Just One More Reason She's My Favorite

When I entered the Gas Station Chicken Store on Friday, there was only one other customer. He was a bearded man in a red plaid kilt, with a cast from wrist to bicep on his right arm. He was having trouble sliding his card through their portable card-scanner.

"I can't do it."

"Yes you can."

"I've only got one arm, GIRLFRIEND!"

"All you have to do it tap it right there... BOYFRIEND!"

That's when it dawned on me that this was actually Fave's boyfriend, he who fell off a roof and broke his wrist last weekend. At the time, the news-bearer said it was his wrist, but it definitely involved an arm. I guess with only the use of one hand, a kilt is practical. Though I don't know if he otherwise wears one or not.

Anyhoo... she told him I'm the "nice lady" who brings her scatchers every Thursday. He said, "Oh, so YOU'RE the one responsible for all those tickets littering the car."

"Yes. That's me. Enabling the habit."

I don't think he held it against me. When he left, Fave said that she won $60 this week. Which included a $50 winner on a $5 crossword. Which means I just missed a $50 winner, heh, heh. Because when I buy hers, it's always the second one after I buy my own. I'm glad Fave won it. I've had my own luck this past week.

Anyhoo... as she was getting my scratchers, Fave said:

"Have you lost weight? You look thin today."

I had to laugh. You know me, quite the jokester. Fave sensed it right away, what I was about to say. "Oh! I didn't mean it like that! That sounded bad, didn't it? I just meant that I really noticed it today..."

"Not a problem. Yes, I have. It's something I've been working on for two years now. I take it as a compliment."

"I feel so bad. Really. I didn't mean it to sound that way. Me and my big mouth."

"It's fine. Don't worry. I'm not offended."

A couple guys came in to pay for gas, and I left with my tickets. I was in T-Hoe, writing on the back of them, when Fave came out the side door by the propane tanks. I put my window down.

"I just wanted to come out and apologize."

"I told you, it's fine! I won't hold it against you, heh, heh! Your tickets are safe!"

"Okay. I just wanted to make sure. I would never say anything to hurt your feelings."

"They're not hurt! It was a compliment for me. We're fine."

Heh, heh. I can't wait to tell Fave on Saturday that I won't be there Sunday, because of The Pony coming out for Father's Day. Maybe I'll say, "I won't be here Sunday. I'll be home gaining weight."

It will be fun to have something to rib her about. But I won't touch her boyfriend's kilt... that might offend her.

Maybe Not A Brainiac

This Shaver adventure has made Mrs. HM question her intelligence! After all, she's a former VALedictorian, who has reproduced two valedictorian offspring. Yet all it took was a tiny Chinese shaver to make a fool of her! AS IF a normal person would know which side was up, and which side was down. Surely I'm not the only person to mistake a reading of 100% for a reading of %001. Well... maybe I AM.

I was ready to call that purchase a loss. I'd learned my lesson about buying on-sale Chinese merchandise from Amazon. I would search again, and try a domestic shaver with good reviews, at a moderate price. Of course, Farmer H, in his annoying way, had to say:

"Walmart probably sells them."

DUH! Do you think? Never mind that I haven't stepped foot in the Devil's Playground since I came home from my Unfortunate HospitVALzation after a 4-day stay for pneumonia. At first I was just too weak. But as I grew stronger, so did my resolve to not play into the Devil's hands. I was mad about their approach to The Virus, with the cattle chutes out front, forcing a zig-zag extra-long walk just to get inside. And then the one-way aisles. Which Farmer H said he just ignored. But which I pulled my cart down backwards, lest I be spotted on surveillance, and this transgression added to my Permanent Record.

"I haven't been in there in four years, and I'm not starting now! YOU can get me a shaver, then."

I said to the man who could not find my lotion there, even though I sent him with a picture on his phone, and he consulted a clerk for help. Thank the Gummi Mary that he got my little Shaver fixed. Who knows what kind of contraption he might have brought home. Probably some sheep-shearing clippers. Or Edward Scissorhands himself (since I caught Farmer H watching this movie the other day when his MeTV channel was missing).

Yes, my intellect has been insulted by a tiny shaver. It brings back unfond memories of my first day of teaching, in Mountain Grove, Missouri, when I wrote my name on the board, along with my subject, for all my new students to see:

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom

SCIENE

Darn That Little Shaver

The good news is that I did not amputate a leg with my new Shaver. The bad news is that I don't think I used it as intended. Like Ed Sheeran and his first kiss on a Friday night... I don't reckon that I did it right.

I settled down on the short couch to attempt a shave. I spread a towel across the floor for my feet and legs. It's not an ideal place for leg-shaving, but that's where I take off my velcro leg wraps before showering, and then put them on again. I wanted to shave my legs before the shower, so they'd be ready for lotioning when I got out.

I pushed the power button on my shaver. It did a 3-2-1 countdown. That locks it for travel, so it doesn't accidentally get jostled and turn on. Not what I intended. I held down the power button again. 1-2-3 countup. That puts it back in the using mode. But it didn't seem to be on. The light showing the power charge was on. But there was no noise. No hum. No vibration. Huh. Was this some special magical shaver?

I tried pushing the power button again. Got the countdown. Then the countup. Well. Maybe it WAS on, somehow. I moved it across my leg. Looked like some of that hair was trimmed. I don't have a lot. But what I had was long and scraggly in a little patch. Now it looked short and scraggly. I did it again. Yep! That hair was gone. I ran that Shaver over a couple of other patches. Then gave up.

When Farmer H came home, I explained my Shaver issue. That man purely LOVES to tinker with any kind of machine. I gave him the instructions, but he only took a glance. He said he was trying to take it apart.

