I got to the dentist on time. I sat there waiting for my appointment. Then she come out and said, 'What are YOU doing here? Your appointment is for the 24th.' So it wasn't today. It's in two weeks! I don't know why I thought it was today."

He said, picking up the notification postcard the dentist sends out, which was lying on the kitchen table right by the door, clearly showing his appointment date as August 24th.

I sure hope Farmer H is right about that surgery date...

You'd Think Somebody Coulda TOLD Me

This has been one of the most sustained heat waves I remember. I know it's hot in July. But usually we have several days between those 100+ heat index days, when temps might drop into the upper 80s. It seems like six weeks this sustained heat has settled over Hillmomba. I don't enjoy going out to get my scratchers, but I won't go without them like I would in an ice storm.

Saturday, I stopped by the Liquor Store. I haven't been going in there regularly, because often they're out of some of my favorite tickets. That's disappointing after walking in and standing in line. But I'd had several winners out of the 10Box machines, on tickets that are slow-moving. So I wanted to wait and let other people buy the assumed losers right after my winners.

Anyhoo... I got the parking space I like at the Liquor Store, the one on the far left end so nobody can park next to T-Hoe's driver's door. IT IS easier to get that space now, since the fake slot machines have been outlawed. I hobbled along the slanted blacktop next to the brick building, the heat pressing down on me like a damp quilt. Inside, there was only one man waiting at the counter. Seemed to be a problem with his card.

I stood a respectful distance back, holding my scratcher winner to cash in. The Clerk Gal was telling Customer that it shouldn't be too long. He was worried that his card would be charged twice, because he ran it through twice. She was watching her cash register monitor. He was watching the little square that shows his charges.

After about five minutes, a Boy Clerk came from the drive-through window. He asked about using cards, and Clerk Gal said they wouldn't work right now. Then they both walked back toward the drive-thru area. A young man parked in front and came through the door. I don't know if he was going to buy vapes, or scratchers. He stood beside me, rather than going through the aisles to pick up liquor.

I don't know if New Guy knew Customer, but he said, "What's the matter, man? Is it your card?"

"Yeah. Their internet's down, and it won't scan."

"Huh. That's tough."

New Guy walked back out, and I followed. He stopped to hold the door open for me.

"I'm so glad you asked! I could have been there forever. Nobody bothered to say the internet was down!"

"Yeah, I'm glad I asked."

Businesses can't even sell scratchers for cash when the internet is down, because they have to scan in the purchase to show that it's lottery. So who knows how long I might have been there waiting for nothing!

I took my business over to Casey's instead. Where I won $50 on a $10 crossword.

Oh, NO! Let's Not Weaken The Sauce!

At the Gas Station Chicken Store on Saturday, I was behind a lady buying scratchers. She turned to me, looked at the ticket in my hand, and asked if I had a big winner.

"Not real big, but $30 on a $10 ticket. So it's pretty good."

"You know, I can buy tickets from other gals in here, but I don't win. I have better luck with Fave."

"I KNOW! You don't have to tell ME about it!"

The Lady thanked Fave after the transaction, and started toward the door.

"Did you eat your eggs?"

"Yes. For breakfast. And my grandma says thanks for the tomatoes, too."

"You're very welcome."

"Oh, and good luck."

"You notice I didn't leave until you told me good luck! I always make sure of that."

Anyhoo... I won $35 that day on my Fave tickets. I was back on Sunday, the only customer in the store. After cashing in winners and getting new tickets, Fave said "See you on Thursday!" and I went out to T-Hoe to write on my tickets. I was startled to see the side door open, and Fave step out.

"I just wanted to come out and tell you GOOD LUCK. I think I might have forgotten."

"That's good! I wouldn't want that other lady to get all the good luck!"

Heh, heh. Fave must be raking it in from passing on all that good luck. She gives off positive energy, and it comes back to her in the form of tickets and eggs and tomatoes. I'm sure anybody winning a big jackpot won't forget about Fave.

Stranger In The Night

It was just before 8:00 on Wednesday night. Still light, but overcast. Pepper started baying on the front porch. It was a WARNING sound. Not his usual bark. His true hound was coming out, whatever that half may be. Jack is more of a yipper. He joined in, but Pepper's was more of an AROOOOO! There was the sound of frantic scrambling feet. Eight of them!

We were near the end of Big Brother, but Farmer H got up to go look. That's how urgent this doggy response was. Farmer H opened up the front door, and stepped onto the porch.

"Pepper! HERE, Pepper! PEPPER! Come on, Jack!"

The baying and yipping continued. Sounded like it was going farther out into the front yard/field. Farmer H stepped back inside to grab my childhood BB gun. It's old! Because I'm a really old child. Not the pump kind of BB gun. Just a lever to cock, and it shoots a single BB. We keep it there to discourage unwanted critter who try to make the Mansion their home.

I heard a couple shots go PFOOT! The baying and yipping lessened. The dogs gallumped up on the porch. Farmer H returned.

"It's some boxer dog. Brown and white. I've seen it out here before, but I don't know who it belongs to."

"Does it have a collar?"

"Yeah, it has a collar."

"So it belongs to somebody. If it got dumped, they would have taken off the collar."

"Probably. He wasn't aggressive or nothin'. Not trying to fight. Just in the yard, and ours didn't want him there. I shot a couple times, but didn't hit him."

"I'm glad they're warning us. They'll just have to get used to him. I don't see a problem if he's not trying to come up here and fight them. They're just protecting their territory."

"Yeah. They just need to leave him alone."

"At least now I know what they're probably barking at during the night. Just a dog. Not some criminal trying to break into your truck or shacks."

I guess our dogs will eventually get used to this one. The first neighbors on the blacktop road, at the top of the hill from Mailbox Row, used to have boxers. That's my best guess. They've had several over the years. It's only a mile or less from there to here. I don't know if they keep their dogs in, or let them run. I haven't seen any for a while, but that's a good thing, because it means they stay off the blacktop road. 

Deadbeat Dilemma

Because I was commanded to call the questionable collection agency by Farmer H, I did so on Friday afternoon

Before even one ring, the phone was answered by a recording. It was a man with a southern accent (so I suppose it really IS in Georgia). He stated the name of the collection agency, and said that any information given WOULD be used to collect a debt. All calls are recorded. Then he said to stay on the line for the next available operator.

Eight rings later, I got a recording that said "...JACQUELINE... is not available to take your call. Please leave a message--" I hung up. I am NOT leaving a message with my name and phone number. Nope. No way am I giving them a way to call me. They might have my number on a caller ID, but what good does that do, without a name or reference number?

I'd had my info written down in front of me. I was NOT giving my name, only saying that I was Farmer H's wife. And the reference number. I wanted to know the DATE, FACILITY, DOCTOR/ANESTHETIST, and SURGERY. If they asked me anything else, I was ready to say, "I am calling to GET information, not GIVE information."

I called at 1:34.

I called at 2:10.

I called at 3:02.

Always the same messages, and JACQUELINE unavailable. It seems odd that they have only one person to take these calls. You'd think a collection agency handling claims from providers in multiple states might be a larger operation.

Anyhoo... I am still suspicious of this charge. You'd think that if the collection agency had Farmer H's address, then the anesthesia office would also have it, and would have sent multiple statements in an attempt to collect their $40.91 before turning it over to collections.

