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...

___________________________________________________________________

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. 

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

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.

POOLIO Is Kaput

A while back, Farmer H and Old Buddy took the cover off POOLIO, and spent a half hour leaning on the side, gazing into the shallow depths of the buttwater soup that Farmer H shocks with chemicals every year to start POOLIO season.

That was the last attention Farmer H paid POOLIO.

About a month ago, he said that POOLIO's liner was torn. Apparently, the solution to that is to do nothing. Not see about getting another liner put in. Not declaring that a fix would be too expensive. Just ignoring the situation. 

I'm not upset that Farmer H isn't pouring money into chemicals to get a handful of swims out of POOLIO. I'm sad that he doesn't have this option of an evening dip after a hot day of flipping and mowing. The part that concerns me is that POOLIO can become Mosquito Central. You don't want still water sitting around to be a breeding ground for mosquitoes. 

A "These are the things you've most recently done wrong" discussion is in order.

Meanwhile, here's a splash from the past. Including photos of Just-Born POOLIO. It seems like only yesterday that the boys were eagerly awaiting the installation. But it was May 30, 2006. Back when the Hillbilly Mansion was young, and people were not so politically correct with their ribald comments.

Enjoy.

You Can Trust Him To Build Your House, But Not To Serve Your Meal

It's another edition of Farmer H in the Kitchen. Where his behavior is like that of an alien who has no concept of bacteria nor the laws of physics. Last week it was a struggle getting Farmer H's food to his plate.

I'm sure you remember how Farmer H likes to grab food with his bare hands. Fries off the pan just removed from the oven. A grease-popping bratwurst. No tools necessary if I have set them beside the stove for his use. But if he subconsciously senses that he could make extra work for me, he'll empty a drawer for those utensils.

I make sure Farmer H has what he needs. Well, what a NORMAL person would need. Like all the food set out, with essential utensils.

"Wait! What are you doing? I figured you'd use your fork to get your slaw. I TOLD you that's what it was for. Now you've stabbed the sausage with it. You never do that."

"I can still use it for the slaw."

"No. It has grease on it. You're not putting that into the slaw container."

"I can use the potato salad spoon for the slaw."

"NO! That has potato salad on it, which will also contaminate the slaw. Let me get you ANOTHER spoon. It's only something extra I'll have to WASH BY HAND."

"I tell you all the time, just pick out a dishwasher and I'll put it in."

"Yeah. That hasn't happened in 28 years. I don't expect it to happen now."

Sunday evening, Farmer H's supper was baked chicken breast, stuffing, and corn on the cob. I set out the big yellow lunchroom tray for him. I figured the two ears of corn could go in the big rectangular section. The chicken in the circular section. And two servings of stuffing in two of the square sections. But no. We're working with Farmer H's brain.

I had microwaved the corn, each ear wrapped in plastic wrap. It's quicker than boiling (only two minutes), and the corn gets steamed just right. I moved the steaming hot corn over to the cutting block, still on the flimsy paper plate I'd put them on in the microwave. The butter was there, and it was easier than watching Farmer H play hot potato with the corn by grabbing it out of the microwave.

Silly me. I thought my job was over. I sat down at the kitchen table. Then looked to see Farmer H starting towards the living room balancing a bottle of flavored water, his tray, and THE PAPER PLATE WITH TWO EARS OF CORN rolling around!

"Hey! You can't take buttered corn on that paper plate! They'll roll off on the carpet! And the butter is already soaking through."

"Huh. You had them on the plate."

"For you to unwrap! I thought you'd put them in the long section of the tray."

"They don't fit.They're too long."

"You already had your chicken there!"

"I'll put them right here."

Farmer H laid those two rolly ears of corn across two of the square sections of the tray, his stuffing being piled in the round section.

"Again, that corn is going to roll off. Here! Put them in this lid from the Chinese container. Then they can't roll."

Farmer H did. And set that lid across the two square sections of the tray. I suspect he will be taking up a new hobby soon, pounding square pegs into round holes.

