Today we sail past the finish line, arms above our heads, in celebration of completing Jerkapalooza, with Part 5 of the series whose mitigating factors began and concluded on Friday, when Mrs. Hillbilly Mom encountered a seemingly unrelated quintuplet of unpleasants, banded together unwittingly in an effort to get her goat.
I was at my next-to-last stop, the final one being the gas station chicken store for my 44 oz Diet Coke. But first I had to run in the Casey's two stores over, to get my Golden Ticket scratcher. I can't buy them just anywhere, all willy-nilly. I have a plan, based on the number on the roll of tickets. I keep a record of where I get them, and the numbers of the winners and losers, and can pretty much predict about how many tickets each place sells during a specific time period. No use buying a ticket from a roll where you've already gotten a big winner. Since I have a plan, I always have my money counted out. I know which tickets I'm going after, and how much it will cost. That's how I stay on my budget, balancing wins and losses.
I stepped up to the right-hand register and handed the clerk a $40 winner to cash in. I asked for a Golden Ticket ($30) and a $1000 Frenzy ($10). The girl tore off my tickets and scanned them. Then she pushed them across the counter to me, opened up her register, and handed me a ten-dollar bill. I was perplexed. I had bought $40 worth of tickets, using a $40 winner, and now I had a ten-dollar bill back with my tickets.
"Uh. This can't be right." I looked down at my tickets, and saw that instead of the $30 Golden Ticket, that little gal had given me a $20 ticket called the $4 Million Spectacular. It's not spectacular for me. I don't win on it. I rarely buy one. I certainly didn't want THIS one. It was not in my plan. "Oh, you've given me the $4 Million Spectacular. I asked for a Golden Ticket. I knew I shouldn't be getting any change back." I pushed the ticket and the ten back across to her. She looked at me like I had two heads. And she wanted to chop both of them off.
I've had this little gal before, and while she's not exactly rude, she seems put out when I cash in a winner. Or even when I take in cash to buy one. It's not rocket science. She's not infirm. All she has to do is take two steps, pull on a ticket from the case that sits right up on the counter, and tear it off. She doesn't even have to bend over to get one near the floor, like that poor old lady clerk at the Waterside Mart.
It's not my fault that this is part of her job duties, or that she wasn't paying attention to what she was doing. I asked for a specific ticket, I paid, and I wanted what I asked for. Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not mumble. With 28 years of teaching under her ever-tightening belt, she has learned to enunciate clearly, at a decibel level calibrated to be heard, yet not assault the eardrum.
The more...ahem...mature clerks there are all quite pleasant and accommodating. I think perhaps this little gal just has a case of The Millennials, her being about the same generation as the #1 Son. They're so put-upon, you know. What she needs to do is start herself a blog to complain about things that do not suit her.
Let the record show that my ticket was exchanged, and that the one I wanted and eventually received was a $30 winner.
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
The Jerk Store Called...They Mistakenly Liquidated Their Inventory Of Smirking Snobs
Picking up speed, coasting down the back side of Jerkapalooza with Part 4 of her five-part series, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom wheels her cart/walker down the main aisle of The Devil's Playground, careful to keep right, as with accepted traffic flow on the highways and byways and discount store aisles of the United States of America.
After darting out from under the Wheels of Death launched at me by the no-longer-chatting Old Goat, I slowed my cart-walker down in preparation for a right turn into the condiments aisle to pick up a plastic jar of Kraft Real Mayo mayonnaise. I could not turn in, though, because somebody was coming out. At her own pace. On her own terms.
I stopped my cart/walker, expecting Lady Cartsworth to come on out. But no. She had a little Cartsworthlet orbiting her like a satellite. This boy was probably around 4 years old. Old enough to know better. But did Lady Cartsworth insist that he stay near, perhaps grasping her shorts-tails? No. She let him roam, as free as a buffalo at home on the range. The Cartsworthlet cavorted like a hybrid deer/antelope, this way and that way, and this way and that way, like an oft-seen laddie, taking up first the aisle opening on the left side of his mother's cart, and then the aisle opening on the right side of his mother's cart. Let the record show that plenty of discouraging words flitted through my mind. But I held them in.
I politely waited for Lady Cartsworth to corral her boy young 'un and finally exit the aisle and allow room for me to enter. And do you know what she did?
SHE SMIRKED AT ME!
That's right. Not even the common courtesy to say, "Excuse me," or "He's wound up today," or just a simple "Sorry." There I was, waiting, waiting...and she SMIRKED at me. Like she was the one in the right, and I was the one in the wrong! Like she OWNED that aisle, and how dare I expect her child to cease his shenanigans so that I might complete my shopping before nightfall. SMIRKED at me! Like, "Sucks to be you."