I believe the next step will be sending a letter to dispute the charge, asking for a copy of the original bill from the anesthesia office.

Really. It would be so much easier just to pay the $40.91 and be done with it. But I don't want to risk sending a check with our banking info to a scammer!

You Don't Know If You're Being Scammed, Or A Deadbeat!

Thursday's mail contained an envelope that looked like junk mail. It had other junky companions, yet also real mail, like our monthly statements from our financial investments. Of course I open all the mail to make sure I'm not missing anything important.

This one was in a plain window envelope. With a return address in Georgia. No stamp, just a printed "First Class Mail, Presorted, Postage Paid, Mailed From Zip Code 44711, Permit No. 1377." Nothing especially remarkable about the appearance.

Inside was a one-sided paper. Thin paper. Which stated it was from a DEBT COLLECTOR!

Well. That was disturbing. We pay all our bills. WHEN WE GET THEM. Supposedly, this was a debt from an anesthesia group. I've never heard of it, but Googling showed that it has offices in several states, and one in St. Louis. Farmer H has had several surgeries over the years. We've gotten bills from doctors and radiologists and anesthetists. It's not unreasonable to think that this bill might be legitimate.

However, there was no date. No location. No doctor. No type of surgery. Just a Reference Number. And a total debt of $40.91. 

Also, details that between June 1, 2026, and now, we were charged 0 interest and 0 fees. There were payments in the amount of 0. And adjustments in the amount of 0.

Also, this collection agency is giving us until August 27, 2026, to dispute all or part of the debt. If we write them, they must stop collection until they send us information that shows we owe the debt. We can include supporting documents. They also accept disputes electronically at a website.

At the bottom is a form that can be cut off (no perforation) to send back. 

Check all that apply:

*************************************************************

I want to dispute because...

This is not my debt. 

The amount is wrong.

Other (please describe on reverse or attach additional information)

I want you to send me the name and address of the original creditor.

I enclose this amount $ _____________.

Make checks payable to: [name of collection agency]

**************************************************************

It would be so easy to write a check for $40.91 and be done with it. HOWEVER... I don't know if we owe this amount or not. We never got any bills from any anesthesia group that we didn't pay. It would be odd that such a debt got turned over to collections without multiple attempts to notify us of the bill.

Also, we've had a couple notices this year that our medical information was breached. Maybe this is just a scammer trying to get money or personal information. A check would give them our bank account number. 

I looked up the collection agency. They are not registered with the Better Business Bureau. Which AI says can be a red flag for scams. 

Farmer H wants ME to call and try to find out more info. I say they probably won't talk to me, since his name is on the account. Then again, he would be more likely to give personal information than I would. So I guess I can give it a try. JUST to get the date, location, surgery, and doctor. Then we will know if it's actually something we might owe.

There We Went Again

Wednesday evening, the news was finishing up right before I had Farmer H's supper ready. I walked past his recliner, seeing a story about the Kansas City Chiefs football team's stadium going back to its original name of Arrowhead Stadium.

"Oh. I thought they were moving to Kansas."

"They ARE. They're building a new stadium there."

"Well, there goes a bunch of revenue, lost for Missouri!"

"No. It's 3 billion dollars, and Kansas is paying."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"You said, 'There go a bunch of revenue bonds.'"

"No. I said IT'S REVENUE LOST FROM MISSOURI! From all the ticket and concession and souvenir money that people would spend, and the hotels and restaurants."

"Oh. I thought you were talking about the bonds to pay for the stadium."

"You are a lot of work!"

I think Farmer H needs a 3 billion dollar set of hearing aids.

Listening To Me But Not Hearing Me. Again.

Tuesday, I made a meatloaf and green beans with bacon and potatoes for Farmer H's supper. It's more convenient for me to make them late morning/early afternoon. Before I go to town. Then I can warm them up when Farmer H decides to come home. I don't get (quite) as annoyed like when I plan on having it ready at a certain time, and he's not here. Plus, Tthe house smells really good for the afternoon. 

I was in the bathroom changing from town clothes to Mansion clothes around 4:00 when Farmer H showed up. He was in his recliner when I came out.

"Did you smell the meatloaf?"

"I was too busy to vote today."

"Um. Okay. But that has nothing to do with what I just asked you."

"I thought you asked me did I vote?" 

[There were just a couple of amendments on the ballot]

"No... I asked if you smelled the meatloaf."

"Heh, heh! I DID smell the meatloaf when I come in. It smells good."

Farmer H really enjoyed the meatloaf. Much more than he would have enjoyed voting.

A Cold And Dark As Mrs. HM's Heart

Friday evening, I got food out of FRIG II's freezer to prepare Farmer H's supper. He was having fish and waffle fries. He was offered mixed vegetables with cheese melted on top, but turned them down. "Nah. I had vegetables for lunch." Because, you know, having vegetables twice in one day would be senseless, and only a feat attempted by somebody who DON'T KNOW NOTHIN'!

Anyhoo... that meal used up the rest of the waffler fries, but I had fish left in the bag to put back in the freezer. I opened the door, and IT WAS DARK! The light bulb had burnt out between me getting out the fish and putting it back. I told Farmer H.

"Huh. I don't have no idea where that light is. Or what size. I guess I'll have to take a look at it." Which of course he jumped up and did, right? WRONG! He kept sitting in his recliner. Then ate supper. Then came to the kitchen for dessert. Then went to bed.

The next day, I brought Pony out for a Saturday of game-playing. I mentioned the dark freezer, because I figured The Pony would be getting ice. Farmer H came home around 5:15. Went straight to the recliner.

"Dad? Do you want me to see what kind of light the freezer needs?"

"You can."

The Pony looked all around. The bulb was not visible. I'd already been looking a couple of times. The Pony pulled out the big bin that holds the ice cubes. The light was behind there. The Pony unscrewed it, and took it to Farmer H in the recliner.

"Huh. I'll have to see if I can find one."

As I type, this is Tuesday afternoon. FRIG II's freezer is still as cold and dark as my heart. Farmer H DID move that burnt-out bulb from the table beside the recliner to a cap lying in a box on the chair by the kitchen door. 

It's still there. I figure today is not the day I'll be getting light in FRIG II's freezer.

Something Has Been Eating At Me

It's my own teeth! I noticed when it happened, but I had no idea of the aftermath.

Farmer H came in Friday evening, and asked if I hurt my face. Since he was born without a funnybone, I was pretty sure he wasn't pulling that old joke where he'd then add: "Because it's KILLIN' ME!" So I said that no, I didn't think so.

"Well, your lip is all bruised."

"Oh. You mean right here? IS it? Because last night, I bit my lip inside right there. So I guess it's just showing the bruise on the outside now."

Indeed, when I looked in the mirror, it was a frightening sight. More frightening than usual!

I zoomed in close so you didn't have to bear the full horror of my scarecrow hair and wrinkly face. This is actually my left lip corner, but the phone camera reverses it when I take my own picture. It's like I'm looking into the mirror.

The Pony noticed on Saturday. We went in Country Mart that day. I went to get scratchers on Sunday. Nobody said anything to me. I'm sure they were curious. But maybe they thought I had been in a fight, heh, heh, and didn't want to take a chance on me opening up a big can of whoop-rumpus on them!