"I had the top off. To look in where the blades supposedly are. There's that white plastic part on the two edges. I think it belongs there. It doesn't seem to be a guard you have to remove to make it run. I didn't try to pry it loose, because I didn't want to break it. Be careful if you take that off. There's going to be some hair in there, because somehow it still shaved."

Farmer H's supper was ready, so he stopped his investigation. Before he came back to the kitchen for assorted desserts, he said, 

"I got your Shaver working. I took off the top. It was just stuck. I knocked it loose, and now it works."

He brought it to the kitchen, and I could hear the hum. Good to know!

A Close Shave For An Idiot

Mrs. HM is sometimes not the brightest crayon in the box. The sharpest tool in the shed. Every now and then, her porchlight is on, but nobody's home upstairs. Like on Wednesday, when she opened her latest Amazon delivery.

The delivery itself was fine. Three items. An assortment of colored file folders for sorting flip house documents/bills. A large bottle of Curel lotion, for use on my legs after shower/before enclosing in their support stockings and velcro wraps. And a shaver.

Let the record show that Mrs. HM has never used a shaver. She has used a disposable plastic razor. Over the past couple years, her legs have gone bald! So no need for leg-shaving. But with my current leg therapy, the lower legs have started sprouting again! OT says this is good. It happens sometimes as the circulation gets better. She said she's not offended. She's worked on hair legs before.

Each session when we've unwrapped my legs, marveled over their appearance, and I've climbed up on the hydraulic table/bed... I've said, "I really need to shave my legs." OT advised me to use a shaver. Not a razor. Because we don't want to risk any nicks that need healing. 

Anyhoo... it's a cute little shaver. Only came in one color: purple. It was on sale for 63% off. Compact. Charges with a USB cord. I figured it was just what I needed.

I took it out of the box, figuring I could charge it by plugging into HIPPIE while doing my morning innernetting. Then it would be ready for shaving when I unwrapped my legs for a shower around noon. It had a short white charging cord. I connected the shaver to HIPPIE.

As you may recall, HIPPIE has been having power issues. Often shutting down spontaneously, with a message that he was overheating. Sometimes the message is that the battery needs to be replaced. The Pony says that will cost more than a new computer. Which I already have anyway, but prefer the familiarity of HIPPIE until his last gasp.

Anyhoo... I noticed that the power was not changing. It didn't seem that Shaver was getting a charge from HIPPIE. I changed the USB cord to a different port. Still nothing. Maybe HIPPIE's battery didn't want to exert itself on an auxiliary device. I took Shaver to the kitchen counter, and plugged it into my quick-charging thingy that I used for my phone. When I checked five minutes later, there was still no change. Huh. The instruction booklet said that charging would take one hour. But surely it should be showing minor progress after five minutes.

Dang it! I figured I'd just have to order a different shaver. It WAS made in China. I guess you get what you pay for. I unplugged it and got ready to put it back in the box. As I laid Shaver down to open the box, I noticed something:

Shaver had been upside down! It came with a 100% charge! I had been thinking that China just had a funny way of showing the percent. Like Spanish has the question mark in front.

I hope I'm smart enough to use Shaver without amputating a leg...

The Lack Of Awareness Is Mind-Numbing

Mrs. HM is on another crusade. Join her, if you will, on her foray into a world rife with entitledness and/or ignorance. This necessitates climbing upon her high horse. Put your foot in the stirrup there, and give me your hand. Upsy-daisy! There you go. Careful not to pound my elevated steed's flanks with your heels. There's no rush. It's not like we're waiting to pay for soft-serve ice cream cones...

Monday after my leg therapy, I stopped by the Sis-Town Casey's for scratchers. The line was orderly. My mission accomplished, I went out the door and walked down the front sidewalk to T-Hoe. I had my handicap placard hanging, but didn't park in the handicap space. I don't like it here, because there's a regular space next to it on the left, which allows regular parkers to get too close, and block T-Hoe's door from opening completely. Instead, I prefer the farther-away space on the other side of the striped handicap walkway with the concrete ramp onto the sidewalk.

This space lets me open the door completely, and walk up that ramp. As I started down the little built-in ramp, a little black sports car started pulling in. HALFWAY IN THE STRIPED AREA! I stopped, lest I be struck by an automobile. Small, but still bigger than Mrs. HM! 

The sports car stopped, halfway in. I figured the guy was probably going to use that space to turn around, since there were plenty of regular parking spaces in front of the door, plus on the other side of T-Hoe. The handicap space was also open. Maybe he had just misjudged his turn.

I gave the driver a quizzical look, then continued down the ramp. T-Hoe's door opened, since the sports car had stopped before pulling all the way in. Once settled in the driver's seat, door closed, I was SHOCKED to see that sports car back up, straighten out, and pull forward directly into the striped space! As if it was a parking space. The sports car blocked the whole ramp.

That's when I frowned at the driver, who was looking at me. WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN? Was he a psycho? I raised my left eyebrow, my unspoken teacher language for, "What in the Not-Heaven, Dude?" The guy got out of his sports car and stepped up on the sidewalk and went inside. He had no handicap placard, nor plates. He had no visible infirmity that might require close parking. In fact, he had eschewed closer parking, and even the actual handicap space, to park IN THE STRIPED HANDICAP WALKWAY!

Take a snort of that rarefied air atop our high horse, and sigh heavily along with me.

Tales Out Of Treatment

My leg therapy continues. I got Tuesday off! I'd like to think of it as a reward for good behavior, but it was just a result of circumstances. I usually go M/W/F. My OT will be gone on Wednesday. She decided, as I was leaving on Monday, that I could do without the Tuesday session.

"With your progress, I don't see back-to-back treatment having much of an effect. Would you like to just skip Tuesday, and come in on Friday as usual?"

"Yes! That would be fine with me. As long as it doesn't count as a no-show. I don't want that on my permanent record!"