I daresay Lady Cartsworth could have taken a lesson from the harried mom down at the other main aisle past the Kraft Real Mayo. SHE was standing (in the middle of the main aisle, of course) surrounded by her five children of assorted ages, giving them a lecture on how to behave in the store!
I'm pretty sure she has never been a best-seller at The Jerk Store.
After darting out from under the Wheels of Death launched at me by the no-longer-chatting Old Goat, I slowed my cart-walker down in preparation for a right turn into the condiments aisle to pick up a plastic jar of Kraft Real Mayo mayonnaise. I could not turn in, though, because somebody was coming out. At her own pace. On her own terms.
I stopped my cart/walker, expecting Lady Cartsworth to come on out. But no. She had a little Cartsworthlet orbiting her like a satellite. This boy was probably around 4 years old. Old enough to know better. But did Lady Cartsworth insist that he stay near, perhaps grasping her shorts-tails? No. She let him roam, as free as a buffalo at home on the range. The Cartsworthlet cavorted like a hybrid deer/antelope, this way and that way, and this way and that way, like an oft-seen laddie, taking up first the aisle opening on the left side of his mother's cart, and then the aisle opening on the right side of his mother's cart. Let the record show that plenty of discouraging words flitted through my mind. But I held them in.
I politely waited for Lady Cartsworth to corral her boy young 'un and finally exit the aisle and allow room for me to enter. And do you know what she did?
SHE SMIRKED AT ME!
That's right. Not even the common courtesy to say, "Excuse me," or "He's wound up today," or just a simple "Sorry." There I was, waiting, waiting...and she SMIRKED at me. Like she was the one in the right, and I was the one in the wrong! Like she OWNED that aisle, and how dare I expect her child to cease his shenanigans so that I might complete my shopping before nightfall. SMIRKED at me! Like, "Sucks to be you."
I daresay Lady Cartsworth could have taken a lesson from the harried mom down at the other main aisle past the Kraft Real Mayo. SHE was standing (in the middle of the main aisle, of course) surrounded by her five children of assorted ages, giving them a lecture on how to behave in the store!
I'm pretty sure she has never been a best-seller at The Jerk Store.
Monday, May 29, 2017
The Jerk Store Called...They've Got A Case Of Self-Importance On Backorder
Cresting the hump of Jerkapalooza in Part 3 of the five-part series, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is pushing her shopping cart/walker combo down the main meat aisle of The Devil's Playground as if she has a right to be there.
You know the main meat aisle. Along the wall are wrapped trays of assorted meats, arranged by beef, pork, chicken, and processed delicacies like bacon and sausage and lunch meat. In the middle of that large aisle are the open freezers, which seem quite wasteful, soaking up that ambient heat all willy-nilly all the live-long day.
It was by one of these open freezers that I paused. Looking inside for deals, perhaps, in honor of the Memorial Day holiday. What better way to honor dead heroes than with cheap meats, anyway? I did not see the pre-pattied hamburgers I was seeking, only a bin full of pork steak family packs. We've had them before, and they are as tasty as those I usually buy at Save A Lot. But we were only planning for bratwursts and hamburgers this time, since my sister the ex-mayor's wife had invited us to her barbecue on Monday.
As I started to wheel my cart/walker across the aisle from that bin, over to the crossways aisles for mayonnaise (KRAFT! Not Miracle Whip!), I was stopped by a couple of old geezers (because the young geezers were all in daycare, presumably). These two old goats had been chatting ever since I entered the main meat aisle. Each had his cart. It's like they were lined up to play follow-the-leader (sucks to be an OLD geezer, because I imagine they could play the real thing if they were at daycare with the young geezers). The goat in the lead was turned around, talking over the cart of the goat being led. You know how old geezers are. They gossip just like old crones.
Since they were making those "See you around" kind of noises, I waited for a moment, thinking the lead old goat was ready to move on. And I didn't want to dart out in front of him like some scofflaw in a little sports car darting in front of T-Hoe. I waited. And waited. Since Old Goat 1 didn't seem to be moving anytime soon, despite his too-long goodbye...I wheeled my cart across the front of that freezer bin to enter the main traffic aisle and proceed to my crossways aisle for the mayo.
VROOM VROOM REEEEEEEEEEE!
Old Goat 1 peeled out of there like a funny car on the drag strip when the ready-set-go lights ticked down. I'm surprised he didn't leave cart tire tread on the tiles. The very second I started out, he whipped around and gunned for me. Had I not been so light on my feet now since making my wise choices for the past year, I daresay he would have t-boned my cart/walker and sent me rumpus-over-teakettle into the cake decorating counter! The scenario couldn't have been better executed if it was orchestrated by a second-unit director of a major motion picture. I felt the air from Old Goat 1's exhaust lift the tail of my too-large big shirt ever-so-slightly.