Anyhoo... it's not like I was even eating something good when this happened. Just an apple. A nice crisp red Sugar Bee apple. Oh, and since then, with the swollen area, I have chomped down about a dozen more times. No wonder it's taking a bit of time to heal.

I'm not letting it curtail my activities. Those scratchers aren't going to buy themselves.

The Gong Shower

The Pony was coming out Saturday. I got ready early to drive to town and pick up bananas, The Pony, and Chinese food. It was about 8:20 when I turned off the shower faucet.

GONG!

What in the Not-Heaven? What WAS that? Not a noise that I've heard around the Mansion. Not recently, anyway. Yet it sounded somewhat familiar. I ran through a list of possible sources. 

Was that the front doorbell? It hasn't worked for over 10 years. Farmer H never remembers to put a battery in it. We don't get random visitors. It's a private road. The salesmen don't sneak up in here anymore, and the delivery people just leave stuff on the porch. Besides, the doorbell has two tones. DING and DONG. This wasn't quite a DONG. After I got dressed (thankfully, to anybody who might have been driving by), I looked out the front door. There was no note or package.

Was it something from my phone? My phone has never GONGed. It has a tone for incoming texts and emails. More like a PING, with an accompanying BUZZ for texts. That definitely wasn't it. Still, I checked my phone, which was lying beside the sink, and there was nothing on it.

Was it some sound from the pipes? I've never heard that before. Sometimes a GURGLE after Farmer H has had the water turned off for something.

Was it from something falling on a hard surface? Only the bathroom and laundry room have ceramic tile. The rest of the Mansion has carpet, or linoleum in kitchen and second bathroom. Nothing was out of place.

Was it the dogs doing something on the porch? Did Pepper whack his head on one of the giant metal wagon wheels that I detest? Such a noise would surely have rendered him unconscious, and there were no dogs on the porch when I looked out.

The Pony came out, and we discussed scenarios. The Pony also went to push the front doorbell, and only silence resulted.

"Could it have been this bell hanging by the kitchen door? Here, I'll clang it." CLANG! "Was that it?"

"No. The pitch was lower. And there wasn't the vibrating sound. Just a single GONG!"

We may never find out. It's almost as if whatever used to play tricks around here knew that The Pony was going to return...

So Capricious, The Universe

I had a plan on Friday morning. I know it takes me three hours to go through my leg pump and shower routine. I had checked the program guide to see what would be on TV while I was captive in my recliner for an hour. There was a good crime show on at 10:00, about a kidnapped 12-year-old boy.

My timing was impeccable. I had put in a load of laundry before the shower, and switched it to the dryer after. I was into my leg pumps, all plugged in, at 9:56. I reclined my OPC (Old People Chair). Turned on the pumps. I was watching the beginning of my show, when they introduce the victim and the suspects. At 10:01, my show stopped. There was a notice on the screen that said COMPLETE SIGNAL LOSS, due to weather.

The Universe, it seems, also had impeccable timing. All that effort for nothing! I picked up my phone to check Show Me Cash numbers for The Pony's draw ticket. The MOLottery app started to load, but went nowhere. Just the screen showing that it was MOLottery. I couldn't close it out to do anything else. I figured my internet was down as well. But I couldn't close this screen. Couldn't shrink it. No way to get to anything else, such as to call The Pony or send texts. A restart would also lock up with a firmware reporting thingy that takes forever on a good day.

Well. I was reclined and pumping, with nothing to entertain me. I figured I might as well have a nap. But I couldn't fall asleep. Time ticked slowly. At 10:16, the TV showed that DISH was acquiring signal. It finally finished. Then it was loading the program guide. THEN my show came back. I was able to see the last half hour. Still, you're not as invested as if you'd been given a peek into the lives of the people at the beginning.

Seeing how The Universe was being cantankerous, I was prepared in the evening. I had checked the futurecast radar, and knew that a storm was likely to hit us between 8:30 and 9:30. That's usually when I'm having my supper, and watching YouTube channels. So I got my own supper ready right after Farmer H's. I was sitting down to eat by 7:15. Finished by 8:15.

At 8:30, Farmer H went to look outside. While he was on the porch, the TV went off. As did my internet. No problem! I just played some solitaire. Farmer H went to take a shower and go to bed. I heard the TV come back on at 8:55. I started getting ads during solitaire, so I knew my internet was back.

But wait! The Universe could not be outsmarted. An alert blared from my phone. Our area was under a tornado warning. I went to the living room to search for a TV meteorologist. Found one! She had the radar, showing the leading edge of the storm with rotation. And said it would be in Sis-Town in 16 minutes, and Hillmomba in 8 minutes. I called The Pony, who does not have network TV. The Pony said the town tornado sirens were going off.

Luckily The Pony found an app with a local weatherman and radar. And kept me informed, because MY TV WENT OFF, due to weather.

We both survived the storms. So I would say that we both won over The Universe.

Stay Away From Ham-Handed Farmer H

If Farmer H was a Seinfeld character, he would be Poppy. You'll understand why after you finish reading.

Thursday evening, Farmer H got home around 5:30, just as I was getting my soda and cheese and pickles ready for scratching my lottery tickets. He went straight to his recliner.

"Whew! I'm tired. What's for supper?"

"Hot dogs and chips, and a sliced tomato if you want."

"What happened to the shrimp and fries you said I could have a couple days ago?"

"That will have to be Friday, or I'll miss the Big Brother live eviction. They take too long to cook, and you just now came in, and I'm not stopping my tickets now."

Farmer H usually asks for hot dogs. Clamors, in fact. But because I said that's what he was having, his oppositional-defiant disorder kicked in. 

 "I guess you could have a ham sandwich instead. But you can make that for yourself, so you probably won't want it." (Reverse psychology! Of course telling him he wouldn't want it would make Farmer H want it more.)

"Okay. I'll have ham. I'll get it here in a minute."

I sat down at the table with my scratchers. About a half hour later, Farmer H came to the kitchen. I had set out a paper plate, paper towel, spear pickle, the loaf of bread. Plus I had put the package of wafered ham and the lone slice of pepper jack cheese on the top shelf of FRIG II where he could find them. Farmer H set about making his sandwich. I sensed him out of the corner of my eye. Then I turned to watch. He was stuffing the little bit of ham that was left back into the package.

"Um. I don't think I want that ham. You've had your hands all over it, and I know you didn't wash your hands."

"Yes I did."

"WHEN?"

"When I come in."

"No you didn't. You went straight to your chair."

"Oh. Well. I meant to go to the bathroom to go pee."

"Ha ha! That doesn't mean you'd wash your hands!"

"Whatever."

"And I know you were spraying pesticide all day, because Pony said so, and you gave me the bill for it yesterday."

"I washed my hands since then!"

"REALLY? I can't imagine where? Did you wash them while you were watching the porch get built on Lap House?"

"Whatever. There's just a little bit of ham left. I might as well eat it."

"Please do! I don't want it after your hands were on it."

Farmer H put the extra slices on his plate. Then threw the package away, and went out the laundry room to the back porch, where he likes to pee through the rails like a savage. He came back in, grabbed a Diet Mountain Dew from FRIG II, and picked up his plate.

"I KNEW IT! You just peed, and didn't wash your hands! Enjoy licking your pee fingers."