"I'll tell her. It won't count against you."

My treatment lately has been massage to stretch the skin and get the circulation going. There's not much for me to do besides lie on my back on the lifted table/bed, looking at the ceiling. Some days we are more talkative than others. Monday, we somehow went from my DISH local channel woes and talking to ESL help centers with representatives named "Susan" and "Bill," to how kids act in the store.

"My kids were so different. Genius would walk off by himself, saying 'I'm going to electronics to see if they got in any new hard drives.' The Pony wanted to ride in the cart. Even when he was so big his feet would almost drag the floor. He's sit in the basket, playing his GameBoy, and complain. 'Ow! That box of cereal hurt my legs!' I had to tell him no more! He was taking up too much room from the groceries. And when he wasn't in the cart, he'd hide in the middle of those circular clothing racks."

"I was a kid who hid in the racks! But my favorite thing to do, at the mall, was stand in the shop windows with the mannequins. I'd pose just like the one next to me. My mom would go on shopping, then come back to get me when she was ready."

"Oh, no! That's hilarious! Did you look people in the eye when they stared at you?"

"Yes! Some of them would smile at me. But I'd just keep a mannequin face, and look right back at them."

I don't know why I find that so funny. Maybe because it's ONE thing my kids didn't do to embarrass me.

If It Weren't For Bad Luck

I missed my rendezvous with Fave on Thursday. The Pony and I had an early Errand Day, and then a bill-paying session at the Mansion, with a Chinese takeout lunch. I had already let Fave know last Sunday. Just as a matter of courtesy, because she always says, "See you Thursday!" And Thursday is the day I usually give her a couple scratchers sealed in an envelope. Not because she does me any favors in the scratcher department, but because she's a nice gal, and I think she's lucky for me.

Friday, I noticed several cars at the gas pumps. A minivan was parked in my rightful handicap space, but it was pulling up by the FREE AIR hose as I turned onto the lot. Fine with me! I took back my space. A woman got out of the passenger side of the minivan, and went past me inside.

A few customers were waiting to pay. A suspicious guy walked back and forth in front of the fishbowls that hold assorted alcohol in the little shooter bottles, clutching a dollar. Fave seemed preoccupied. She was talking to a lady standing by the door with a cell phone. The one who had passed me. Something was up.

"I don't know what to do. Maybe try to call "M" and "B," to see if they can cover for me. I can't call Woman Owner. It's FRIDAY again! She'll fire me! I just don't know."

"I'd jump behind there and take over the register if I could. I'll keep calling. They're not answering."

Fave greeted me and we did our business. Then she said, "Sorry. My boyfriend fell off a roof."

"Oh, no! I hope he wasn't working on my flip house! I just drove by there and saw the roofers."

Fave chuckled. So I guess her boyfriend was NOT on (and now off) my flip house. I don't know if he was working, or fixing something on her roof, or rescuing a cat. Whatever, he fell off a freakin' roof!

The next day, I found out that Fave won $20 on the tickets I gave her. And that her boyfriend had "...a mild concussion, and a broken wrist. He kept me awake all night crying over the broken wrist."

"Oh, that's too bad. But it COULD have been a lot worse. So I guess it was unlucky, but kind of lucky, in a way."

"Yeah. It could have been worse."

Poor Fave. If it weren't for bad luck, she'd have no luck at all. Especially over the past month. I'm glad her gunshot wound wasn't acting up.

Ham Handed Farmer H

Supper for Farmer H on Friday night was ham. Nice thick slices of ham that had been thawed out, from our Easter Dinner. Farmer H asked for ham sandwiches. I had a new loaf of Hawaiian bread, his favorite. Don't think the side dish was vegetables. Not for Farmer H! He wanted some mozzarella sticks with marinara dipping sauce.

Farmer H had only been home for about an hour. He had gone straight to his recliner, to try and watch his old TV shows like MASH. But the local channels are again not working on DISH. He had to settle for a movie, Daddy Daycare.

I was warming his sauce in the microwave (which is the size of a box of velcro wraps sent by my occupational therapist, heh, heh!) when I called Farmer H to the kitchen. I was waiting until the last minute to get the ham (with pepper jack melted on top), and the mozzarella sticks out of the oven.

"You can come get your sandwich ready."

Farmer H came to the cutting block, where I'd set his plate, a paper towel, his flat pickle slices, and the loaf of bread. I was sprinking some parmesan cheese on top of his sauce when I noticed Farmer H over my shoulder. He was pawing down three slices to get the bread that he wanted.

"Yuck! The sight of that makes me sick. You KNOW you haven't washed your hands after a day of digging around in who knows what, and peeing all over the place!"

"Huh."

"You know it's true! You can't even deny it."

"Whatever."

"SEE?"

"Whatever."

"That's what I mean! Whatever. NOT a denial. I'm glad I don't eat that bread."

I took the tray with the hot ham and mozzarella sticks from the oven, and set it on the cutting block. Farmer H immediately reached with his (dirty) bare hands to pick up the slice of ham/cheese and put it on his bread.

MAYBE the burning heat killed a few bacteria on his fingertips.

Not All It's Cracked Up To Be

The Pony has been cooking more frequently, rather than ordering out. A recent effort was an omelet. That's it. Just eggs and cheese.

The Pony said it was a 3-egg omelet.

Here you can see the added Muenster cheese.

Served up on a mini cafeteria-style tray that I found at 10Box. I bought us each four trays. They only came in pink and green, so we have two of each. The green does this omelet no favors! But I imagine the pink would have made it look worse.

Anyhoo... The Pony reported that next time, it will probably be a 2-egg omelet, because it got cold 2/3 of the way through eating it. And perhaps a slice of toast next time. I agree. Those other compartments need something to make the omelet look less lonely. Toast. Maybe an apple.