Somebody really needs to keep better tabs on these old retired guys. You can bet I'll never let Farmer H go hang out at The Devil's Playground when he's fully retired.
Hahahahahahaha! Had you going there for a minute, didn't I?
You know the main meat aisle. Along the wall are wrapped trays of assorted meats, arranged by beef, pork, chicken, and processed delicacies like bacon and sausage and lunch meat. In the middle of that large aisle are the open freezers, which seem quite wasteful, soaking up that ambient heat all willy-nilly all the live-long day.
It was by one of these open freezers that I paused. Looking inside for deals, perhaps, in honor of the Memorial Day holiday. What better way to honor dead heroes than with cheap meats, anyway? I did not see the pre-pattied hamburgers I was seeking, only a bin full of pork steak family packs. We've had them before, and they are as tasty as those I usually buy at Save A Lot. But we were only planning for bratwursts and hamburgers this time, since my sister the ex-mayor's wife had invited us to her barbecue on Monday.
As I started to wheel my cart/walker across the aisle from that bin, over to the crossways aisles for mayonnaise (KRAFT! Not Miracle Whip!), I was stopped by a couple of old geezers (because the young geezers were all in daycare, presumably). These two old goats had been chatting ever since I entered the main meat aisle. Each had his cart. It's like they were lined up to play follow-the-leader (sucks to be an OLD geezer, because I imagine they could play the real thing if they were at daycare with the young geezers). The goat in the lead was turned around, talking over the cart of the goat being led. You know how old geezers are. They gossip just like old crones.
Since they were making those "See you around" kind of noises, I waited for a moment, thinking the lead old goat was ready to move on. And I didn't want to dart out in front of him like some scofflaw in a little sports car darting in front of T-Hoe. I waited. And waited. Since Old Goat 1 didn't seem to be moving anytime soon, despite his too-long goodbye...I wheeled my cart across the front of that freezer bin to enter the main traffic aisle and proceed to my crossways aisle for the mayo.
VROOM VROOM REEEEEEEEEEE!
Old Goat 1 peeled out of there like a funny car on the drag strip when the ready-set-go lights ticked down. I'm surprised he didn't leave cart tire tread on the tiles. The very second I started out, he whipped around and gunned for me. Had I not been so light on my feet now since making my wise choices for the past year, I daresay he would have t-boned my cart/walker and sent me rumpus-over-teakettle into the cake decorating counter! The scenario couldn't have been better executed if it was orchestrated by a second-unit director of a major motion picture. I felt the air from Old Goat 1's exhaust lift the tail of my too-large big shirt ever-so-slightly.
Somebody really needs to keep better tabs on these old retired guys. You can bet I'll never let Farmer H go hang out at The Devil's Playground when he's fully retired.
Hahahahahahaha! Had you going there for a minute, didn't I?
Sunday, May 28, 2017
The Jerk Store Called...They're Awaiting A Shipment Of Replacement Eyeballs
As we progress to Part 2 of Jerkapalooza, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has made her way into The Devil's Playground to pick up some supplies for potato-salad-making so that she does not turn up at her sister the ex-mayor's wife's Memorial Day barbecue empty-handed.
The produce section is right up front in my regular Devil's Playground. I had already grabbed a 5-pound bag of Idaho potatoes. I don't keep them on hand, because we don't eat many potatoes now that The Pony is gone away to college. He liked them baked, with lots of butter and salt. We use them occasionally in the Broccocaulipeppot, but that's mainly a cool-weather dish. If I have a bag of potatoes sitting in the pantry, I pretty much ignore them until I trip over them, or they start to stink, or they sprout so that their tentacles grasp at my ankles when I step in to grab some salsa.
I had put my potato bag in the cart, and was rounding the end of the aisle to look for tomatoes. I don't put them in potato salad, of course, but Farmer H was grilling for us on Sunday, so I wanted some nice big tomatoes to slice for the hamburgers. As I started down the aisle, I noticed, on the end cap of the aisle to the left, a display of cherries. Cherries on the stem, in a plastic bag with handles and a plastic sliding closer thingy.
Farmer H likes cherries. They're better for him than Casey's donuts. I also like cherries. I saw that the price was three dollars and something a pound. Of course the bags didn't say how much was in them, but I figured it was at least a couple of pounds. They weren't going to be cheap. So I looked for a bag where there were no smashed cherries. Just looked. I didn't paw through them like 5:00 a.m. customers at a table of children's clothes at a Friday morning garage sale. I saw an acceptable bag of cherries, and put them in the child seat of my cart. Then I continued down to the middle of the aisle to look at tomatoes.