"Whatever."

"In fact, I imagine you are singlehandedly the cause of that cyclospora diarrhea that's spread to 40 states, and not the Mexican lettuce!"

"I might be..."

If you're not a Seinfeld fanatic, here's the reason I imagine Farmer H to be the Poppy character. A little :52 video on YouTube.

Did I Break It ALREADY???

Wednesday marked one full week since my breakup with graduation from OT. One week of being on my own, using my leg pumps daily to replace the 45 minutes of trained leg massage I had been getting twice a week. What could possibly go wrong?

The leg pumps themselves are fairly simple, if you've been given a demonstration by the sales rep, and a couple of crucial tips from your occupational therapist. You pull on the shorts, then the legs. Zip them up so they are snug but not tight. Then plug in SEVEN hoses to the pump, turn it on, and start your hour of treatment.

Here's a picture of the controller/pump. I have it turned on, because there was a glare on the screen when it was black.

OT had told me that one of the #1 hose slots would be blocked off. #1 is for the shorts, which only have one hose. Each leg has three hoses, all coming out from the same hole, which get plugged into their corresponding numbers. They lock in, and you're ready to start.

There they are, all plugged in, in the middle of a session. It doesn't matter which leg's hoses plug into the top or bottom. You can't see it here, but each of the hoses has a number on the connector. It might look like the numbers, but that little white imprint on top of each is just a LOCK sign. They snap down as you put on the duck-bill-looking blue parts, top and bottom. Two clicks.

Anyhoo... on Wednesday, I was all laid back in my OPC (Old People Chair), about 15 minutes into the session, watching TV. There are pockets in the leg sleeves that inflate in a sequence. Like a little ring of squeeziness that pulses up the leg to the trunk/belly area covered by the shorts. The shorts actually start first to clear a pathway for the leg fluids that will be coming. Then the thighs to trunk. Then calves to thighs to trunk. And around 15 minutes in, the feet start. It's actually relaxing. A couple times I've fallen asleep. The pump shuts itself off when the 60-minute cycle is complete.

Anyhoo... on Wednesday, I noticed that my left foot had begun the contractions, but the right did not. Huh. What wasn't normal. I squinted to see if the right foot was blowing up the little air pockets. I didn't think so. OH NOOOOO! I've only had my leg pumps for two weeks! Surely I hadn't broken anything. I'm very careful in putting them on, taking them off, making sure the hoses don't get caught in the moving recliner, and putting them away in a box when I'm done.

Of course I was fretting. But I didn't want to pause. Nothing was hurt. I could finish the cycle, then worry about what was going on. The contractions go faster through the cycle towards the end. With about five minutes left, I noticed a pattern. When the left foot started contracting, the right calf did the same. Then when my right foot was contracting, the left calf contracted.

AHA! The right leg seemed to be in the normal sequence, yet the left leg started at the calf, skipped to the foot, then skipped to the thigh. I had solved the mystery! I must have plugged in the hoses wrong for the left leg.

Indeed, when I was finished, and unplugging the hoses, I saw that I had Hose #3 in the #4 slot, and Hose #4 in the #3 slot. The next day I made sure they were correct, and everything was back to normal. Whew! That was a relief.

If I'm ever surveyed about what the company could do better, I would suggest putting the numbers on the hose connectors on both sides, so they're more visible. When I'm sitting and plugging in, I can't see over the top to where the numbers are located on those blue connectors.

The Pony Is NOT A Long-Distance Physician

The Pony sent me a worried text on Monday afternoon.

"A friend in Germany is at the hospital with suspected rhabdo. [rhabdomyolysis] Ughhh I wish I'd been more specific that it wasn't a general worry when I'd been warning her that she might've overdone it and been hurt."

"Oh no! I've heard of football players getting it."

"She'll be fine since she's there, but it would've saved a bunch of time if I'd pointed out about being weak and sore. It was a 6-7 on the pain scale when we were talking, but now while she's waiting at the hospital it's a 7-9 after the swelling started. She went to the hospital when she had the dark urine symptom."

"I'm glad she's there now."

"Yeah. Me too. She's been working on exercising and did some overly-ambitious ones a few days ago and had the soreness getting worse, like to the point of spending the night at a friend's place instead of walking home yesterday."

"At least she's in the best place now to recover."

"She'll be fine now that she's there. Just the longer it takes for them to actually treat her. The nurses doing intake didn't seem to know what it was. But she'll get seen relatively soon."

"Did she say that's what she thought her symptoms were?"

"She says she did, yeah."

 "It might be a triage thing. Maybe somebody else with a heart attack, or chopped off a finger."

"I mentioned too that not getting rushed in is a good sign, generally."

"I'm sure she'll be okay."

"Yeah. I'm just worried. Trying not to be too harsh on myself for not saying it sounded like it could be something really serious sooner, when I first had the thought."

"You can't be a long distance doctor. She's where she needs to be right now. So that's a relief."

"Yeah. I know! Just should have mentioned it existed since most people don't know."

"Yes. It's not the first thing you'd think of."

"I knew from papers and people at college. Plus as a warning from someone to look out for with going from low activity to really high activity like after the broken ankle or when I started at the post office."

An hour later, there was an update:

"It's definitely rhabdo, but her doctor said it's nowhere near the worst case scenario. Going to be kept in the hospital overnight. She has enough charge on her phone, and her friend can bring her anything she needs if it goes longer than that."

"That's really good news!"

"Yeah. It's a big relief."

The Pony stresses over things like this. Misfortunes of friends that are not anybody's fault. Sometimes, I just have to say, "No matter how much you'd like to help, you can't save the world."

HM's Rumpushole Magnet Makes Her Grumpy

The oppressive heat of the past month has put a damper on Mrs. HM's sunny Pollyanna outlook on life. I have been a bit cranky(er). I do not suffer fools (Farmer H) nor rumpusholes (everyone else in Hillmomba, apparently, save The Pony and Fave and OT) gladly. While I have been able to refrain cutting them with my sharp tongue, they still bear the slices of my honed typing fingers.

Monday it was 101 actual degrees, with a 115 heat index. Stepping out of T-Hoe was like stepping into an oven. Of course there were rumpusholes illegally parked in my rightful handicap spaces at both places I went. Can't say I was shocked...

At the Gas Station Chicken Store, it was a white minivan. I have no idea who was in it, bereft of handicap plate and placard. I did not notice a specific person in the store, though there were a couple milling around in the back by the coolers. No, my attention was not on this specific rumpushole, but the one who garnered more ire.

I had to park in front of the FREE AIR hose. The sun beating down on that blacktop parking lot was intense as I hobbled around the corner of the building and under the roof over the gas pumps. A man was screwing on his gas cap at a pump. I only noticed him out of the corner of my eye. He was heading towards the door, but I got there first. He was a couple steps behind, as the door I shoved open behind me for him as a favor was not grasped at the time I entered. 

I stepped over to stack of beer cases that hold the red-ticket box for the weekly gas drawing, and faced the counter. Obviously waiting my turn. A man was putting his card away after paying.

Rumpushole came through the door. He looked like that actor in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. The customer who wants a refund because it was not the best breakfast he ever ate. The customer who gets Brad fired from his job. (YouTube 1:46). Except he wasn't wearing a suit, just jeans and a t-shirt.

