Special Delivery

Yesterday I shared my poop box with you! No, you don't have to thank me. I'm selfless like that. It was my pleasure. And now, since I'm sure you're all thirsty for more, have a hunger to ingest all possible info available on my poop box...I'll serve up another portion.

This is my poop box right after it was delivered. After I took it from Farmer H at the door. No, this is NOT to imply that I turned the poop box askew after it was filled. Well, after the container in it was filled. Well, not FILLED, but provided with a sample. The directions pointed out that it was not necessary to FILL the container. With specific instructions not to OVERFILL the container. Oh, and it also warned NOT TO DRINK the fluid that was supposed to be poured into the container before sealing it.

The directions said that the sample should be sent back within 24 hours. Of course I didn't want my sample to sit around the Mansion for 23 hours. So I planned my sample-providing to coincide with my daily trip to town. The box was all ready to go. It was self-addressed. Only needed the flaps closed up after peeling off a sticky strip. According to the insert, I could have it picked up at my door by UPS, or put it in a UPS drop box, or take it to a UPS store.

Heh, heh!

No way was I going to call UPS, give them directions to the Mansion, and have them pick up my poop box. Nor was I going to try and shove that cube of a box into a UPS drop box. That left only one option. I would load my poop box in T-Hoe, and drive it down to Bill-Paying Town to the UPS store. I've been there before for other things. I think the most recent was sending a non-working refurbished satellite receiver to DISH. So it's been a while. Either Genius or The Pony accompanied me that time. Sadly, I had no copilot while driving my poop box to UPS.

Let the record show that my poop box did NOT ride shotgun. No siree, Bob! I put it on the seat behind me, wedged in with a soft package I'd never bothered to carry in. I think it might be socks. It was only after I'd been driving for 15 minutes of my 45-minute journey that I realized a near-collision would send my poop box forward, slamming into my headrest. I was extra careful.

I found a parking spot right in front of the UPS door. It's in a mini-mall, a glass storefront. While I imagined everybody inside watching me gather my poop box, while making childish comments about me...in truth, nobody was manning the desk. Once inside, I'd already set my poop box on the counter by the time a lady came out of the back room. She asked how she could help me, and I choked down the urge to guffaw. I said only, "I'm here to send this package."

My poop box was clearly labeled HUMAN SPECIMEN. I know that lady saw it. She could see that it needed no money from me to send it on its way. She asked if I wanted a receipt. (SWEET GUMMI MARY! At first I typed that as "recipe," which is SO VERY WRONG!) Oh, that guffaw was getting harder and harder to contain. "Yes, please."

Seriously! Would YOU hand over your poop box to someone without getting a receipt?

As I turned to exit, receipt in hand, I could see that lady picking up my poop box to set it on the side counter next to another box. That did NOT contain poop. As far as I knew.

I wonder if there's anything about poop boxes in the job description for a UPS store clerk.

The Poop Box

There's something kind of satisfying about making Farmer H take some responsibility. Friday evening, for example, when we heard a knock at the door.

It's not like we were doing anything clandestine. I was sitting on the short couch, chatting with Farmer H in the La-Z-Boy. He'd just finished a delicious supper of Save A Lot pizza, a supreme, from which I'd picked off the peppers, and bestowed extra pepperoni from my side. We were chatting about one of our two regular topics: things he's done wrong, OR his Storage Unit Store.

I heard Jack and Juno barking in the front yard. Probably Copper Jack, too, but I'm not as attuned to his barks. It's like a new mom can recognize her baby's cry, but tunes out the others. I swear, I never believed that, until I had Genius, and knew IMMEDIATELY when it was him crying in the nursery. Proven by the fact that a nurse would show up within minutes, asking if I wanted him brought to my room.

Anyhoo...I figured the dogs were after a rabbit. We've been finding feet over by the Gator and dumpster. Evening is prime rabbit-chasing time. But then I heard feet stomping up the steps! I hoped nobody was getting a splinter in the hand from that rail! Then the doorbell rang. WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN??? Farmer H and I looked at each other.

"I'm sure it's nobody for me! You get it!"

"I don't know who it is!"

"You will when you open the door!" I made my getaway to the kitchen. No small part due to the fact that only a half-hour earlier, I'd been wearing my Christmas sock cap with the yarn ball on top, and the tassel ties, because it was cold down in my dark basement lair. That hat does my lovely lady mullet no favors.