It took me a few minutes. I didn't want organic tomatoes. To me, that just means they're fertilized with poop, and somebody sits guard for $50 an hour and flicks away the bugs and birds and tomato hornworms with a silk scarf, rather than those tomatoes having chemical fertilizer and pesticide powder. I usually like the tomatoes that are still on the stem. But I didn't see any of those. I DID see some that were two-in-a-pack. Round and plump. Just the shape and size for hamburger garnishing. So I picked up two or three packs to look at them closer. They were in long cardboard boxes, like the bottom half of a Velveeta cheese container. Not all see-through like the cherry bags. Then I selected one. I put it in the child seat of my cart with the other unsmashables like the cherries. Then I went back up the aisle the way I had come, to head over to the shredded lettuce area.
I had just exited the aisle proper when I heard something. A cross between a THUMP and a PLOP. It was slightly behind me, on my right side. I turned to see what it was, and saw that a bag of cherries had tumbled off the top shelf of the end cap, and that cherries had spilled out of the top and scattered across the floor. Huh.
If it had been a single item, I would have picked it up and placed it back where it belonged. Because I'm a helper like that. But this was a two-or-more-pound bag of loose cherries. Sweet Gummi Mary! I could have a stroke, bending my head over upside-down for so long to pick them up. Besides, they just randomly fell. I had been looking at the tomatoes for at least three or four minutes. And the bag of cherries I had taken before then was sitting on top. I didn't even dig for them. It was just a weird coincident that they fell from where they did, when they did.
I started on toward the shredded lettuce, and that feeling you get when somebody is watching you made me turn my head to the left, over toward the bread wall. There was a Devil's handmaiden pushing a tall three-shelf metal cart, putting items on display.
THAT HANDMAIDEN GAVE ME THE STINKEYE!
She glared at me like she was trying to set me on fire. Like I had grabbed that bag of cherries and spiked them to the tile like a football player celebrating a touchdown. That is so unfair! I was nowhere near those cherries! Okay. I was actually right beside those cherries. About four feet away. But they fell due to gravity. I did not touch them or bump the display. And now that I've been making wise choices for the past year, and dropped 111 pounds, I don't think my steps vibrated the foundation like some kind of Jurassic Park dinosaur, either.
I was startled to see The Devil's Handmaiden firing those combustion waves at me from her eyeballs. I didn't even say anything. Didn't acknowledge. I went right on about my business, because I KNEW I had nothing to do with those fallen cherries, and it wasn't MY job to pick them up, it was hers. In fact, I saw that the shredded lettuce was too limp and too close to the date for me, and I went on around to the frozen food aisle to get Farmer H's multigrain blueberry waffles.
When I crossed the waffles off my list, I saw that I had forgotten to get Farmer H's Sweet Hawaiian Rolls. Which were over on a shelf by the bread wall. I went back, directly across the path of the Handmaiden, and luckily did not combust.
She's probably still looking in my direction.
The produce section is right up front in my regular Devil's Playground. I had already grabbed a 5-pound bag of Idaho potatoes. I don't keep them on hand, because we don't eat many potatoes now that The Pony is gone away to college. He liked them baked, with lots of butter and salt. We use them occasionally in the Broccocaulipeppot, but that's mainly a cool-weather dish. If I have a bag of potatoes sitting in the pantry, I pretty much ignore them until I trip over them, or they start to stink, or they sprout so that their tentacles grasp at my ankles when I step in to grab some salsa.
I had put my potato bag in the cart, and was rounding the end of the aisle to look for tomatoes. I don't put them in potato salad, of course, but Farmer H was grilling for us on Sunday, so I wanted some nice big tomatoes to slice for the hamburgers. As I started down the aisle, I noticed, on the end cap of the aisle to the left, a display of cherries. Cherries on the stem, in a plastic bag with handles and a plastic sliding closer thingy.
Farmer H likes cherries. They're better for him than Casey's donuts. I also like cherries. I saw that the price was three dollars and something a pound. Of course the bags didn't say how much was in them, but I figured it was at least a couple of pounds. They weren't going to be cheap. So I looked for a bag where there were no smashed cherries. Just looked. I didn't paw through them like 5:00 a.m. customers at a table of children's clothes at a Friday morning garage sale. I saw an acceptable bag of cherries, and put them in the child seat of my cart. Then I continued down to the middle of the aisle to look at tomatoes.