Mrs. HM Plays Soccer And Loteria

Thank the Gummi Mary, leg therapy, and Father's Day for Mrs. HM's good luck on Monday. I was way over in Bill-Paying Town for therapy. I needed to get a Father's Day card for Farmer H. I figured I could stop by Country Mart on the way home. They have a good card selection. And I could also pick up bananas, and some marinara sauce that I needed for Farmer H's mozzarella sticks for supper. Plus scratchers out of their machine!

Such a good decision. I normally don't go in Country Mart until Errand Day on Thursdays. But with this therapy, I pass through the area. Casey's is my extra stop for scratchers, but their parking lot was full. So I was left with a changed plan for which tickets I wanted.

This is a new soccer scratcher. I didn't plan on getting it out of the Country Mart machine. I didn't plan on getting it at all. But with the selection, and the no-change from winners I had scanned into the machine, this is the one that spoke to me. As in, "Take me home!"

I'm so glad I listened! The first chance was the SHOE symbol, which is an automatic winner. When the second was also a shoe, I knew I'd won at least $10. Then $15. I don't uncover the prizes until the end, but I know the minimum win on the $5 tickets is $5. By the time I got the fourth SHOE, I felt like I might be winning all the prizes. I DID. That's a $75 winning ticket!

But wait. I also bought other tickets out of that same machine. The ones I'd planned on, which were two of the Loteria tickets. I like playing them. The first one was a winner.

I have a certain order for scratching these. Starting with the upper left symbol. Then the lower right symbol. Then alternating. I was thrilled when I uncovered that BOOT symbol. It gave me a $100 win on the top puzzle! I set it in my purse with the $75 Soccer winner. Such great luck!

It was only upon scanning later that night that I discovered I'd been wrong. It was NOT a $100 winner. It was a $200 WINNER! I had missed scratching the DEER symbol on the bottom puzzle. Good thing I scan my tickets! Some unscrupulous clerk could have pocketed $100 if I'd handed that over saying I had a $100 winner. I'd have been none the wiser.

Anyhoo, it was a good scratching day. Now I can't buy these tickets out of that machine on Thursday. I don't think I could get a better winner off those rolls.

Ban Youthful Checkers!

Kids these days! I commend those who actually get out and work. But they need more life experience to be my grocery checker! Or at least TRAINING from a seasoned professional life-liver.

The thing is, these kids don't pay for their own groceries. I don't for an instant believe that the 18-22 set is living on their own with a grocery store checking job. Maybe in years past it was possible. Not today, unless they have 10 roommates to offset the cost of rent/utilities/food/car/insurance, and electronic gewgaws. They don't understand that if you pay for an item, you want it in the same condition as you bought it when you get it home.

Monday after leg therapy, I stopped by Country Mart. I needed bananas, marinara sauce, and a Father's Day card for Farmer H. Three items. My checker was a young man jovially conversing with a fellow buddy young man. He turned his attention to me. He was polite and cheerful. But he didn't know squat about bagging. He put all three items in the same bag.

I don't think he was trying to save the earth by using less plastic, or save the store extra costs. I think he just glanced and thought, "Those will easily fit in one bag."

I would have offered the card to the stately elderly woman (myself, heh, heh!) to see if she wanted to carry it in her purse, lest it be bent in the main bag, or get something sticky off the bananas. Like those darn labels they want to put on each one, that regularly grab the side of the bag in transit.

As for the big can of spaghetti sauce (actual marinara was only in glass jars, which I did not want to deal with), I would have put it in a separate bag. Only because a heavy can is not a friend to a bunch of eight bananas. It tries to beat them into mush as the bag is lifted to and fro, conveyor to cart, cart to car, car to elbow to swing freely in transit to the kitchen, after being plopped on a metal chair while steps are climbed.

But no. Young Jovial Checker put everything in one bag as I was paying with my card, handed me the receipt, then resumed his jovial conversation. By the time I took that bag out of T-Hoe, the card corner had burrowed through the plastic bag. The can of sauce was on top of it, giving the card a U-shaped bend. The bananas are no doubt holding their bruises secret for a few more days.

Keep these boys in the stockroom!

_________________________________________________________

Here's my poor banana the next day, bearing the mark of the pasta sauce can!

Such a travesty! I never would have chosen a banana that looked like that in the store.

Last Week's Leg Tales, Part 2

I set out alone to my leg therapy appointment on Friday. I got my favorite parking space, up top, by the scratchy bush. I took the Amazon box of boxes off the back seat, where Farmer H had loaded them for me. The walk inside was okay. I've been leaving my cane in T-Hoe, since I know the layout, and what will be expected of my legs. I set the box down on a waiting room chair, and checked in at the window.

I don't like being a spectacle. For other waiters to see me with a big box of boxes, and wonder what is wrong with me. But there I was, me and my boxes. The waiting room filled up, as it does completely for a 1:00 appointment. I felt a little guilty about my boxes taking up a seat, but there was nowhere else for them to go. OT came out at 12:59 to call me in. She took the box out of my hands and whisked them away to my treatment room.

"That's not the box they came in! I had to find a smaller one to carry."

"Well, I would hope not! That they didn't come from Amazon!"

"The packing slip is in there. It looks like they sent four SMALL upper leg wraps!"

"Oh. That's what I ordered."

"I've never worn a small ANYTHING in my life!"

"These upper thigh wraps run really large."

Indeed, they fit just fine! Nothing to send back. So I have two complete sets of new wraps, along with the support stockings and stretchy sockinet underliner so that rubbery stuff is not against my tender skin.

OT continues to be astounded at how fast my legs have responded to her treatment. Only four weeks into the 12-week plan, and as she said a week or so ago about my right leg: "That looks like a normal leg!" To which I agreed.