Other Checker looked up to help whoever was next. I pointed to a guy standing by the counter with two sodas sitting in front of him. "He was next." The guy said, no, he was waiting on someone. As I took a step to get to the counter, RUMPUSHOE DASHED IN FRONT OF ME!

"I'm just going to pay for my gas."

He looked at me like, "What are YOU gonna do about it?" Just that kind of challenging look. I gave him the teacher stinkeye, left eyebrow raised. Like, "Seriously, dude? That's a dick move, butting in front of a crippled-up old lady." But neither of us mouthed what our eyes were saying. I shrugged. Not a "Whatever" shrug, but a resigned shrug. A "Can't fight The Man" kind of shrug. Though I would have loved to smack Rumpushole up the side of his balding head.

Rumpushole then turned to belly up to the counter. I was disappointed in Other Checker for serving him. I've seen her put plenty of people in their place, by saying, "There are other people ahead of you, you'll have to wait." Even though she's never done it for ME. Perhaps she mistook my shrug as agreement for Rumpushole to go ahead. Rumpushole paid for his gas and left. He had some kind of accent. Maybe German. 

Wow. He must be SO important. IN HIS OWN MIND! Important enough not to wait his turn like a normal person. It's not like there's an express lane for gas only. When you do business at a convenience store, you sometimes get inconvenienced. Unless you make your own rules, of course. He is a prime example of what Genius calls an Antisocial Monster.

I hate it when people say, "I'm JUST going to pay for my gas." (Or ice cream or soda or hemorrhoid cream, heh, heh!) Why not just say what you're ACTUALLY doing! "I'm just going to cut line."

You know, just in case somebody else might think they had permission. Which I would have granted, had he only asked. I've done it for other people even when they DIDN'T ask. I don't like self-important men taking advantage of old ladies.

Real Tomatoes

Farmer H's "tomato guy" came through on Sunday. Seven tomatoes, from his garden. Farmer H forgot them! He had stopped by the senior apartments on the way home, and then sent me a text that he was going back down to his shop (20 minutes) to get them, and then back home (30 minutes).

Now those are REAL tomatoes! They felt all dusty, and some still had dirt clinging. I don't wash them until we're ready to eat one, because I think getting the skin wet might hasten their spoilage. 

Farmer H had one with his supper of hot dogs and chips, and I had one with my leftover Chinese Chicken and Broccoli. They tasted like REAL tomatoes! 

I hope Farmer H's tomato guy has a big garden!

100-Degree Temps Thaw HM's Cold, Cold Heart

You may recall my dislike for charity-seekers setting up outside of businesses I frequent. They rub me the wrong way. Just last week, I drove off the Casey's parking lot because a middle-aged man had set up a table and a shade tent on the sidewalk between the handicap parking space and the door. Nope! I'm not going to try and walk a tightrope along the edge of the sidewalk to get around him. And I can't just step down and back up with these old complainy knees.

I've donated a dollar to the old man collecting for the Knights of Columbus Tootsie Roll drive for people with intellectual disabilities. But only because he was sitting up against the front wall of the Gas Station Chicken Store, and wasn't pushy. I didn't even take his Tootsie Roll!

I ignore the table of unknown merchandise with three beggars that is often on the far side of the Sis-Town Casey's door. They call after my back as I leave, but I just say, "Not today." I have no idea what they are collecting for. I was particularly annoyed with young baseball players and their moms, taking up the entire sidewalk in front of the Sis-Town Save A Lot, asking for donations to fund a trip to the state tournament. AND I was not pleased the day I saw a tweenager hanging around the front of the Liquor Store selling stuff. That is not an appropriate place for her!

Anyhoo... I must have been addled by the heat on Friday evening. It was SO HOT. I only wanted to dash into 10Box to the lottery machine. I got one of the handicap spaces nearest the door, on the left side. Between me and that door was a young black dude with a TV tray set up. I couldn't tell what was on it, but it was stacked neatly. He was maybe late teens, looking hopeful, but not accosting people as they walked by. I figured I might see what he had, but on the way out, because I wouldn't want to carry anything while scanning in my winners at the lottery machine.

As I left the store, a chubby bald 40-something man was talking to The Dude. It gave me time to pause and look at the sign. It said something about "Young Enterprisers" or something similar. It made me think of the movie Risky Business, where Tom Cruise was working on a project for Future Enterprisers. 

Anyhoo... after the man bought something, I stepped up and said, "What have we got?"

The Dude described his three items, holding up one of each as he did. "I have Chocolate Turtles for $20, and Caramel Apple Candy for $20, and Cookies for $10."

"Oh. I've never seen that Caramel Apple Candy. But my husband would really like the Turtles. I know that for sure. I'll take one of those." I handed him a twenty (from my lottery money!), and he thanked me.

We called them Turtles, because that's the common candy like this which contains pecans rather than cashews.

I don't mind donating to people who are making an effort, not just socializing then pouncing on each person who walks by. The Dude had his merchandise in order. It was like school fundraiser candy. You know it's not worth the price, but I'd always buy something from any kid who came up to ask me. I'm sure The Dude had the store's permission to set up there. They used to have weekends where they'd host a group to carry out bags for tips. I'm pretty sure it was this organization.

I don't begrudge giving The Dude my lottery money. But I made sure Farmer H knew I bought him that candy out of MY money, heh, heh. Farmer H loved the candy. Despite it being in the heat, it was just fine when Farmer H opened it a couple hours after I brought it in the Mansion.

The Truth Is A Stranger To His Tongue

I called my bank's automated phone line Friday, to balance my checkbook register. Everything checked out just right, except for a debit charge of $66.25. It was on Wednesday. I had made several transactions on Wednesday, but mine were all accounted for. This $66.25 was still "pending," so I couldn't check on that specific amount to hear WHERE it was charged.

Of course I knew it had to be Farmer H. I did NOT know that there would be several parts to this interrogation. Good thing I pay attention to details.

When I left for town, A-Cad was missing from the garage. That was odd. Farmer H always drives SilverRedO, unless he's going to the doctor up north, or down south in Casino Town. Not just to run around town and to his SUS2.5 on Fridays. I didn't see any flat tires on SilverRedO. When he got home, I asked about it.

"Why did you drive A-Cad today? Is something wrong with your truck?"

"No. I still had the guns in there that I got from my supplier in Illinois. So I was taking them to my shop."

Then I asked if he had used the debit card for $66.25. I didn't mention the date.

"Oh. Yeah. That was for gas in the Acadia. For me and Pony to go to the lottery office and cash in your tickets."

"Okay. That was last week. This was on Wednesday."

"Oh. It was for me to go down to Casino Town to my endocrinologist. But I'd also used up gas in the Acadia for your lottery."

"Huh."

I let that info simmer for a while as I scratched my lottery tickets, then made Farmer H's supper. Then a light bulb appeared over my VALedictorian noggin.

"Hey. You said you got $66.25 of gas in A-Cad for the lottery trip, and your doctor trip to Casino Town. But you didn't take the Acadia to Casino Town. You were in your truck that day. I remember, because I was talking to The Pony about it being the hottest day of the year, and I didn't want your truck to break down. BUT I know you took the Acadia to Illinois on Wednesday, because I asked what you were driving, and I gave you the new insurance card for the Acadia. AND you just said that your guns were still in the Acadia from your Illinois trip."