It took me a few minutes. I didn't want organic tomatoes. To me, that just means they're fertilized with poop, and somebody sits guard for $50 an hour and flicks away the bugs and birds and tomato hornworms with a silk scarf, rather than those tomatoes having chemical fertilizer and pesticide powder. I usually like the tomatoes that are still on the stem. But I didn't see any of those. I DID see some that were two-in-a-pack. Round and plump. Just the shape and size for hamburger garnishing. So I picked up two or three packs to look at them closer. They were in long cardboard boxes, like the bottom half of a Velveeta cheese container. Not all see-through like the cherry bags. Then I selected one. I put it in the child seat of my cart with the other unsmashables like the cherries. Then I went back up the aisle the way I had come, to head over to the shredded lettuce area.
I had just exited the aisle proper when I heard something. A cross between a THUMP and a PLOP. It was slightly behind me, on my right side. I turned to see what it was, and saw that a bag of cherries had tumbled off the top shelf of the end cap, and that cherries had spilled out of the top and scattered across the floor. Huh.
If it had been a single item, I would have picked it up and placed it back where it belonged. Because I'm a helper like that. But this was a two-or-more-pound bag of loose cherries. Sweet Gummi Mary! I could have a stroke, bending my head over upside-down for so long to pick them up. Besides, they just randomly fell. I had been looking at the tomatoes for at least three or four minutes. And the bag of cherries I had taken before then was sitting on top. I didn't even dig for them. It was just a weird coincident that they fell from where they did, when they did.
I started on toward the shredded lettuce, and that feeling you get when somebody is watching you made me turn my head to the left, over toward the bread wall. There was a Devil's handmaiden pushing a tall three-shelf metal cart, putting items on display.
THAT HANDMAIDEN GAVE ME THE STINKEYE!
She glared at me like she was trying to set me on fire. Like I had grabbed that bag of cherries and spiked them to the tile like a football player celebrating a touchdown. That is so unfair! I was nowhere near those cherries! Okay. I was actually right beside those cherries. About four feet away. But they fell due to gravity. I did not touch them or bump the display. And now that I've been making wise choices for the past year, and dropped 111 pounds, I don't think my steps vibrated the foundation like some kind of Jurassic Park dinosaur, either.
I was startled to see The Devil's Handmaiden firing those combustion waves at me from her eyeballs. I didn't even say anything. Didn't acknowledge. I went right on about my business, because I KNEW I had nothing to do with those fallen cherries, and it wasn't MY job to pick them up, it was hers. In fact, I saw that the shredded lettuce was too limp and too close to the date for me, and I went on around to the frozen food aisle to get Farmer H's multigrain blueberry waffles.
When I crossed the waffles off my list, I saw that I had forgotten to get Farmer H's Sweet Hawaiian Rolls. Which were over on a shelf by the bread wall. I went back, directly across the path of the Handmaiden, and luckily did not combust.
She's probably still looking in my direction.
Saturday, May 27, 2017
The Jerk Store Called...They're Running Out Of Passive-Aggressive Beyotches
Tap, tap, tap...is this thing on?
Will the lady who walked up to the counter after Mrs. Hillbilly Mom at Casey's on Friday please get over herself?
There. Now that announcement is out of the way. I can get on with this little tale, even if I can't include EVERY jerk I encountered on Friday. You see what lies ahead, don't you? It's JERKAPALOOZA! A five-part series!
Friday I headed to the bank to deposit a reimbursement check from Farmer H's workplace, for some materials he had bought at Lowe's. Since the bank is near a Casey's General Store where I buy scratch-off tickets if I'm in the neighborhood...I stopped to buy a scratcher. Just one. A single ticket. Not so much BUY it, as trade in a winner for it. I like to vary my source.
Three tweenage boys were at the counter when I entered. Two were buying a single piece of gum each, and the other was just there to use the restroom, which is not really for the public. The clerk let him go, though. I'm pretty sure those dudes were truant from the last day of school, but it wasn't really my business, not being a teacher nor patron of their district.
As I stood behind the gummy boys, looking at the scratch-off case, already knowing the ticket I was getting, a bleachy-haired stocky woman strode up holding a cup of coffee. Let the record show that I was there a good two or three whole minutes before she came to the counter. There is a register to the left of the scratcher case, and one to the right. The left register was not being manned, and the boys were interacting with the clerk at the one on the right. I was simply waiting for them to move out of the way to wait for their pooping friend. Because what tweenage boy is going to ask to pee in a Casey's bathroom when he has the equipment and a tree to do his business elsewhere?