"I look down and think, 'Where did THAT come from?' I haven't seen my leg like that in 30 years!" Minus the crinkly loose skin, of course, at the inner knee.

I have deduced that the standard course of treatment is to push the extra lymphatic fluid out of the legs with the ACE-like wraps, and massage to loosen up hardened tissue. When enough progress is seen there, the "reducer" velcro wraps are ordered. They are cut (by OT) to fit, and trimmed as the legs get even smaller, to provide enough squeeziness. Then the long-term wraps are ordered, to wear to maintain the goal. To be worn all the time, unless you want to remove them for sleeping. AND the last step is the leg-pumper thingies to use once a day, at least five days per week. This takes the place of the OT massage. The pumps (used at home) take an hour each day. That's my last step, and they're waiting on insurance to order them.

Anyhoo... OT had a couple of other tales. As we removed my velcro wraps to try on the new ones, I commented that my legs has been particularly itchy since the last visit.

"Yes, that happens sometimes as the circulation improves."

"I had a good time scratching when I took off the socks for the shower."

"One lady used KABOB STICKS to scratch her legs, when I had them wrapped! She stuck them down in there. I couldn't believe she did that. You know, kabob sticks have that pointy end. I was so worried what I'd find when I unwrapped her, but there were just little white scratches. It didn't really break the skin."

"Oh, no! Was it the same lady who ironed her wraps that were supposed to be washed in only cold water, and hung to dry?"

"Sadly, it was not. There are two different people doing these things that they should know better!"

At least I didn't do anything like that! I mentioned that the worst part for me is having my feet in those support stockings all the time. 

"Every step I take, my toes remind me that they don't like it!"

"I can understand. I'm a barefoot person myself. Some people cut the toe off the stocking. I don't recommend that, because the socks will work their way up the foot. But if you have to, you could try it."

"No. I pull on the end of the sock, to stretch it out and give me a little room before it tightens up again. I can deal with it. I just don't like it."

"One lady made one cut, between the big toe and the rest."

"I never thought of that. I don't know how much that could help, though."

"She did it so she could wear flip-flops."

I'm guessing that is a THIRD person doing know-better things...

Last Week's Leg Tales, Part 1

Wow, it's been a whole week since I bored you with my leg tales. As I recall, one of the last things discussed was the arrival of a giant box of velcro wraps to replace the three (per leg) ACE-style wraps that had been used for the first two weeks. Oh, and that oozy spot on my leg went away by the next visit. And I had lost 4 inches in the right knee circumference.

More measuring was done last week. OT said she had ordered my long-term wraps. WHAT? Another giant box was coming my way??? I'm not all that upset about the "long-term wraps." I don't want to lose any of this progress. This condition is not curable, you know. But it's manageable. It's not the worst thing in the world to go through life with my legs wrapped up. It doesn't hurt. It's not clunky like Forrest Gump braces. Just stretchy wraps, fastened by velcro flaps. I can deal with it. I'm not needed on the high-fashion runways (anymore, heh, heh). I don't plan on wearing shorts or swimming, since I haven't done that in at least 25 years.

What worried me most was the arrival of that box! FedEx gave me a window on Thursday for 10:50 to 3:50. I was gone after 2:00 for Errand Day with The Pony. Of course I was worried about the package. Another one was coming as well, which would be clothes I had ordered, in a soft bag. I don't trust Pepper, and I don't trust Jack, the original eater of 1/3 of a monogrammed Sharper Image bison leather wallet with RFID blocker. I sighed with relief when I got an email at 3:48 showing my packages at the door.

I was in town, and called Farmer H immediately. He said he was at the BARn, and had seen the FedEx truck, and was heading over to the Mansion. The dogs were with him. My packages were safe.

I was supposed to take the box of wraps to therapy with me. Farmer H made no offer to carry it this time! And there were twice as many!

"I ordered you two of each," said OT. "So you can have a one to wear, and one to wash."

They need to air dry, so it takes a while. This was a good plan. She said I would be getting two each for the lower left leg, lower right leg, upper left leg, and upper right leg. That's 8 wraps! And all came in their own individual box inside the big box! Thankfully, OT said I only need to bring one set of each. So four wraps.

I checked to see if I could fit them in a big leather bag I have. Nope. But I had a smaller box from Amazon earlier in the week, and the four individual boxes just fit! Still, it was a microwave-size box for me to carry. I THOUGHT I could do it.

But wait! What's this? In sorting out the boxes to make sure I took the right thing, I saw a Large for the lower left leg, which OT said she had ordered, though it was borderline for a Medium. There was a Medium for the right lower leg. But all of the upper leg wraps were SMALL! Four small wraps! Two for the left, and two for the right!

I was not looking forward to finding out it was the wrong items. That would mean sending them back, which I was sure I would have to do.

To be continued...

An Unwelcome Intrusion

I left The Pony in T-Hoe as I went in to pay for gas on Thursday. The Pony gets out and pumps the gas after I pay. Or sometimes goes in, if I'm planning to use the bathroom there, to carry my scratchers back out to the car. Either way, I don't have to try and rush back to the pump before the payment info expires. That has happened before, and I was NOT a happy pumper!

Anyhoo... you may recall that I AM NOT VERY MOBILE! I don't use my cane in town. I can walk, but slowly, because I don't trust that right knee. Also, there's a limp, because that leg is BENT, and I don't have a normal heel/toe stride.

Anyhoo... I started across the parking lot, waiting for a car to back out, before proceeding over the expanse where cars drive by. I always park at Pump 3 or Pump 4, because they're directly across from the striped handicap zone with its ramp onto the sidewalk. An employee was standing there taking a break, wearing her Casey's apron. She must work in the kitchen, because I don't recall her every waiting on me at the counter. She was blond, 28-32, smoking a cigarette.