"Well. Yeah..."

"So that gas should not be charged on our debit. It's your responsibility, because it's for your business."

"But I spent MY gas money in my truck, going to the doctor. And the lottery trip DID use up gas in the Acadia..."

"Which is in the Acadia to be used for trips like that to the lottery. Not for your business trips."

"Well, it woulda got put in the Acadia for my doctor trip if I drove the Acadia. I just drove my truck that day. So it's all the same."

Hmm. If it's all the same, why such a roundabout story? And why didn't Farmer H tell me or give me the receipt, instead of waiting for me to find out by listening to the charges on the bank's automated line?

This Circus Might Need Another Ring

The waiting room at therapy on Wednesday was wild. I was only inside 13 minutes before I got called back, but my nerves were frayed. There are many services offered here. Physical therapy for those who need rehab after injuries. Occupational therapy like my lymphedema treatments, and services like speech and behavior modification for kids. The waiting room is always packed just before appointment times. Since mine was usually at 1:00, right after lunch, it was a full house.

The room is rectangular. About 10 feet by 20 feet. As you walk through the front door (hopefully avoiding being whacked by that automatic left door) there is a row of three chairs against the right wall. A row of five chairs backed up to the front wall. A double row of back-to-back chairs (five in each row) down the middle. That's all the seating. The receptionist is behind glass at the left end. The door to the treatment rooms where I go went is on the back wall. The door to the workout machine area is on the right wall.

It's a problem when people bring companions. Not a big deal if it's their first time. They don't know any better. After that, it's just somebody taking up a chair, who doesn't need to be there. A parent is required to stay with each kid. So two seats are gone right there, unless the kid is a lap-sitter. This one old man always brought his wife. I'd think they could stand to be separated for an hour a day, but they didn't think so. Then there are the folks with multiple kids. Or the mom that brings grandma along to keep her company while the kid is in treatment. Sometimes it's standing room only until a therapist comes out and calls a name.

Anyhoo... on Wednesday, I entered at 12:45. I do that so I can get a seat on the row facing my treatment door. Then my back is toward the rest of the room. It's luck of the draw who ends up sitting by you. I'd try to get a space on the end, by the receptionist. That way, I'd only have ONE person sitting beside me. And I wasn't in the middle, splitting up chairs where a couple couldn't sit. Because most single people would take a chair while leaving an empty one between us. 

Anyhoo... on Wednesday, there were already four people inside. They must have been dropped off before I got there, because I didn't see anybody go in, and I was the only car in the patient lot. An old man was in my end seat. He got up for the bathroom as soon as I came out. So I left a chair, and sat in the middle. I didn't want to be a weirdo sitting right next to his seat, with others empty, when he came out.

Well. That old man didn't come out for about ten minutes! That left me alone, in the middle chair. A lady with a 5-year-old boy checked in. She sat in the old man's seat. Her son refused to sit in the chair by me. Most adults will take that chair, and put their kid on the end. Not this one. She put her purse there, and let him prance around in front of it. He was actually a polite little boy, soft-spoken. He kept asking what was for lunch. Then what was for supper. He said they needed to go to the store to get his "special" foods. That made me curious. Until she asked him, "Like what?" and he said, "Pizza. And hot dogs."

A lady with an infant in a carrier checked in, and sat at the chair on the far right of me. The old man came out of the bathroom, and had to walk to the back to find a chair. The little boy and his mom got called back to treatment.

A lady in an ankle cast, struggling as if it was her first time on crutches, checked in, and sat in the old man's seat on the left end. I suppose maybe she was there to learn how to walk with crutches. I can't imagine what else she could have done that day.

The seats behind me had been filling up with random people who didn't seem to be a problem.

A lady came in with four (!) kids, all around seven years old. She told them to sit in the three chairs along the end wall by the door. Then she paraded to the check-in window. WITH A DOG! A big long-haired German Shepherd dog, wearing a Service Dog vest, with a handle. I don't know what kind of service. The lady appeared to have sight. She went back to sit with her four kids.

A lady came in with a red-haired toddler around three years old. I've seen her there before. The lady sat down right next to me, on my right, by the infant mom. Li'l Red made a beeline for the baby. "Yes. It's a LITTLE baby, isn't it. No. You can't touch it." Li'l Red was reaching into the carrier, and had to be pulled away. Red Mom put her on her lap. Where Li'l Red started to scream at the top of her lungs. A scream that pierced my very soul. "Oh. You're vocal today, aren't you?"

A woman came in with a hoodie-wearing tween, who was awed by the dog as she walked past. "Ooh. Is that your service dog? Can I pet it?"

"No! You're not supposed to!"

Well. It was a polite request. A nicer response might have been to say, "No, I'm sorry. The dog has a job to do." Or someway explain how service dogs are working dogs, and not to be distracted.

Meanwhile, Li'l Red was still going strong. Several physical therapists came out to call their people, and had to repeat themselves. Then, miraculously, OT was walking through, saying, "HM? Are you ready?" as she always did.

When I got back in the treatment room, I said, "I have never been more ready in my life!"

"Oh, no! I saw it was 1:01, and I thought, 'I better get out there!'"

"No, I didn't mean that. It was just the SCREAMER sitting right next to me. And the scariest looking service dog I've ever seen in my life. Though it WAS wearing a vest saying it was a service dog. But I guess anybody could just order one of those off the internet."

"Yeah. We had a teenage girl come in her saying her dog was a service dog. It was jumping on people and trying to get through the reception window. We have to be really careful what we ask. You know, we can't ask anything about why she NEEDS a service dog. Finally, after a few visits, she admitted that it was just her dog, and not trained to be a service dog. So she stopped bringing it. Then we had an old man with a little dog. We knew it wasn't a service dog, and he never said it was. But we let it go. Because it was so tiny, and not a problem."

I will really miss OT, but I WILL NOT miss sitting in that waiting room.

Stick A Fork In Me

I'm done! But before you go jabbing me with those tines, let the record show that I mean figuratively to stick a fork in me. Not literally!

Wednesday was my last day of leg therapy. I have been released! Or as OT said, "Now that I kicked you out!" We both agreed, as before, that "graduation" was a better term. OT even said that I could be VALedictorian! Of course it was a response to my direct request. But she proclaimed that I was one of her best students. 

As I was walking out the door for the last (!) time, I said, "I really wish I had a band playing Pomp and Circumstance."

"Sorry about that. I didn't even print a certificate! Sometimes we give them to the kids."

Hm. Does that mean I'm childish? I prefer to think not!

I was given a two-sided page of instructions on how to manage my velcro wraps and leg pumps. OT's email (and she took mine) for when six months go by and I need a new set of velcro compression wraps. I thanked OT for teaching me all about this condition. She said, "I tell people I can only give information. I can't teach compliance. That's why you have done so well. You did everything I told you."

Indeed. Final measurements showed that my right knee had reduced 8 inches in circumference. And the left knee slightly more. OT was quite pleased with her handiwork. And I with my "new" legs.