A Mission For Two

I am sending The Pony and Farmer H on a mission this week. They must drive to the regional lottery office to cash in two tickets. They are not NEW wins. In fact, one ticket will be expiring in August. So this "chore" needs to be done. One is a $10 ticket that I got at 10Box's left machine, worth $1000. The other is a $5 ticket that I got at the Gas Station Chicken Store, and sent to Genius. Also worth $1000.

Of course Genius can't cash a Missouri lottery ticket in Pennsylvania. So he sent it back to me, and I paid him with a return check. It takes two people to cash in these tickets, so each can "claim" half the win. That way, there is less paperwork, and taxes are not withheld, because you don't have to report a win under $600.01. It only gets included as "other" income during tax time. Each ticket is a separate win. So they are each claiming two $500 wins.

I used to go with Farmer H to claim my tickets. Now I'd rather not, because my legs stiffen up on the 90 minute drive. Oh, I don't have such a problem when going to the casino, heh, heh! I can tolerate stiff legs then. But if The Pony can take my place, and ride for three hours to accomplish this chore that takes 10 minutes, then I will gladly show a token of appreciation in the form of gift scratchers.

Farmer H just does it because it's part of his responsibilities that come with being married to me!

My Choking Story

It happened during my senior year of college. My home-town roommate and I were driving from Hillmomba back to Springfield. We had a 2-bedroom apartment a couple miles from campus. This time it was Roomie's turn to drive. We were in her white with red trim Mustang, about 3/4 of the way back, when we stopped to eat at Wendy's. 

When we finished, we headed to the bathroom before getting back on the road. It was down a wood-paneled hallway. Just a Men's Room and Ladies' Room, not the kinds with multiple stalls. Roomie entered the Ladies' room first, while I waited in the hallway for my turn. I had my soda cup in hand, eating the ice, which was the disc kind, with a flat side and a curved side.

All at once, I couldn't breathe! A piece of ice had been sucked into my trachea! I couldn't make any sound! I panicked! I was about to start banging on the wooden door in hopes Roomie would come out. Then a man wandered down the hall. I turned in wild-eyed panic, still holding that yellow cup in my left hand, and pointing at my throat with my right hand.

That guy immediately whacked me on the back. That piece of ice shot out and hit the wall. (And thankfully not HIM, heh, heh!).

"Thank you! I thought I was going to die!"

"It happens. I could tell you were in trouble."

Roomie came out of the Ladies' Room, wanting to know what was going on."

"Oh, nothing much. This guy just saved my life! I was choking on a piece of ice."

"Well, that's good." Said Roomie, never one to get excited over much of anything. Even my near-death.

I'm sure that piece of ice would have melted enough to be coughed out before I suffocated. Pretty sure. Though maybe water could have trickled down into my lungs and drowned me...

Thank the (future) Gummi Mary that guy was in the right place at the right time.

That Was Deceptively Easy

When I got home from leg therapy on Wednesday, it was 3:30. The first thing I did was call to check on my leg pumps, as OT had ordered suggested. I didn't get my legs to how they are today by ignoring OT! In fact, she is always complimenting me for my compliance. I hope she puts that in my permanent record, heh, heh! Anyhoo... I called the number that the regional rep for the leg pumps had given me.

According to OT, the order was authorized by a physician (some guy I can't remember who oversees my NP). It went into the insurance system on June 9. At therapy on Wednesday (July 8), OT said she had tried to contact the insurance. As had the regional representative for the leg pump manufacturer, who had met with us in May. Nobody got any response. Because these healthcare entities are limited in the amount of contacts they can make with the insurance, OT said the rep suggested that I call and see if I could get a response. Indeed, back in May, she mentioned how slow my insurance is, and said I might have to call them.

I had a little note with what I wanted to ask. OT had said to mention that I had a "prior auth," and she gave me the name of the contraption that I should be getting. And to mention how it had been ordered a month ago tomorrow.

I got voicemail.