Bleachy-Haired Stocky Woman stood a bit to my left. Waiting her turn, I so naively imagined. Yet when the boys stepped toward the door, Bleachy-Haired Stocky Woman lunged forward. Like she was cutting line in front of me. Like my activity that day was to stand and admire the scratcher case. Since I'm RETIRED with nothing else to do, of course. Her action startled me.
"Oh. Go ahead." Because she WAS, you know, going ahead of me, taking a step. I KNEW I was there first, and it was my turn, but nothing people do in a convenience store really surprises me anymore.
And then that Bleachy-Haired Stocky Woman stopped, gave a little motion with her coffee cup, and snottily said, "You go ahead. It's perfectly fine." Like she was doing me a FAVOR!
I really wanted to stand there and insist that she cut in front of me. Just because we both knew I was there first, and maybe she'd feel a bit of guilt the rest of the day. Nah! That wasn't going to happen. I just wanted to out-passive-aggressive her. But I didn't. I get enough of that practice at home with Farmer H. So I went ahead and traded in my ticket. Which, I might add, was a loser. Thanks, Bleachy-Haired Stocky Woman, for that karma.
I was there first, you know.
Will the lady who walked up to the counter after Mrs. Hillbilly Mom at Casey's on Friday please get over herself?
There. Now that announcement is out of the way. I can get on with this little tale, even if I can't include EVERY jerk I encountered on Friday. You see what lies ahead, don't you? It's JERKAPALOOZA! A five-part series!
Friday I headed to the bank to deposit a reimbursement check from Farmer H's workplace, for some materials he had bought at Lowe's. Since the bank is near a Casey's General Store where I buy scratch-off tickets if I'm in the neighborhood...I stopped to buy a scratcher. Just one. A single ticket. Not so much BUY it, as trade in a winner for it. I like to vary my source.
Three tweenage boys were at the counter when I entered. Two were buying a single piece of gum each, and the other was just there to use the restroom, which is not really for the public. The clerk let him go, though. I'm pretty sure those dudes were truant from the last day of school, but it wasn't really my business, not being a teacher nor patron of their district.
As I stood behind the gummy boys, looking at the scratch-off case, already knowing the ticket I was getting, a bleachy-haired stocky woman strode up holding a cup of coffee. Let the record show that I was there a good two or three whole minutes before she came to the counter. There is a register to the left of the scratcher case, and one to the right. The left register was not being manned, and the boys were interacting with the clerk at the one on the right. I was simply waiting for them to move out of the way to wait for their pooping friend. Because what tweenage boy is going to ask to pee in a Casey's bathroom when he has the equipment and a tree to do his business elsewhere?
Bleachy-Haired Stocky Woman stood a bit to my left. Waiting her turn, I so naively imagined. Yet when the boys stepped toward the door, Bleachy-Haired Stocky Woman lunged forward. Like she was cutting line in front of me. Like my activity that day was to stand and admire the scratcher case. Since I'm RETIRED with nothing else to do, of course. Her action startled me.
"Oh. Go ahead." Because she WAS, you know, going ahead of me, taking a step. I KNEW I was there first, and it was my turn, but nothing people do in a convenience store really surprises me anymore.
And then that Bleachy-Haired Stocky Woman stopped, gave a little motion with her coffee cup, and snottily said, "You go ahead. It's perfectly fine." Like she was doing me a FAVOR!
I really wanted to stand there and insist that she cut in front of me. Just because we both knew I was there first, and maybe she'd feel a bit of guilt the rest of the day. Nah! That wasn't going to happen. I just wanted to out-passive-aggressive her. But I didn't. I get enough of that practice at home with Farmer H. So I went ahead and traded in my ticket. Which, I might add, was a loser. Thanks, Bleachy-Haired Stocky Woman, for that karma.
I was there first, you know.
Friday, May 26, 2017
Scoffing At The Law Since The First Caveman Wrote It On The Wall
They're everywhere, you know. The scofflaws. The people who don't seem to give an eff about rules. People who think the world is there to accommodate them.
I came out of the doctor's nurse practitioner's office Wednesday to see THIS:
That is NOT a parking space, people! NOT! Which is noted by the yellow stripes in that area between the real parking spaces. Which do not have yellow stripes, but no stripes at all, save for the dividing lines between the other real parking spaces.
I normally don't show a picture with random people's license plates in plain view. But if somebody goes to all the trouble to decode this one, it makes me no nevermind. You scoff at the law, you may get the crazies.
Let the record show that this is a row of handicapped spaces. There are probably 8-10 along that row, and facing them, another 8-11, since it curves, and there is a bit more room. I know it's a hospital, people. And there is a high likelihood of people needing the handicapped spaces. That's why there are between 16 and 21 of them right there, and ANOTHER 10 at least on the road leading in, up against the sidewalk.