OT said that I should use my leg pumps for a couple months, and then I could try using them every other day. If that was working, I could try twice a week, and then maybe once a week. If the swelling started to return, then go back to the schedule where it hadn't. That was good news, since the routine is quite time-consuming. The velcro leg wraps are non-negotiable. I must use them, all the time. I'm fine with that.

I only had one regular appointment left, which was for Monday. OT said I could tell the receptionist on the way out that I wouldn't need that appointment. The receptionist was surprised.

"Done? You mean DONE, done?"

"Yes. All done. I'm graduating, heh, heh!"

"Okay. I'll mark that down. I wish you the best."

"Thank you! You've been so nice. I appreciate it."

With that, I walked out into the heat, after my very last appointment, at 1:30 (half the usual time), and now left ready to fend for myself. (!)

Sit A Mile In My Shoes

My "office" is now the kitchen table, since I don't venture down the 13 rail-less steps to the basement where my real office is located. I spend about a third of my day there, innernetting, record-keeping for the flip houses, paying bills, and scratching lottery tickets.

You may recall that Farmer H had put new feet on my kitchen chair. Slippery feet! They got a little better once the newness wore off. But then I lost a foot! The right front chair leg apparently fractured a foot, and then it fell off. Like the screw that held it in the leg sheared off. This made my chair wobble. Three legs the same length, and the fourth an inch shorter.

I told Farmer H that my chair feet needed fixing. Just a new foot would suffice. Get rid of the teetering. Of course he didn't believe me, and went to the kitchen to look for himself.

"I'll have to get more feet."

That was about two weeks ago. The broken foot is still lying on the table, where Farmer H left it, at his seat at the table. He moved his chair over to my position. It doesn't wobble. It doesn't slip. It has another problem. Farmer H's chair had the older generation of feet. The ones we changed out because they mar the linoleum floor, leaving dark spots. Not just spots. The area is about the size of a dessert plate. At each chair foot.

A couple days ago, I told Farmer H that his chair was leaving black marks all over the floor.

"Look what the floor is doing since you moved your chair over. It's all black from the feet."

"That ain't from my chair. It has white feet on it."

"The bottoms of them aren't white! And they're not slippery. They're the old feet. If they're not making those marks, then what IS?"

"It's your shoes!"

Farmer H pointed to my navy blue CROCS, which I've had for at least four years.

"I don't think so! Do I have FOUR FEET? That I squat on to leave those four areas of black?"

Farmer H had no answer for that, other than to shake his head (like I DON'T KNOW NOTHIN'!) and walk away. I'm still waiting for new feet.

Two Wins And A Loss

On Tuesday, the hottest day of the year, Farmer H had to drive to Casino Town for a medical appointment with an endocrinologist. He's been there before concerning his diabetes and testosterone, but just regular referrals for a specialist, not for ongoing problems. 

His latest dealings have been over his thyroid. There were some enlarged areas on a scan a couple years ago. The endocrinologist said the plan was to keep an eye on it, and repeat the scan in a year. There was no change then. This is the second year. Again, no changes. Farmer H said if it stays the same next year, the endocrinologist is going to forget about it, since it seems to be nothing to worry about.

Anyhoo... while in Casino Town, Farmer H went by to visit his Pawn Shop Lady. She had sold one of the bicycles he gave her.

"I made $74 on it. So I took that money to the casino, and had a hamburger there for my lunch. I lost all my bicycle money, though."

Well. That's why it's called gambling. I'd say Farmer H came out ahead for the day. His doctor report was good, and he sold a bicycle. He risked his profit with some recreational gambling, and lost. Two out of three ain't bad.

Jack Gets Peppered

I worry about my little dog Jack. He's 10 years old now. No spring chicken. He's a bit portly, because of  Farmer H over-feeding young Pepper for six months, and Jack getting the leftovers. Only Pepper is svelte and ravenous these days, and Jack should be losing his puppy weight, what with Pepper scarfing up every morsel in sight.

Jack seems to be conserving his energy. When I come down the driveway, he will trot to look over the edge of the carport, but usually does not jump down now to pursue his possum behind the house near the squirrel feeder. He watches Pepper. Pepper gets to the edge of the woods, and looks back for Jack. 

Also, as I go from garage to house, only Pepper is there to greet me. He's become more people-centric since his very special operation. He will come to be petted, though that mostly involves ducking his head, lifting up a paw, and (lightly) chewing the petter's hand.

I call to Jack that we're going to get a treat (not what's making Jack fat, I swear! Only a 1/4 slice of bread), and he comes from under the carport roof to stand on the brick sidewalk. I wonder if it hurts his joints now to scamper up the porch steps. Pepper waits for him expectantly at the top. In fact, he's reluctant to follow me to the door, he's so fixated on Jack. Oh, how sweet. Pepper needs his old buddy to come with him to get a treat.

WAIT A MINUTE!

I suspect that Pepper is actually waiting to bully Jack, playing King of the Stairs, and not let him come up! All day long, I hear thumping and yipping. Pepper wrestles around with Jack. Sometimes blocking his walk to the water bowl around the kitchen windows. Perhaps it's just Pepper's herding half that's wanting practice.

I feel bad for Jack. He's not a spry pup. Sometimes he has to snarl and snap at Pepper to get his point across. Still, I think Jack is happier WITH Pepper than without.

The Pumps, They Are A-Pumpin'

Thursday, we got the furniture rearranged, and my OPC (Old People Chair) brought up those 13 rail-less basement steps. The Pony suffered a very sore back. And hurt feelings, from Farmer H's overbearing attitude. 

Farmer H was at the bottom of the chair, and The Pony up above. Farmer H would command The Pony to lift the chair (just the base, they moved the back separately) up two steps. This necessitated The Pony leaning over to get a grip, then hoist it up while Farmer H pushed from below. Problem was that to balance, The Pony's feet had to be on the edge of the step, and the chair kept settling upon those feet. So then the chair had to be shifted over so The Pony could get free and step up two more stairs, backwards. Farmer H is quick to criticize when things don't go as fast as he wants...

Anyhoo... time ran out that evening, as we all wanted to watch Big Brother, and Farmer H needed to drive The Pony home in time to get back for the show. So my leg pumps didn't get unpacked until Friday evening. I knew what to expect, since I'd had a demonstration from the sales rep on my second therapy visit back in May. And last week, OT had given me two pointers about the controller, and the shorts.

I was amazed everything fit in the box. I have a left leg, a right leg, shorts, and a controller. The material is like a gray canvas. Like a tarp. Heavy material. It has velcro flaps over the length of it, and a zipper from knee to thigh. You get the velcro set so that it fits your leg (barely snug, not tight), then each time you can just slide your foot down in, and use the zipper. I'm still doing little adjustments with parts of the velcro, when I sense how I can feel the contractions. Which come from inflatable tubes embedded in the material. The whole leg reminds me of the shape and material of my dad's hunting gun soft cases, heh, heh. There are even handles to pull them on with.

The shorts have velcro to adjust the legs, which just go to mid-thigh. There is a zipper in front. It only has one clear plastic ribbed hose attached. Each leg has four hoses. The hoses snap onto the controller, and click to lock in. That's NINE hoses I have to connect and disconnect each time. Plus avoid tripping on or closing in my recliner. The controller has a power button to turn on, then a screen that gives a choice of which treatment. I have been told the best selection is the 60 minute leg and trunk. 