Isn't that the way it always goes? You get yourself all revved up to present your case, and then have to scramble to fit the info into a message. I think I remembered the pertinent points. I left my name, insurance ID number, and phone number.

Then I set about the business of waiting. I was sure they'd call me right back! Just as soon as a representative was available. Apparently, those folks are long-talkers. They must have talked into the night with the people they were already on the phone with!

I carried my phone with me, so as not to miss the call. To the bathroom. To the living room to consult Farmer H about his supper. Back to the kitchen. Set it beside me while finishing my scratchers. I needed to put my phone on the charger as usual, but I was afraid it would ring, and I'd be unable to rush over to the kitchen counter before it quit. THEN I'd be faced with playing voicemail tag.

So intent was I on getting this problem solved that I answered two random numbers! Just in case. My Insurance has called me from a variety of numbers, and their name does not show up. But these were just annoying calls. One wanted my opinion on data centers. We don't even have that issue in our county, though an adjacent one is battling a proposed data center. The other call was repairing roofs in our area, and quite willing to fit me in. I hung up on both. You know, because my real caller might be trying to reach me!

By 8:00 p.m. it dawned on me that I probably wasn't going to get a call. I consulted Farmer H.

"Do you think I should call back tomorrow? Or will that irritate them, and make them put me at the bottom of their list?"

"I don't know. I think I would call them every day until I get somebody."

"Yeah. Maybe I'll give them tomorrow, and then call back on Friday."

Thursday morning at 10:13, my call was returned! I could see that it was from the number I had called to leave the message. Of course I had my phone next to me! Along with my insurance card, driver's license, debit card, and the notes I had made. You can't be TOO prepared!

Insurance Gal listened to my talking points. Seems that all they were waiting for was payment. Insurance covered 80 percent, and the other 20 percent was my responsibility. That's pretty standard. I knew I had met next to nothing of my deductible this year, and that I would have to pay. Insurance Gal quoted me the price: $1172.01. She asked if I wanted a payment plan, to be billed. Or to use a credit card or debit card. I said I wanted to get it over with, and just pay it right then with my debit card.

Insurance Gal said I had to virtually sign the contract. Did I know about virtual signing? I affirmed that indeed, I do that through YourChart with my appointments. So I had an idea. She sent me an email with a link to the program they use. Walked me through it. Then she read from a script, asking me if I agreed to have my debit card charged for this amount. I did. The charge went through, and Insurance Gal said that FedEx should deliver my package in 3 to 6 business days. That I would get an email with the day and time window.

OT better be proud of me for getting this show on the road!

I don't know if this was just the time my leg pumps were finally ready, or if the holdup was waiting for payment. You'd think they would have contacted me by phone, email, or regular mail over those four weeks. Rather than leave me hangin' without knowing what was needed. Maybe it was on their schedule to call me Thursday anyway. 

I still plan to take credit!

She Likes Me! She Really Likes Me!

There has been a delay in getting my leg pumps. Nobody knows why. That's all we're waiting for before OT releases me from therapy. It's been four weeks since they were ordered. I have to call my insurance to check on the situation, since they haven't responded to calls from OT and the pump rep.

Anyhoo... there's nothing more to that story today. As I was leaving therapy, I confirmed the name of the manufacturer that I need to mention in my call.

"What if it takes ANOTHER four weeks before I get them?"

"Well. At least I like you! If I didn't, if you were some cranky lady who didn't tell good stories, then I'd be on the phone in a heartbeat! 'You've gotta get this woman her pumps!' So I could get rid of her!"

Did you miss that part? OT said SHE LIKES ME! And I like her, too.

Cue the montage of us frolicking in the park, flying kites, drinking one milkshake with two straws, laughing at a private joke, trying on funky hats at a street festival, and strolling down the sidewalk doing that "side-kick" thing where you kick your foot over to whack your companion's rumpus. Okay. Maybe that's a little far-fetched. We all know I can't balance on one leg and bend my knee enough to deliver a side-kick...

Anyhoo... that brightened my spirits to hear that she enjoys working with on me. Furthermore, I asked about when I'd know the six months were up, and how to order my next set of velcro leg wraps.