Yes, that looks like it might be a handicap placard hanging from the mirror. BUT...do you see handicap plates? Let me answer for you, because I walked right by it to get to T-Hoe: NO. The plates are not handicap plates. Now one would think that somebody who regularly needs handicap parking would get handicap plates for their vehicle. My favorite gambling aunt has them. That's how I make sure it's her little white car parked up front when I meet her for lunch.
But I HAVE heard people say that they use a relative's handicap placard when they go someplace, so they can park in the handicap area. In fact, Auntie has offered me HER handicap placard when we go somewhere. But even though she is with me, and even though I use the handicap stall because my knees don't like to bend and I need the handrail...I will NOT park in a handicap space. Because I'm not handicapped enough that I can't walk a few extra steps. If I can get around a casino, I can walk from the last row of the parking lot. At least at this place. So I refuse Auntie's offer, and drop her off at the door, and then park in a regular space.
You know, even IF every single handicap space was taken when that scofflaw parked, they could surely have ridden the free trolley from a space farther away. Or, if they have mobility issues and can't climb on, I'm sure they could have parked up by the front door and told the information desk that there were no spaces, and they needed to park there briefly.
Seriously. You can't just decide to park where you want because the space you want isn't available. What's next, somebody driving inside the automatic double doors because all the striped non-spaces are full?
I came out of the doctor's nurse practitioner's office Wednesday to see THIS:
I normally don't show a picture with random people's license plates in plain view. But if somebody goes to all the trouble to decode this one, it makes me no nevermind. You scoff at the law, you may get the crazies.
Let the record show that this is a row of handicapped spaces. There are probably 8-10 along that row, and facing them, another 8-11, since it curves, and there is a bit more room. I know it's a hospital, people. And there is a high likelihood of people needing the handicapped spaces. That's why there are between 16 and 21 of them right there, and ANOTHER 10 at least on the road leading in, up against the sidewalk.
Yes, that looks like it might be a handicap placard hanging from the mirror. BUT...do you see handicap plates? Let me answer for you, because I walked right by it to get to T-Hoe: NO. The plates are not handicap plates. Now one would think that somebody who regularly needs handicap parking would get handicap plates for their vehicle. My favorite gambling aunt has them. That's how I make sure it's her little white car parked up front when I meet her for lunch.
But I HAVE heard people say that they use a relative's handicap placard when they go someplace, so they can park in the handicap area. In fact, Auntie has offered me HER handicap placard when we go somewhere. But even though she is with me, and even though I use the handicap stall because my knees don't like to bend and I need the handrail...I will NOT park in a handicap space. Because I'm not handicapped enough that I can't walk a few extra steps. If I can get around a casino, I can walk from the last row of the parking lot. At least at this place. So I refuse Auntie's offer, and drop her off at the door, and then park in a regular space.
You know, even IF every single handicap space was taken when that scofflaw parked, they could surely have ridden the free trolley from a space farther away. Or, if they have mobility issues and can't climb on, I'm sure they could have parked up by the front door and told the information desk that there were no spaces, and they needed to park there briefly.
Seriously. You can't just decide to park where you want because the space you want isn't available. What's next, somebody driving inside the automatic double doors because all the striped non-spaces are full?
Thursday, May 25, 2017
"Ding Dang Dong!" Went Mrs. Hillbilly Mom About The Trolley
Finding a parking spot at the hospital/clinic is more difficult, now that the other local hospital closed. The one Farmer H used to frequent. Not that I can specifically pin its closing on any one thing having to do with Farmer H. You'd think he could have single-handedly kept it open, what with his doctor ordering every medical test known to man for him over the years. That doctor retired, though, and Farmer H's new nurse practitioner is not as diagnostic-test-happy as the old doctor was.
Anyhoo...I arrived for my own nurse practitioner visit in plenty of time to find parking and get inside 15 minutes before my appointment. This hospital has an old man who drives a little trolley around picking up parkers and dropping them off at the door. Or vice-versa. Meaning he picks them up at the door and drops them off where they parked. Not that the parkers pick HIM up and drive him.
It used to be a trolley. When the boys were little, we'd ride it. Because that's easier than carrying one not-walking-yet boy in your arms, and dragging a toddler by the wrist, meanwhile juggling a purse and diaper bag. That trolley was open-air. We always took the flat seat across the back. It had a little platform for your feet, and a mini wall so nothing (like a kid) rolled off the end.
Now that trolley is more of a little mini bus. I don't take it. It's easier for me to walk on level ground than to climb a step to get on and off to ride. My mom never took the trolley, either. Because she was independent like that. And when I took her to the doctor a time or two, I let her off at the door.