From the safety of the kitchen, I heard Farmer H open the front door. I didn't hear any greeting. If it was one of his out-here friends, he would have talked in an abnormally loud voice. Because that's what Farmer H does. Even on the phone to them. But I didn't hear any pleasantries exchanged. Then I heard the door close. I rounded the FRIG II corner to see Farmer H holding a box.

SWEET GUMMI MARY! It was my poop box!

At my regular 6-month checkup at the doctor nurse practitioner on Monday, he'd asked if I wanted to schedule a colonoscopy. Of course not! Though I know I should have one. Then he started yammering about a new test where you can mail your poop for testing, and if the results are out of the ordinary, THEN you can schedule a colonoscopy. Well. I was all for that. Who WOULDN'T rather dig in their own poop than drink fluid that cleans them out, then drive to an outpatient surgery center and have a camera stuck up their butt while they're unconscious?

Heh, heh! I guess it's wrong of me to find joy in the sight of Farmer H holding my poop box. Even though the real joy would come if my poop was already in it.

It Would Have Been A Poor Reflection On The Gas Station Chicken Store

Friday I entered The Gas Station Chicken Store to the sound of banging. No, the Lady Owner and her husband weren't gettin' busy! It was the sound of actual hammers, banging on the back wall, above the beer cooler area. Which would explain the two construction company trucks parked outside.

I could not have worked there that day. Not that I'd want to. I've worked in a convenience store, and this one is cramped and right off the highway, and I don't think my nerves could take it. I KNOW my nerves couldn't take that hammering. In the time it took to run 44 oz of Diet Coke out of the spigot, I had nearly given myself a headache fretting over the next bang.

At the counter, the Lady Owner waited on me at the second register. I guess she wanted to get customers out of there as quickly as she could, so they might not get annoyed with the banging. I noticed that she had her husband the Man Owner stocking shelves, and not running the main register. He's kind of slow at it. She had her #1 clerk working it.

"What are you building?" I asked. Twice. Because of the banging, you see. It was LOUD.

"Oh, we're not putting in anything new. Just repairing the security mirrors."

Some stores have security cameras. The Gas Station Chicken Store has mirrors. They're old-school. You even pump before you pay for gas.

"Earlier today, one of them came crashing down, only 6 seconds after an elderly couple walked away from there."

Well. I was just about to say how that was BAD LUCK to break a mirror, but then I figured it was really GOOD LUCK that nobody got hurt. Because a mirror the size of a piece of plywood, mounted above your head, can do some damage if it falls on your noggin. I guess that elderly couple was lucky that they made their liquor selection in a hurry, or decided not to imbibe that day.

Yes, a shattering mirror could have killed the elderly couple, you know. Especially if they were taking Xarelto, the devil's drug, like I used to take when recovery from my bilateral pulmonary embolisms. You can bleed out. I'm not exaggerating. There's no antidote for Xarelto! You keep bleeding until the half-life of the drug evolves and gets itself out of your system. I think that takes 2-3 days. As if you have that kind of time when a mirror sliver severs an artery! It's not like the old-fashioned warfarin where you can get a shot of vitamin K to reverse it and start clotting.

Anyhoo...I'm really glad the elderly couple wasn't harmed. Not that I'm so caring about what happens to other people. The Pony comes by that honestly. No, I wouldn't wish such a fate on anyone, especially in The Gas Station Chicken Store. I might slip in a puddle of blood while getting my 44 oz Diet Coke!

Let the record show that no amount of orange cones or yellow tape is going to keep me away from the soda fountain.

Holiday Hot Dogs

It's Memorial Day, when we here in Hillmomba honor our fallen veterans. Seems like these days, most people honor them by throwing a barbecue and consuming mass quantities of beer. Farmer H and I don't normally go all out. He wanted to grill some hot dogs yesterday, when it fit into his busy Storage Unit Store schedule. We had no actual plans for today.

I made my daily trip to town, to pick up some fresh hot dog buns, having only three left at the Mansion, and 2 bratwursts plus 6 hot dogs from yesterday's grilling. I was drenched with sweat by the time I carried in my buns. And additional purchases of chips and a small seedless watermelon. The temperature was 90, with no wind, and 50% humidity. Which feels like 99, if you use the heat index calculator, or 100, if you use the chart.

Two out of three dogs greeted me, and they seemed to feel pretty hot.

You never know which view of Jack you're going to get. Or if he'll be in the frame at all when the phone camera finally snaps.