"Just call me and I'll put in the order. Who knows... I might STILL be seeing you!"

Heh, heh. That wouldn't be the end of the world.

Don't Try This At Home

I am not a doctor. Nor do I play one on TV. I've seen every episode of ER about five times. I consult random sites on the innernets. I observe Farmer H's maladies and treatments. Using this great store of questionable information, I diagnosed my dizziness that has plagued me for a couple months.

I think it was low blood pressure.

Yes, I mentioned this several days ago. And my "prescription" for solving it. I am here now with my results. You may recall that I took matters into my own hands, and cut my blood pressure medication in half. I also changed the time of day I took it, from mid-morning to evening. Plus I made an effort to consume more water. As I type this...

I have not had a dizzy spell in 56 hours. Not since Sunday evening, 45 minutes after I took my half-pill of 10mg lisinopril.

I have continued to take that half-pill every evening. I'm not quitting a blood pressure med cold turkey. Just tapering it down. I will continue this regimen unless I start to feel poorly. Like if I get headaches, which was one of my initial symptoms before I was diagnosed (by a doctor!) with high blood pressure. Since that initial diagnosis, I have lost 44 percent of my body weight. Yet the dosage of this medication has never changed. I think it might need to be adjusted. Which I will address at my appointment next month.

For now, this strategy is working. KNOCK ON WOOD (and the whole forest behind the Mansion)!

We Almost Lost The Pony!

I was getting supper ready for Farmer H on Friday night when I heard a text come in. It was from The Pony, asking if I had time for a quick call. That is not a good sign! The Pony doesn't call. Of course I picked up my phone an immediately called The Pony. Who sounded a bit hoarse and congested.

"I just wanted to let you know that I'm okay. But earlier I was having supper, and I choked. Like in, I couldn't breathe. I was on the phone with some friends. I had ordered a steak from [where Farmer H used to play bingo and eat at a local sports bar]. It was on sale half price. With the delivery and tip, it was still under $20. I chewed it and swallowed, but it wouldn't go down. It got stuck in my throat--"

"OH NO! But that's your esophagus. How did it stop your from breathing?"

"I guess it was just in such a lump, pushing on the trachea. I couldn't cough it up. I couldn't get any air. I couldn't talk. I was scared! I started punching myself under the rib cage. You know, like where they tell you to do the Heimlich. After about five times, I vomited out that chunk of meat, and I could breathe again. But I kept vomiting. Just bile and snot from my nose draining from the irritation from the vomiting."

"It's almost 7:00. And you're just now telling me!"

"I had to wait until I calmed down. I'm pretty sure I'm okay now. I didn't want you to worry. My friends didn't know what was going on. I couldn't talk to tell them. I just went silent. My vision was starting to go black around the edges. I could have died!"

"And I wouldn't know! I don't talk to you every day. I would have just thought your phone wasn't charged if I called and you didn't answer. Then if you didn't come out when I came to pick you up tomorrow, I would have called Dad to bring the key. And he would have found you!"

"I know! I'm still trying to deal with it."

"Don't order half-price steak anymore!"

"I won't!"

So scary! I've choked before, but mine was with a disc-shaped ice cube. The universal sign for choking is SO ACCURATE! All you can do is silently point at your throat. Even if my parental helicopter was warmed up and ready for takeoff, I couldn't have gotten to The Pony in time.

We figure The Pony has about 6 lives left. This choking. The car accident on his first Thanksgiving at college. And the allergic reaction to amoxycillin as a baby.

Not Presenting The Evidence He Imagined

We had our 4th of July grilling on Sunday, per Farmer H's wishes. He had said he'd be home around 4:00, but got there at 4:30. That meant supper wasn't ready until after 5:30. Which is a normal supper time, but Farmer H usually starts at 3:00, so we're all done and he drives The Pony home around 5:30. This time it was 7:00 when they left.