"C'mon. That's it! You can make it!"

What in the Not-Heaven??? I don't need people pointing out my infirmity. I KNOW I have trouble walking. No need to patronize me. It's not like I'm finishing a marathon. Not like I'm competing for a gold medal. Not like I'm right out of bed after a major surgery. I'll get there when I get there. I don't need encouragement from strangers.

"Yeah. I need a new knee."

"What?"

"I'm just slow. I have a knee problem."

"You do?"

Seriously! If you're going to make a big deal about how I walk, the least you can do is pay attention when I respond to your unwanted interest!!! I only spoke to her to be polite, and not leave her hangin'.

I'm sure she meant nothing by it. I guess she thought she was "helping" me. The interaction didn't seem in any way malicious, or for the purpose of ridicule. But not all elderlies love to talk about their aches and pains.

Sometimes, people just need to mind their own business.

A Welcome Intrusion

Last week, we had rain in the afternoon forecast. I checked the future radar, and saw that a heavy burst was due to hit Bill-Paying Town around the time of my leg therapy appointment. Dang it! Mrs. HM is not a fast-mover. Gone are the days when I could sprint from T-Hoe to business without getting too wet. I was lucky that the rain held off for the drive.

I always sit in T-Hoe, once I have secured a parking space where I am sure nobody can park against the driver's door. My favorite space is a handicap slot in the top row, the farthest from the door. I have to back in, scratching T-Hoe's passenger side on an unruly bush. But the striped walkway is by my door. And I am facing out for an easy exit. That lot is TIGHT when you have to back up and other cars are there.

On this rainy day, my preferred space was taken. There are four handicap spaces, but as you might imagine at a THERAPY facility, a lot of "customers" need them. My second choice is on the bottom row, next to the entrance/exit. Nobody can park on my left side, or it would block traffic. I only have to back up a few feet, and T-Hoe's nose is clear to leave. The downside is that I have to walk up a slight hill, and across the lot to get to the door. I was lucky again that the rain had just started to plop down as I left T-Hoe.

I was NOT so lucky when it was time to leave. I could see rain sluicing down, through the double glass front doors. Oh, well. I was gonna get wet. I could dry out on the 25-minute drive to Sis-Town, where I would stop for scratchers. I ducked my head, went out the door, across the sidewalk, and out from under the roof, onto the blacktop. I was especially careful not to slip on that wet smooth surface.

There was a car parked on T-Hoe's right. No matter. I wasn't opening that door. Glancing out from under my dripping eyelashes, I saw the driver's door of that car open. An old man got out with an umbrella. I figured he was going inside for his appointment, though a lot of spouses wait in the car. The man walked toward me. I was halfway to T-Hoe when

THE MAN STOPPED BESIDE ME WITH HIS UMBRELLA!

"Let me help you."

"Oh. That's so nice! Thank you!"

He walked alongside, covering me with the umbrella, allowing himself to get wet. He held it at my door as I opened it and climbed inside. 

"Thank you, sir! I need a new knee!"

"I need a new back! Gettin' old ain't for sissies!"

"That's for sure! Thanks again!"

"You have a nice day."

Such a nice gentleman. He got back in his car as I was buckling up. A true good-deeder.

Cry Me A River, I Will Not Be Shamed

My phone rang while I was scratching scratchers Friday evening. It was 4:51 p.m. I saw our area code, then a number I didn't recognize. With my continuing leg therapy, I decided to answer. You never know when it's something about a new part some equipment that's been ordered for me. I had just received a box the day before.

Anyhoo... I answered. The Gal said she was from My Insurance. I stayed on the line, because, you know, it could have been about the stuff I've been receiving. Perhaps a question if I received it, or if they needed info to process a future order. It hasn't happened yet, but it could. I wouldn't want anything to be held up for lack of info.

The Gal wanted to give me some information about my insurance benefits. She said she needed to verify that I was indeed the person she was calling. She rattled off my birth month and day, and asked me to provide the year. This did not sit well with Mrs. HM, who is a suspicious sort by nature.

"Are you just going to try and sell me something? Because I don't want it. I usually just don't take these calls when I know it's from My Insurance."

"Ma'am, I can't tell you anything unless I verify your identity. Because this call is being recorded."

"I'm sorry. I don't want to provide that information. It's nothing personal."

"I am only trying to do my job, Ma'am."

"Like I said. This has nothing to do with you. I just don't want to discuss any programs provided by my insurance. It makes me wish I had never answered the call."

"All right, Ma'am. Thank you for being a loyal customer. Have a nice evening."

"I wish you a nice evening as well. Goodbye."

For a few minutes there, I felt bad. I thought The Gal was about to cry. I was not rude to her. Just gave my opinion. I used to get four or five calls a day from My Insurance, coming from different numbers, until I blocked them. They'd leave a voice mail that they wanted to discuss benefits available. NO! I don't want my drugs delivered by mail, because my mail is a mile away from the Mansion, where anybody can stop along the road and take it. I do not want to join the Silver Sneakers program. I can barely walk, so I sure don't want to accidentally get some exercise!

Anyhoo... I won't be answering unknown numbers for a while. They can leave a message, and I'll get back to them. I don't need the guilt.

Gandering And Goosing

What's good for the goose is too much for the gander. That's what Farmer H seems to think. No matter how many times I tell him how to get his supper from pan to plate, he strives to do the opposite. Why should HE care about making my life easier? He's not the one who's washed dishes by hand for the past 37 years of this marriage. Why do a couple of simple things to help me out? 

I know I've enlightened you on how Farmer H likes to hold his plate in the left hand, and use his right to fish food from pans on the stove while holding them in place with his belly. I had no idea it was so hard to set down a plate, and use one hand to hold a pan, and the other to move food directly onto that stationary plate. No belly needed!