My unofficial dog, Copper Jack, has gone from being downright distrustful to acting all coy. He was dripping buckets of saliva from his tongue, but I didn't seem to capture it here.

Snuggles the tuxedo cat, Jack's clandestine hump buddy, seemed to be taking it all in stride. And by stride, I mean laying around all limp and insouciant, in a set of shelves Farmer H thinks belong on the porch, while he considers putting them on his side of our walk-in closet in the master bathroom. I guess Snuggles realizes how appealing he is to Jack. It's kind of hard for Jack to hump him when he's laying on the bottom shelf.

 You don't know how hard it was to stop myself from calling this: H*t Bl*ck P*ssy. It wasn't the fear of accusations of political incorrectness that but the kibosh on such a witty title. It was the fear of a flood of PR0N hits to my supersecret blog.

Lack Of OTC Meds Makes Mrs. HM A Less Effective Detective

This morning on my way to put Shiba back on the charger in front of the living room window, I saw some suspicious activity in front of the Mansion. A white older-model SUV was creeping along the gravel road, headed up toward the section of properties on this dead-end road where the headless body was found in a septic tank several years ago.

Well! No one is going to dump a headless body (or even a bodyless head) out here again! Not on Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's watch! I went to the front door. Opened it halfway. And stood looking out. Watching. Nine times out of ten, that makes slow-driving cars gas it and scoot on up the road. Something about knowing that they're being watched makes whatever they're doing in front of the Mansion suddenly not all that necessary.

This older-model white SUV did not scoot on up the road. It continued, at a snail's pace, stopping every car length or so, then creeping forward some more. Very suspicious! I couldn't tell if it was in the middle of the road, or on my side, or on the crazy Rottweiler's owner side. Our property has a gradual rise, and we can't see the road surface that is about six inches lower than the edge of our field.

There appeared to be only a driver, wearing a white T-shirt. I didn't know if he might be casing our house for a future robbery, or looking for something dropped along the road. Still. Very suspicious. I had a mind to get my phone and take some video. I can do that, you know. Usually as a mistake when I think I'm taking a picture. Even a picture would be good. To show that older-model white SUV, with its back hatch open, held by some sort of wooden stick, creeping along our private gravel road. You never know when authorities might need to track down another body-dumper.

Yes, I thought about taking a picture. But my phone was way over on the table beside the La-Z-Boy. I'd have to walk back around the long couch and across the room to get it. Was that really worth possible incriminating footage of a possible body-dumper? Meh. My knees hurt. Because last night was my night to skip the ibuprofen that I take for inflammation. Suggested by my doctor nurse practitioner a year ago, to give my kidneys a rest. Three days on, one day off. He wanted two days on, one off, but that would make me almost unable to function for twice as many days a year!

Anyhoo...because I hadn't taken my ibuprofen the night before, my knees were extra achy, and I decided against walking over to get the phone and bringing it back to the door for a picture.

I DID walk back to the La-Z-Boy and plop down and crank back. I watched that older-model white SUV. It got to the end of the property (of both the neighbor and the Mansion) and started to back up. What in the not-heaven? Why not go on up the road and turn around? Unless the driver didn't know there were driveways there to turn around. Very suspicious, the backing up. For all I knew, that car might come up my driveway next! Thank the Gummi Mary it didn't!

I went on with my routine, took a shower, went to town for my 44 oz Diet Coke. Down by Mailbox Row, I saw a white car partially hidden by the underbrush. It was just across the low water bridge, parked on the short section of road that always washes out the pipe in a downpour, leading to gated property without a house. Either the hood or the hatch was open. Smoke was rising behind that vehicle. What in the not-heaven? VERY SUSPICIOUS! Were they burning evidence? I knew better than to drive over that way for a better look. You don't eff around with possible criminals in Hillmomba!

When I came back from town, that white car was still parked. But the fire was out.

Thank the Gummi Mary, today was Sunday, and I didn't have to get out and check the mail. I went on home. As I passed the driveway to the crazy Rotweiler's house, I looked to see if maybe they had an older-model white SUV. THEY DID! Or at least one was in the front yard (not driveway), with the hatch propped open with a wooden thingy. Then it started backing up! So I skedaddled on down my own driveway. I guess that older-model white SUV belonged there.

Or else the neighbors were being cased or robbed.

First The Parking Lot Rage, Now The Waiting Room Rage

Actually, my waiting room rage occurred on Monday, but I'm writing about it after the parking lot rage.