So far, I have done three sessions. It gets easier each time, though not necessarily faster. The hardest part is bending my knees to fit into these contraptions, and extract myself. The pumping is not at all unpleasant. It starts with the shorts, clearing out the trunk for lymph fluid to flow from the legs. Once all the clearing contractions are done, there's a sequence from feet to ankle, calf, knee, thigh, and trunk. Not as smooth as OT's overworked hands, but a reasonable alternative.

The second session took me 2:45. That included unwrapping my velcro compressions garments, a shower before beginning, the set-up, pumping, breakdown, and re-wrap. I imagine I can cut a half hour or so off that time as I get more of a routine.

I'm used to going from Wednesday therapy to Monday before seeing OT again. My legs seem to be in a bit better shape than usual. I don't know if it's from the pumps, or from my legs being elevated more throughout the day in my OPC than on the short couch.

I think OT will probably release me on Wednesday. Unless she wants to give it one more week before doing the exit paperwork. I think the pumps are going to work out just fine. I will definitely be using them as directed, because I want to keep all the progress that's been made with my legs.

A Different Kind Of Drive-Off

Several vehicles were at the gas pumps of the Gas Station Chicken Store on Friday afternoon, as I parked T-Hoe in my rightful handicap parking space. By the time I got inside, I was the only customer. Fave was looking out the front window.

"I KNEW they were going to drive off!"

"Was it this black truck? It's pulling around to park right here by the door."

"No. It was a van. It had several military guys. I owe them $18. I was afraid they'd drive off."

"Maybe they'll remember and come back."

"Well, the guy said he couldn't take cash. They pre-paid for their gas with a credit card. I said if the van didn't take it all, to come back in and I'd give them the money back. But the guy said he wasn't allowed to have money. Now I feel bad."

"I guess maybe that's the policy, so people don't charge too much gas and skim the money. So he didn't want to risk his job."

"Maybe. Now what am I supposed to do with the extra $18?"

"Leave it with a note for Woman Owner! So you don't get in trouble for not telling her."

"I guess all I can do is leave it in my drawer."

I hope everything works out. Fave doesn't need to be in trouble for something that's not her fault. Woman Owner runs a tight ship.

Where The (Errand) Day Takes Me

I don't really have anything to talk about today. But that's never stopped me from posting, heh, heh! I'm picking up The Pony at 1:30 for Errand Day, which was thrown off by the trip to cash in the winning scratchers before they expired. We're a day late, and $2000 richer.

Anyhoo... The Pony has a friend coming in from out-of-town, for an afternoon/evening visit. So doesn't want to do all the errand things like bank and gas. We will just do our shopping at Country Mart, then I'll do the rest on my own.

Let's see who can annoy me enough to warrant a story today...

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Welp! Of all the days for things to go relatively my way. Nobody was particularly offensive. So no real story there. Just a wait of 13 minutes at the bank drive-thru, with only one car ahead of me. And when the teller finally returned with my cash and deposit receipt, she said,

"I have everything taken care of." No "Sorry for your wait." Nor any explanation. Taking care of my business is exactly her job. So don't act like you've done me a favor. Very slowly.

The young checker at Country Mart actually used TWO bags instead of cramming everything into one. And grouped items accordingly, with Farmer H's rectangular box of Little Debbie cakes and fake Fig Newtons together with two boxes of my instant oatmeal packets. The deli container of chicken tenders got a bag by itself.

My rightful handicap parking spaces were available everywhere I went. The closest thing to a story was from Fave at the Gas Station Chicken Store.

Coming up tomorrow...

The End Is Near

At leg therapy on Wednesday, OT was excited to hear that my pumps were arriving that very day. She measured my legs, and said she would cancel my Monday appointment, then see me again on Wednesday. That would give me a week for using the pumps. Then she'd measure again next Wednesday. To see if the pumps are doing HER job sufficiently, heh, heh. OT said most often, everything works just fine. And that if my measurements were in the right range, 

IT WOULD BE MY LAST APPOINTMENT!

Of course all good things must end. I will miss having OT as my "crutch." There to answer any questions that come up, or point out things I don't think of. Like when she said I should use a shaver, not a razor, to have less chance of a wound on my legs.

OT said she's had patients who don't want to stop. One asked if she could just come once a month. And OT said no, it doesn't work that way. She takes people through the stages from the beginning. The diagnosis, the wrapping, the reduction wraps, and then the long-term compression wraps. Once they get the pumps, there is no need for her to do the CDT (complete decongestive therapy) several times a week. As long as people use their compression garments and pumps regularly, they can manage this condition.

Then again, OT said she also has some "frequent fliers" who are not compliant. "They'll come back, saying 'OTeeeee... you're going to hate me! I'm all swelled up again.' And I tell them. 'I don't hate you. It's not MY body.' Then we start the process all over again. It goes a little faster the second time. Or third, or fourth, or fifth. Yeah. Some people have come back that many times."

Well. That's not my style! I am compliant, by cracky! OT even said so. On several occasions. Can you believe she turned down my offer for her to come live in a cardboard box under my coffee table, and come out for an hour a day to do the leg massage for me? Yeah. How do ya like that? It was an offer she could refuse. So my pumps will have to do.

Anyhoo... I'll be taking my purse in with me next Wednesday. Because if it's my last session, I'll have exit paperwork, and need my glasses. Plus OT says she gives a handout with information.

As I was getting ready to leave Wednesday, with OT assisting with the putting on of my compression wraps, she forgot to slide my shoes over before I stood up to get the upper wraps applied.

"You always forget! You've only remembered one time, and now I'm almost done!"

"I know! I always say I'm not going to forget, then I do!"

"I'll show you! I'll just quit coming!"

"That'll teach me!"

"Well. I'm not going to yell at you, with our breakup so close."

"Oh, it's not a breakup."

"My graduation, then."

"Yes. That's more like it. A graduation."

I might ask OT if I can be valedictorian, heh, heh!

P-Day

This is P-Day! The day my leg pumps are supposed to arrive. I got two emails about it. They're coming by FedEx. Supposed to be here between 11:40 and 3:40. 

Of course I have leg therapy today. I leave the Mansion at 11:45. And return around 3:30.

Ain't that the way it always goes? I don't think there's rain in the forecast. I guess the driver won't be deathly afraid of dogs, like my killers Pepper and Jack. FedEx will leave the package without a signature, and take a picture of it. I imagine that when I come out of therapy, I'll have an email with that photo. I really hope it's ON THE MANSION PORCH, and not at some random house down the road.

Farmer H says he will be here around the time I'm gone. He's having HOS (His Oldest Son) repair the roof on one of his themed sheds. So it could be a good thing to have him underfoot while I'm gone.

I'll add an update when I get home. 

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I got back at 3:30. Nothing on the porch. No sign of Farmer H. I carried in my own groceries and put them away. I was changing back to my Mansion clothes when I heard the dogs bark. Then a thump on the porch. Then my phone getting a text or email.

THEY'RE HEEEEERE! 

Just a few minutes late, at 4:05. Tomorrow we'll rearrange the furniture to fit my basement Old People Chair. I need to have my legs elevated when I use the pumps. Farmer H's recliner is too low for me to get out of comfortably. 

I hate change, but a different living room configuration is something I'll have to get used to. Just like using the leg pumps every day.