That's not a big deal, just something unexpected. I had to put off my shower until Monday morning, putting me in more of a time crunch getting ready for leg therapy. I just wish Farmer H had made his timing clear before sending a text at 3:30, so I could have adjusted my day accordingly, perhaps picking up The Pony later.

You can see I was already a bit perturbed with Farmer H when he got here. I had the meat set out, and his BBQ sauce, and pans to put the finished meat in. We were having pork steaks and "Smokehouse Swiss" bratwursts, plus deviled eggs and potato salad that The Pony and I had prepared the day before. Plus baked beans we did on Sunday afternoon.

As Farmer H was taking out the pork steaks, I reminded him that I like mine well done around the edges. Black, even. And I like mine without a bone.

"It looks like the one on top doesn't have a bone."

Just pointing that out to him. So he knew which one to char a little bit. When he brought in the finished pan of meat, The Pony had everything set out on the cutting block. I told them to go ahead and fill their trays. It's easier that way, rather than risk the loss of an arm in their feeding frenzy. When I came back, they were both seated at the table, EATING!

"Oh. Go ahead. Don't bother to wait for me. Even though I'm always the last one done. Huh. Where's my pork steak? This one has a bone."

"I'm pretty sure they all had a bone."

"No. I told you that one on top didn't have one."

"Mine don't have no bone."

"That's the one I wanted!"

"It was on top! I took the one on top!"

"But I told you I wanted one without the bone. And you cooked them, and said they ALL had a bone! But I told you the one on top didn't, when you took the package outside."

"Yeah. I took the one on top."

"I meant the one on top of the package! I could see it didn't have a bone. And now you took it."

"Yes. I just got the one on top. Here! Do you want it! I only ate a couple bites."

"No. I'll look for another one."

Which I found. Another one without a bone. But it wasn't all black around the edge like the one on Farmer H's tray. I don't know how he thought he was defending himself with that logic. It's pretty clear he took my rightful pork steak, the one I had mentioned numerous times. Yet he acted like he had a valid argument for justifying his choice.

Farmer H should never defend himself in court.

It's A Local Epidemic, I Tell You!

The Greater Hillmomba region is beset with a new epidemic. STRIPE PARKING! I'm pretty certain there is no cure. Anybody attempting to start the parker on a path of recovery might face deadly consequences. Seems like only a couple weeks ago I was nearly run down by a Stripe Parker at the Sis-Town Casey's. Saturday's incurable sufferer was observed at 10Box.

I got a picture of this one. Don't blame the man. He was parked farther down the row, and was merely putting his cart up against the building. 

The red car was parked on the striped walkway when I got there. The handicap space next to it was open, which is where I parked, though scooted over a bit because, you know, there was a CAR PARKED ON THE HANDICAP WALKWAY, and I needed to make sure T-Hoe's door could open all the way.

This Stripe Parker DID have a handicap placard. That does NOT excuse the behavior! You might think it more justifiable than the man on the 4-wheeler who was backed in and sitting there last week. I do not. If a handicap space is not available, I park in a regular space out in the main lot, and watch. Until somebody comes out and leaves a handicap space open. Then I drive up and park there.

Sure, it's EXTREMELY hot. People are getting their first-of-the-month checks and groceries. Perhaps some goodies for their 4th of July cookouts. That does not excuse them from the unwritten rules of society. Striped handicap walkway parking might actually have a WRITTEN rule somewhere. Yet it's never enforced.

The handicapped have a different-titleness where some behaviors are concerned. But not an ENtitledness to park wherever they want.

What Is Wrong With Me?

After seeing that The Pony got inside with groceries on Thursday's Errand Day, I headed to the Gas Station Chicken Store, to cash in some winners and get more scratchers. The drive takes about 15 minutes from The Pony's house. My rightful handicap space was open. I stepped out into the searing heat, walked across in front of T-Hoe, and my whole world went to Not-Heaven in a handbasket!

I WAS SO DIZZY!