SWEET GUMMI MARY! You'd think I asked Farmer H to go out in the field, rope a steer, butcher it, grind it up, and bake his own meatloaf! Which is what he was having for supper, along with biscuits and stuffing. I cook everything, you know. Make sure it is hot, then call Farmer H to the kitchen to make his plate. In this case, a yellow school lunch tray. Not such a tasking task.

In previous days, Farmer H was eating the BBQ pork steaks and bratwursts, along with potatoes/onions from our Memorial Day grilling. Plus stuffing that I made for him, The Pony having taken home that leftover.

Every time I set out Farmer H's tray with silverware and a paper towel, I point out that messy food should not go into the section that's a square with a circle in it. Like for setting a glass. I don't like the extra scrubbing it takes to get messy food from the crevices.

For at least 30 years, I instructed Farmer H every time. And every time, he does what he wants. Such as going for the meat first, to put it on his tray like somebody is going to steal it from the pan as soon as it comes out of the oven. Plopping a pork steak in the large section, then a bare sausage in a round section, waiting until last to put that dang sausage on a bun! When the pack of buns was put on top of his tray, handy to take one out, then fork a sausage right into it. Where it could easily sit in that square section and not leave a mess.

THEN Farmer H chased the potatoes/onions around the foiled pizza pan upon which they had been warmed, scooping them up with a fork, and his thumb on top of a few slices, while holding his tray of meats in his left hand. Of course I said something, because Farmer H was only wearing tighty-whities after his shower, and that pan was HOT, and scooting all around the front burner as he tried to fork the potatoes/onions. He didn't need to be branded on his bare belly.

Farmer H took offense to my suggestion that he set down that tray, and let me pick up the pizza pan so he could scoot the potatoes/onions over the foiled edge. OR use the spatula that was lying RIGHT THERE to scoop up more than a couple potatoes at a time. Just as he took offense when I mentioned the same thing when he tried to pick up a giant slab of meatloaf with his fork underneath one end, and his thumb ready to clamp onto the ketchup-ed top.

Oh, and of course he was dumping those potatoes/onions into the forbidden square. Which he also did the next evening with the stuffing, rather than use it for a biscuit.

I can't believe a grown man can be so stupid when it comes to a simple task like moving food from a pan to a plate. And be unable to follow a 30-year-old, daily-repeated request. But there's your evidence that it's possible. His name is Farmer H.

Pepper Must Have Been Distracted

I knew a delivery was coming by FedEx on Tuesday. Between 2:00 and 4:00. It was no big deal. Just Amazon stuff, which included some of my regular everyday socks, and a pair of the support stockings like used under my leg velcro wraps. I assumed it was all coming in one box, since I'd checked the option to combine the order for one delivery date. However... they'd already sent another item by itself that arrived MONDAY. They are not very economical in their deliveries, even though I tried to help them!

Anyhoo... FedEx just leaves the stuff on the front porch. They don't even knock anymore. I wasn't exactly waiting for it, but figured I'd bring it inside if it got here before I left for town.

At 2:31 I got an email that my package had been delivered. I had heard the delivery person clomping up the steps, but the dogs didn't bark. I figured they were elsewhere. At 2:48, I went to get the box off the porch right before I left.

There was a gray bag lying about three feet from the box. That was odd. I can't imagine a delivery person would walk all the way up on the porch to set down the box, and toss the bag several feet away. I suspected foul play. CANINE play!

Indeed, when I looked at the gray bag, there were many tiny indentations from TEETH. Not all the way through. But still obvious. It was my pair of support stockings. Which are not cheap! Not REAL expensive. I think around $30. Can't remember. But something I wanted so I can have a clean pair to put on while washing and drying the other pair.

I suppose Pepper nabbed that bag as a chew toy, but got distracted. Probably by Farmer H's new rooster, who struts around the Mansion yard in the evenings, and likes to go under the porch. When I left for town, Pepper came running up out of the woods behind POOLIO. 

Later that evening, Jack was under the kitchen window, barking toward that area of the back yard. THEN he took off around the porch, and I heard Pepper baying. Farmer H said they were after the rooster. They charge at him and then back off. Farmer H said they both got a whoopin' for it. I'm sure Jack was ashamed. Pepper, not so much.

Thanks, nameless rooster, for distracting the would-be sock-eater!

A Thief Is A Thief

I always take the dogs a treat as I leave for town. Usually it's a scrap of stale bread that has been dredged in meat juices as I clean up the kitchen after cooking. It gets rid of the bread and the grease, and as treats go, it's a delicacy for the dogs. I walk to the steps of the side porch, which is where I distribute the going-away treats.

Sometimes, the dogs are not around. Like Sunday. I had the two pieces of bread in hand, but no dogs. I could toss them on the porch in case the dogs showed up while I was gone. But Pepper would most likely scarf up both with a quickness, and Jack would be left treatless. I set the bread on the shelf that abuts the garage wall. Too high for the dogs. I could hand them out upon my return, as I came out the garage people-door.

I did the same thing a couple times last week. Both times, Farmer H was home first. The bread was gone. I figured he saw it, and gave it to the dogs. I was meaning to ask, but forgot.

This time, Farmer H was still at his SUS2.5 when I returned to the Mansion. The dogs were waiting on the porch. I did not see the bread on the shelf!!! What in the Not-Heaven?

I can only surmise that those pesky squirrels took them! They were half-slices of bread, a bit heavy with the slather of grease that eased out of the warmed-up bratwursts. A muscular crow could have swooped away with them, but I don't suspect a regular little sparrow.

Those thieving squirrels are into everything. It's bad enough that they raid the regular dry dog food. Now they're stealing dog treats. Farmer H's buddy needs to come a-hunting again.