Monday, I had a regular 6-month checkup with my doctor nurse practitioner. He's okay, but I haven't cottoned to him like my old doctor, who was ex-military, and a straight-shooter. This nurse practitioner isn't much of a shooter at all. He just exchanges pleasantries, glosses over my concerns, and I'm out of there, with him $35 richer from my copay. Which is not to say I dislike him. He's likeable enough. As Obama once said about Hillary on 60 Minutes.

Anyhoo...my waiting room rage had nothing to do with my doctor nurse practitioner, and everything to do with his staff. My appointment was for 8:45. I got a phone call telling me to arrive 15 minutes early to update paperwork. It takes me 45 minutes to get there. I left in plenty of time. Even with only one of the two elevators working, I got to the reception area at 8:25. I stood at the little counter, waiting for one of the two gals behind the sliding glass to wait on me. It's not like they had a bell to ding, like the dead-mouse-smelling post office.

The glass window is not opaque, like the one at my old dentist where the receptionist embezzled money and got fired and arrested. Clear glass. I could see them. So I know they could see me. Even though they were not facing the glass, but working on computers at a right angle to the glass, I knew they could pick up my movement with their peripheral vision. That's how eyes work, you know. I waited politely. Waited a little less politely. Got downright fed up. And left.

That's right. I went back to the one elevator (they had built a little closety thing around the door of the other one to keep people from falling down the shaft) and took a ride upstairs to the 4th floor. That's where my old doctor's office was. He's not there now, but working down the street at the veteran's center. But I knew there was a restroom on that floor by the elevators. So I went in and did my business and sent a text or two to my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel. Sorry, Mabel, if you're learning that detail here. It's quiet on the toilet, with subdued lighting, and no sick people around you.

I'll be gosh darned if I was going to get to that appointment ONE MINUTE before my scheduled time! At 8:45, I took the elevator back down to the 2nd floor, and the worker opened that glass window right up. Since I only have one insurance now, I have a co-pay. Normally, I would write out a check for it. But just to make their life harder, I asked to use my debit card. Which meant that the receptionist had to do the work, not me, because they didn't have a slidey thing for me to swipe it.

I didn't even wait 5 minutes before I was called back. It probably won't surprise you to hear that my blood pressure was up. Although my doctor nurse practitioner attributed it to the fact that I had not yet taken my two pills for the day...I think it might have had something to do with my waiting room rage.

A More Aggessive Woman Might Have Beaten The Starch Out Of Her

The Universe continues to conspire against Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

Thursday I went to Save A Lot, and all the parking spots on the store side were taken. TAKEN! Like saved seats at the Paradise Twin (for hardcore Seinfeld fans). Anyhoo...I drove around to the other side of the row, because I saw a few empty spaces there. I selected one toward the Subway end of the mini-mall. It was next to a JEEP that looked fairly new. I figured they wouldn't slam the doors into me, but just in case, I parked a little over toward the opposite line, which was an empty space by a light pole. No danger of backing into THAT one, because it was in front of me, unlike that long-ago nearly invisible light pole behind my old Suburban at the Office Max.

I was texting Genius about a problem with my Shaming Bracelet, and gathering my shopping list, and stowing my purse out of sight, when a lady came up to the JEEP. She was pushing a metal laundry cart about waist-high, and stopped right there at the JEEP passenger door, where she began FOLDING HER LAUNDRY out of that cart, and stacking it on the front seat! Meanwhile, I was trapped inside T-Hoe, because that laundry cart was only inches from the door.

SWEET GUMMI MARY!

I felt like that time Hick took 4-year-old Genius and toddler Pony trick-or-treating over by their daycare lady's house, and two teens soaped the windows of our car while I was sitting in the front seat! That's just disrespectful! That lady saw me sitting there. How can you miss something the size of Mrs. HM, only inches from your head, on the other side of a non-tinted window?

I couldn't sit there all day while that gal arranged her wardrobe. It was 86 degrees! I started T-Hoe, heh, heh, reveling in the look of fear in that Laundry Gal's eyes as she clutched her borrowed cart from the laundromat, AS IF it might be damaged by my actions. Hmpf! Only if my eyes could shoot daggers at it.

I drove around to the other side, but there were still no available parking spaces, so I rounded the end of the row and came back, parking one space over from where I'd been. That Laundry Gal didn't even have the gumption to look my way to see my displeasure at her antics.

Let's hope that Mrs. HM never makes the news for a case of parking lot rage.