It hit all at once. I was strolling along. Had just about stepped under the roof of the gas pump area. When the world started to spin! I put my hand out to steady myself, first at the brick support post, then along the brick wall under the window. I stepped inside. The room swirled. Two people were at the counter. I stepped over to the counter area by the door, in front of the register, where there's the machine you can use to scan tickets.

"Sorry. I'm not trying to butt ahead. I just don't feel well right now."

I leaned on the counter. The two people were together. They finished up. I moved to the side, and gave Fave my winners and her envelope with tickets. She tried to print my Show Me Cash draw ticket.

"This has not been working! Let me try again."

"That's okay. You can skip it. I don't feel good."

"Something is wrong with that printer. I keep trying to put the paper in again, but it doesn't work. I keep getting this message on the screen from the lottery. I can't scan tickets. If you want to wait, I can try again."

"No. I don't feel like waiting today. That's okay. I'll just use what cash I have in my pocket."

I picked out four tickets, paid, and left. Hobbled dizziliy back to T-Hoe. Called Farmer H and explained the situation, after drinking the last 1/3 of water in my water bottle. Plus half another unopened bottle that has likely been in T-Hoe for a couple years. I dare the microplastics to take me!

"I guess I will try to drive home. It might take me a little longer. But if I don't show up, come looking for me! I'm trying to think of places I could pull off if I need to."

"If you feel like you can drive..."

"I think I'll start feeling better in a few minutes. Last week when this happened, I felt better after water and half a soda."

I wrote on my tickets. Cranked the air up colder. Strapped on the seatbelt. And started off. But had to slam on the brakes when a lady walked across in front of me! I made it off the lot. Made my right turn at the first light. Had a green through the second light. Then felt woozy going under the overpass.

"You're fine. You're fine. You can pull over at Orb K if you need to. Just a little farther. This is just panic right now. That's the tingling in your legs. Just breathe. Now just over the hill. You can turn by Mick the Mechanic's if you need to. Okay. The prison entrance is up here in case you need to get off the road. Just a little more. There's the bridge, and the county blacktop road. Once you're there, you can go slower. Just keep going. Okay. There's room to stop at the low water bridge. Up around the curve. Almost to the mailboxes. Gravel now. Almost home."

I made it to the garage. Farmer H was coming through the people door. How sweet! Checking on me. NOPE! He was getting dogfood. To put in bowls with eggs that I told him to throw out. The dogs were totally not interested in eggy dogfood. It was 96 degrees! But they DID want a piece of grease bread from my hand as I went in the kitchen door.

I drank more water. Changed clothes. Ran cold water over my wrists. Started to feel a little better after 10-15 minutes. Made Farmer H's supper, then sat down with my scratchers and regular snack of an ounce of cheddar, and 12 dill pickle slices. An hour later, the dizziness was completely gone.

My last doctor NP visit was May 13. My blood pressure was 140/60. I have lost 16 pounds (intentionally) since then. I wonder if maybe my blood pressure is going too low. Maybe my medication (10mg lisinopril) that I've been on for 25 years might need the dose adjusted. Or maybe it was a combination of that, and the heat. I try to stay hydrated. I take a bottle of water with me to town, and drink it during my travels. I felt just fine going in and out with The Pony during errands. But this hit me all at once.

I've been having some dizziness off and on for a month or two. Since I've been trying to stay more hydrated, it had seemed better. I don't know what's going on. I'm thinking about not taking my BP medicine until I get back home from town, rather than in the mornings. Or maybe cutting it in half to see if that changes anything. My next appointment is in August.

Errands For All

The Pony and I did our usual errands on Thursday. I'd already stopped by the bank on my way home from leg therapy on Wednesday. So we just did T-Hoe's gas, post office, and groceries. The day was SO HOT! Upper 90s, with the heat index over 105. My fingers, and the end of my nose, were cold to the touch, since I had T-Hoe's air conditioner set at 66 degrees for The Pony. Once we started making stops, it took a while to cool back down.

I pulled into The Pony's driveway, and said goodbye before opening up T-Hoe's hatch for the groceries. The Pony rummaged around. Rummaged some more. And came up empty-handed.