Perhaps This Is Why I CAIN'T UNDERSTAND NOTHIN'

Sometimes Sundays are boring at the SUS2.5 (Storage Unit Store 2.5). Especially at the end of the month, when people have run out of disposable income. And when the forecast predicts rain. Every now and then, Farmer H will pass the time by sending me a text. As you might expect from past communications, this is an adventure.

I was not happy Sunday, because I had checked the weather radar from one of the news stations. As usually happens, THEY WERE WAY OFF! I planned my day around their forecast. I wanted to stop in Save A Lot for a few things, and get my lottery tickets. It looked like I would have a perfectly clear window if I was in town from 2:00 to 3:00. So I adjusted my usual schedule by two hours.

Well! It was already raining as I walked out the Mansion door at 2:00. Surely this was an anomaly. It would quit once I got to town. NO! It got worse in town! I decided NOT to wrestle a shopping cart out of Save A Lot. That stuff could wait until Tuesday. 

I got soaked going into the Gas Station Chicken Store, and I even had my rightful handicap space. I wanted other tickets, and instead of Save A Lot's machine, I headed to 10Box. I got out my big broken umbrella that won't stay closed unless I strap it. The workers standing in the door applauded my efforts. It wasn't too bad, because I could stick my tickets in my bra and have both hands free for the umbrella.

Dang it! Once back inside T-Hoe, the umbrella dripping on the passenger side floor, I couldn't find my tickets!!! Oh NO! Did I drop them? I opened the door and looked down. Nope. I glanced back at the path I had taken. I didn't see any tickets. They couldn't just disappear! What if I dropped them inside? I was preparing to get that umbrella and trek inside when I felt them down on my right hip. Whew! I guess they had worked their way out of my new smaller bra as I climbed up on the running board and contorted to bring in the wet umbrella. Still under the shirt, and DRY.

I was back inside the Mansion by 3:07. The rain continued. Around 3:30, it stopped! Those dirty, dirty liars and their weather predictions!

Anyhoo... as I was taking stuff out of my purse, I saw a text. Huh. That wasn't there when I pulled into the garage. I guess it got a better signal while I walked inside the Mansion. Or it could have been a lag because Farmer H has a poor signal in his SUS2.5.

2:21 "Hope your not out in it"

2:33 "It's pouring here and windy"

3:07 "I was. Stupid radar. Showed it getting here 3:00 to 4:30. So I planned town from 2:00 to 3:00. Just got back."

3:12 "I'll leave the saw on my way home ill be here till 4"

3:22 "Okay. No idea what you're talking about."

3:33 "The weather was horrible"

3:40 "What does SAW have to do with it????"

3:48 "That was for HOS sorry sent to wrong person"

Huh. I guess I'm off the hook for not remembering anything about a saw. So much for giving Farmer H credit for telling me when he was leaving. He wasn't even talking to ME! I guess I'll ask him if HOS is cooking his supper these days, so needs to be kept aware of his ETA.

A Fangirling Interlude

As I near the 33.3 percent milestone of my 36-visit (shh...35) leg therapy journey, I must pause to sing the praises of my OT. She really knows her stuff. While inconvenient to drive 45 minutes one-way three times a week, the appointments themselves are not unpleasant. That's a rousing endorsement from Mrs. HM. Or maybe I'm succumbing to Stockholm Syndrome...

Anyhoo... OT was pleased with the progress she observed on Friday. Looking at the inner part of my right knee, she moved the skin around and exclaimed,

"Look how soft and wrinkly it is!"

"Uh. Yes. It really is... My son would say, 'You elderlies, with your papery-thin skin!'"

"Oh. I don't want you to take that the wrong way. In the lymphedema world, 'soft and wrinkly' is GREAT! That's what we look for! I have to remember when I tell people that. I don't want them think I'm insulting them, or making fun. It's just what we like to see. What we're working for. One lady even had wrinkly TOES! Oh, look. YOU also have wrinkles in your toes."

"I see that now. I didn't think you were making fun. It's nice to see that progress."

"Some of that loose wrinkly-ness will go away, the longer it goes."

"Well. Not a lot, because I AM old, and my skin isn't so elastic anymore."

"I have one guy, he's in his 90s--"

"Oh, so he has a couple years on me, heh, heh!"

"Yeah. His daughter brings him in. He's on some kind of blood-thinner. I have to be really careful of his skin. And another guy who bleeds if you just look at him wrong. Like, he can just take off his pants and there's a fresh cut bleeding. I say, 'How do you DO that?' So I have to be aware of each person and how their skin reacts."

Indeed. I, myself, had some weird wound on my left leg on Wednesday. Took the support stocking off, and OT said, "WHAT am I going to do with you? There's some kind of sore on your leg!"

She held the mirror because I couldn't see it. WOW! It was about the size of a half-dollar, all white and gooey. I was worried that was PUS, but OT didn't think so. She swiped at it with a paper towel, and it rubbed off. "I think it's just wet skin. Maybe that area wasn't all the way dry when you put your sock back on after showering."

My thought was that I had a little nick there that was oozing, and being trapped in a support stocking and the rubbery velcro wraps made it all gooshy in that area, like when you have a bandaid that gets wet, and turns the skin soft and white. OT had put a non-stick gauze pad in there Wednesday, and on this day, there was just a tiny circle of fluid soaked in. So we're just waiting for that to close up. No infection, nothing to worry about.

That's the thing. OT is really good with people skills. I have a toenail that wants to fall off, and she said,

"It's not a big deal. I had one lady who had THREE toenails pop off as I was taking off her socks! I told her, 'Um. Did you not feel that? That's not normal. You might want to keep an eye on that.' She didn't really seem concerned."

I hope other clients are enjoying such stories about ME, heh, heh! Just saying, OT has a way of putting people at ease, like whatever is going on with you is not the most horrific thing she's ever seen!