That trolley driver is a volunteer. For a while, they didn't have money to pay him, I guess. That's what he told Mom the time she asked where he'd been, taking up his valuable time without making him feel needed by riding his trolley. Though that kind of blurs the meaning of "volunteer" if you ask me. I suppose maybe they didn't have funding for his trolley gas and upkeep, or maybe insurance. Anyhoo...since the hospitals consolidated, the parking lot is always pretty full, and the trolley is running again.
I found a spot on the fourth row, near the middle, and pulled in before somebody older with more insurance could beat me out of it. I'm never ready to jump out of T-Hoe and run inside. I have to gather my insurance cards and ID and phone. Put valuables out of sight. This time, I took my movie purse (not because I wanted to sneak in a baggie containing half a box of Sno*Caps and some butter salt) with just the essentials inside. Not all of the other stuff that weights down my regular purse that is pretty much unnecessary that I don't want to take the time to sort through. I only have all day, every day, to do that, you know.
I'll be ding dang donged if that trolley driver didn't pull up behind me and sit there. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, and I waved him on. But still he sat. Lurking. Like a vulture waiting for my final exhale. Sweet Gummi Mary! I was NOT going to rush and get out and tell him. Nor was I going to ride his trolley. It probably took me five minutes to get my stuff in order. And thankfully, at 4:59 of it, he trolleyed off down the aisle.
Sometimes, that guy targets you like a heat-seeking missile, and follows you on foot, to pull up and ask if you want a ride. Even though you may be striding purposefully toward the main entrance, not standing and waving a scarf and hollering, "Yoo hoo, Mr. Trolley Man! Can you pick me up?"
Thankfully, this day, he did not. I chalk that up to my resolve to put my head down, refuse to look in his direction, and cut through the parked cars. There's more than one way to shun a trolley. Okay, actually, there's not. This is pretty much it. But it worked for me.
Anyhoo...I arrived for my own nurse practitioner visit in plenty of time to find parking and get inside 15 minutes before my appointment. This hospital has an old man who drives a little trolley around picking up parkers and dropping them off at the door. Or vice-versa. Meaning he picks them up at the door and drops them off where they parked. Not that the parkers pick HIM up and drive him.
It used to be a trolley. When the boys were little, we'd ride it. Because that's easier than carrying one not-walking-yet boy in your arms, and dragging a toddler by the wrist, meanwhile juggling a purse and diaper bag. That trolley was open-air. We always took the flat seat across the back. It had a little platform for your feet, and a mini wall so nothing (like a kid) rolled off the end.
Now that trolley is more of a little mini bus. I don't take it. It's easier for me to walk on level ground than to climb a step to get on and off to ride. My mom never took the trolley, either. Because she was independent like that. And when I took her to the doctor a time or two, I let her off at the door.
That trolley driver is a volunteer. For a while, they didn't have money to pay him, I guess. That's what he told Mom the time she asked where he'd been, taking up his valuable time without making him feel needed by riding his trolley. Though that kind of blurs the meaning of "volunteer" if you ask me. I suppose maybe they didn't have funding for his trolley gas and upkeep, or maybe insurance. Anyhoo...since the hospitals consolidated, the parking lot is always pretty full, and the trolley is running again.
I found a spot on the fourth row, near the middle, and pulled in before somebody older with more insurance could beat me out of it. I'm never ready to jump out of T-Hoe and run inside. I have to gather my insurance cards and ID and phone. Put valuables out of sight. This time, I took my movie purse (not because I wanted to sneak in a baggie containing half a box of Sno*Caps and some butter salt) with just the essentials inside. Not all of the other stuff that weights down my regular purse that is pretty much unnecessary that I don't want to take the time to sort through. I only have all day, every day, to do that, you know.
I'll be ding dang donged if that trolley driver didn't pull up behind me and sit there. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, and I waved him on. But still he sat. Lurking. Like a vulture waiting for my final exhale. Sweet Gummi Mary! I was NOT going to rush and get out and tell him. Nor was I going to ride his trolley. It probably took me five minutes to get my stuff in order. And thankfully, at 4:59 of it, he trolleyed off down the aisle.
Sometimes, that guy targets you like a heat-seeking missile, and follows you on foot, to pull up and ask if you want a ride. Even though you may be striding purposefully toward the main entrance, not standing and waving a scarf and hollering, "Yoo hoo, Mr. Trolley Man! Can you pick me up?"
Thankfully, this day, he did not. I chalk that up to my resolve to put my head down, refuse to look in his direction, and cut through the parked cars. There's more than one way to shun a trolley. Okay, actually, there's not. This is pretty much it. But it worked for me.
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