"Huh. I can't find my keys. I'm sure I had them when I came out. I'd just gotten the mail, and had that card to show you. Um. I guess I'll walk around and see if I left anything open."

No. Nothing open. The Pony was locked out.

"I'll call Dad. He has your other key."

Farmer H was home (for once!), and cleaning GassyG Jr for the impending cookout on Sunday.

"Yeah. I can bring the key. It will take about 10 minutes."

That was wishful thinking! The Pony and I both know it takes a minimum of 20 minutes, if you don't get behind a tractor, or mowers, or utility workers.

"I don't want to sit here that long with T-Hoe running. Look. The temperature says 105. We'll go for a little drive so T-Hoe can cool off. Dad won't be here until 4:40 at the earliest. Probably 4:45."

Off we went, driving around looking at houses for sale, comparing their curbside look to our flips, and checking prices on their listings online. We were back at 4:43. At 4:46, Farmer H drove SilverRedO into The Pony's back yard. The Pony thanked Farmer H, and trotted to get the spare key. Then loaded MY groceries into SilverRedO, for Farmer H to take home and refrigerate/freeze, because I still had to stop by the Gas Station Chicken Store for my scratchers.

Such a relief to find Farmer H available. I told him to make me a spare key.

Mrs. HM Takes A Baby Step

Are you sitting down? Do so. But first get those smelling salts within reach. Brace yourself. 

MRS. HM STOOD UP FOR HERSELF!

Sure, it was not to an actual person, mind you. But to AI. Still, for once Mrs. HM was not content to just let things go after being taken. No siree, Bob! Not this time.

Here's the deal. I use powder after the shower. Especially in those crannies behind my knees, which get strapped into velcro wraps 23 hours a day. I don't want to take a chance of any moisture getting trapped there, causing an irrigation of skin-on-skin. I've used powder for years. Like in those areas that might get sweaty, like leg creases, or the underboob area. 

The powder I like is The Devil's own. Equate brand, Pure Cornstarch With Aloe. Though I'm not sure how it can be PURE cornstarch, if there's aloe. It used to come without. Anyhoo... my point is, no talcum for me. I don't care to be a participant in a cancer settlement with Johnson & Johnson.

You may recall that I haven't been in The Devil's Playground since around the end of 2021. My powder lasts a while. Then I had Farmer H pick it up for me. THEN he couldn't find it. Despite asking a worker, who also couldn't find it. That's when I bought it on Amazon.

I'm not out of powder yet. But I always like to have a backup. So a few weeks ago, I made an order from Amazon. All my other items showed up as promised, within a couple days. The powder said it would be here between June 15-23. I kept watching my emails to see if it was out for delivery. Nope. It was coming by USPS. So I figured it might take a couple extra days, due to our rural delivery.

June 23 came and went. Every time I tried to check the tracking provided, it only said the package was expected on June 23. Then after that passed, it said the package "was likely delivered on June 23." But that if I didn't have it by June 30, to contact the seller.

By July 1, I was mad as Not-Heaven, and not gonna take it anymore. Of course there was no way to contact the seller. I got in a loop, being given choices like:

late

damaged

wrong size

found it cheaper

not as described

There was no option to say it didn't arrive. And going to the item, then tracking, being told it was likely delivered on June 23. There was no way to get to the step-by-step tracking. I was exhausted from so much hoop-jumping. You're out of luck if you want to complain that you never got an item. Did I want to leave feedback? NO! What good would that do? It would not address my issue. Just be bitter venting.

Meanwhile, Farmer H went to the Devil's Playground for dogfood. He took a picture of my powder. Couldn't find it. Asked a worker. And it was RIGHT BESIDE HER HEAD! He got me two of them, though the 22 oz rather than the 15 oz that I wanted. Nothing like weightlifting a heavy powder for a workout after the shower.

Anyhoo... on Wednesday, before I left for leg therapy, I spent 25 minutes trying to work out my Amazon issue. And by some miracle, which I will never be able to repeat, I got a box to pop up so I could type with AI. I was able to state that my package ordered on June 4 that was supposed to arrive by June 23 was still not here by July 1. AI asked if I wanted them to ask the seller for a refund. YES!

While I was looking at my phone on the parking lot before going inside for therapy, I got an email from Amazon. 

I got $16.93 credited back to my credit card for my missing order, plus tax. Which is fine, because I paid with the credit card.

YAY, ME!

Farmer H Gets A Manly Pedi

Tuesday evening, I sat on the short couch, ripping off my velcro leg wraps, and peeling off the support stockings that trap my feet 23 hours a day. Farmer H was kicked back in the recliner in only tighty-whities, having just returned from his own shower. He rotated his ankles, admiring his feet. I hate feet, but Farmer H has amazingly tiny soft white feet.

"I got my monthly pedicure today."

He said as I was dealing with my snaggle-y toenails that grow like horse hooves, with the right big toenail still trying to fall off.

"That's nice. I'm happy just to let my feet breathe for an hour a day when I have a shower."

"I noticed when I went in the shop that their sign was dangling. While I was in the chair, I heard sirens. Then the fire marshal came in, and said, 'We can't let you stay open with this sign hanging. It could fall and hurt someone. It's a hazard. So you'll have to close until it's fixed.'"

"Huh. I hope they get it done in time for your next appointment."

"When I come back through later in the day, I seen that the sign was fixed. So they didn't waste no time. They had that area under it blocked off before, so people couldn't walk under it. But I can understand why they got shut down."

Farmer H leads a charmed life. The Universe is not going to allow him to miss a monthly pedicure.

Therapy Might Rub Some People The Wrong Way

Have I mentioned that I've been going to leg therapy for the last two months? Maybe just in passing. I certainly am not one to dwell on such things, heh, heh! It started on May 5 with a consultation and a session. Poor Farmer H drove me, and was waiting in the waiting room. Since it was just an assessment, I didn't think it would take long. But it was 90 minutes!

Anyhoo... I've been keeping my three times per week appointments, just recently reduced to two. For each session, I have to do an online check-in, during which I electronically sign a form stating that I am the responsible party to pay for any fees not covered by my insurance. Just the standard waiver that all medical facilities use.

Thursday on the way to the casino, I got a notice on YourChart that I had a bill. Well. I suppose that's not surprising. There's often a copay for medical visits, and I had received no bills to date. I can't access YourChart on my phone, because I can't get back to the screen that needs the security code they send. Someone more phone savvy, like The Pony, or perhaps a toddler, might be able to do it. The Pony could not, because we were out of internet range, and I said I'd do it back home.

When I logged in, I saw the amount due. I could NOT get an itemization of what the charges were for. It may be SOMEWHERE in YourChart, but I could not find it. I paid anyway, because I figured it was something to do with my therapy.

Monday, I got a paper statement from my hospital/clinic. It was the bill I had already paid through YourChart. But it had the itemized charges.

Well. That was a bit shocking! Let the record show that my appointments, except for the first, are for 60 minutes. I'm usually in and out in about 50-55 minutes. Only once, I went over by 5 minutes. I'm sure all the therapists use the last 10 minutes or so to document what was done, after the patient has left.

Each of my sessions goes the same way. I get called back, remove my velcro leg wraps (which were the short-stretch wraps in the beginning). Then I get on that hydraulic table/bed, and OT does the massage therapy on my legs. Except every couple of weeks, which begins with measurements, then the massage.

It looks like the billing is for EVERY 15 MINUTES! That's the best I can work out from the charges. An hour costs $792! That's $198 for every 15 minutes. That's $13.20 per minute! A more petty person might expect a HAPPY ENDING for such an expensive massage, heh, heh!

This is the problem with our healthcare system! Insurance bloats up those charges, then gets a negotiated discount. The fee for my one month of occupational therapy was $9,167.00. Which was negotiated down to $1,108.57. Of which my responsibility was $360.

I'm pretty sure OT does not reap the rewards of this scam in her salary.