Super-Spreader Is The New Boogeyman

The point of my not-trying hospital/clinic staff tale yesterday was this: If THE VIRUS is so rampant and contagious around here right now, strict protocols would still be followed. Followed to the point of firing staff who don't comply. 

 

The screeners would have been wearing gloves and protective eyeware. And shooting everyone with the temperature gun, and whisking any fevers up to isolation on the 4th floor. They would be tagging people with specific destinations, and checking as they got off the elevator on each floor.

 

The desk gal at my office would NOT have had me sign the electronic thingy with the attached pen. Or would have jumped up immediately to swab it with alcohol wipes as soon as I finished.

 

My doctor NURSE PRACTITIONER wouldn't have dared examined me without washing his hands. I could have recorded him with my phone! He would still be wearing the N95 mask with the snorkel hole that he had on last May, for which he said all staff had been fitted, and were required to wear. Rather than the common blue paper mask.

 

The lab receptionist would not have tempted death with her mask under her chin. SICK PEOPLE go to the lab for tests.

 

Workers would not be bringing in two giant black garbage bags of black balloons for a birthday party. They would have to let those balloons sit for a few days to de-covid.

The media would have you believe that super-spreaders are the source of all the world's current problems. The all-powerful super-spreaders! 

Imagine the poor innocent double-vaccinated citizen, high horse parked in the barn, minding their own business in their hermetically-sealed home. Locked in a safe room, fully masked and goggled and shielded, inside a deep-sea-diver's suit, relaxing inside an iron lung. Then a super-spreader squeals by in a muscle car, breathing freely, windows down, radio blaring (perhaps a Steve Miller Band tune), and exhales.

WELP! There you go! That dang super-spreader just killed Innocent Citizen's grandma!

Any person without a mask, and without a vaccine card taped to their forehead, is the new scapegoat. Obviously a super-spreader. Doesn't matter if they're not sick. No symptoms, negative test, walking alone outdoors, 100 yards away from people. THAT'S the culprit! If you step out on your porch without a mask, their filthy breath is so powerful that it will swoop in and infect you. Unless you've just briefly pulled your mask down to take a puff on your cigarette, or swig a sip of designer coffee, or bite off a piece of avocado toast.

 

Nobody ever catches THE VIRUS from another masked person, or from a double-vaccinated person, or through the drive-thru restaurant window, by a momentary lapse in hand-face hygiene of their own doing. It's always the super-spreader. Super-spreaders must get around in more crowds than Waldo!

 

Sorry. I don't buy it. Actually, I'm not even sorry...

They're Not Even TRYING Any More

Farmer H dropped me off at the hospital door for my regular 6-month doctor (NURSE PRACTITIONER) appointment on Thursday morning. The clinic is upstairs. Only four floors. We're not in the CITY, you know. This might be the tallest building in the county.

Anyhoo... I strapped on my St. Louis Blues mask, and entered the lobby. I was greeted by a man in slacks and a long-sleeved (rolled up) shirt. No tie. I think maybe he had an ID badge. His cohort was a lady sitting on a rolly chair, wearing scrubs. She had ID on a lanyard. Shirtsleeves asked me matter-of-factly if I'd had a cough, fever, diarrhea, etc. in the past two weeks. Nope.

Here's the thing. For a minute, I thought I might get past him to the elevators (TWO). He wasn't at all aggressive in his duties. Not even armed with a temperature gun. 

"Why are you here?"

"I have an appointment upstairs."

Shirtsleeves slapped a sticker on my shirt sleeve. Didn't fill it out or anything. I took a picture at home when I realized it was still stuck there.

 

What good is THAT? I could have stolen a sheet of them. I could use it another day, to wander willy-nilly all over the hospital! Maybe they have different colors for different days. But there is not an infinity of colors. They're gonna repeat sometime. At least they USED TO write the date on the sticker. And the doctor (NURSE PRACTITIONER).

There were two people waiting for the elevator, but it lifted off before I waddled over there. The sign said no more than 2-3 people per elevator. I got in with one lady. She was at the controls, and I stood in the opposite corner.

The reminder message had told me to arrive at 7:50. The glass windows were shaded. So I stood leaning over the rail, looking down into the lobby. That place was  dead. Two workers came in carrying two large black trash bags overstuffed with black balloons. It was some doctor's 60th birthday, according to my eavesdropping skills.

Finally my office opened their window. I checked in without a copay. They said they'd bill it. Not touching MY filthy lucre, eh? I was the only patient there. Usually, they schedule three per time slot. I was put in a holding room to away the NP. A nurse took my BP. 126 over 78. Which is good for me. She had just caught me BREATHING, too! With my mask pulled down when she entered. I confessed, and she said, "Oh, that's no big deal."

The NP came in, and started punching in my refills on his laptop that swings out on a metal arm. He didn't even WASH HIS HANDS! He ALWAYS washes his hands. But not this day. That's okay. He barely touched me. Just a stethoscope on the chest and stomach. Didn't look in my eyes or ears or nose or throat. Nobody took my temp, either! Just a pulse-ox on my finger, that was 99 (oxygen) and 60 (pulse). I even told the NP as he was dismissing me,

"It will take me longer to get up off this chair than the exam took!"

Maybe he felt guilty. He offered his hand to help me stand. As I waited for my knees to unstiffen, he said, 

"Bless your heart."

WAIT A MINUTE! I'm pretty sure that's an insult in the south! I'm hoping he was just making conversation...

The gal at the desk asked if I wanted to schedule my next appointment. Um. NO! It's in 6 MONTHS, for cryin' out loud!

"No. Who knows what I'll be doing then. I'll call."

I headed up to the lab, to give two vials of blood. I was the only patient. I caught the window gal with her mask on her chin. She pulled it up toot sweet! I had barely settled my ample rumpus on the cushy bench when I got called in for bloodletting. On the way out, I passed one guy headed to the lab.

I guess Thursday mornings are slow at the hospital.

Fried Fries, Fried Brain

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has earned herself a new name. The Discombobulator. Kind of like The Terminator. Only not as final.

 

Tuesday, I stopped by the Gas Station Chicken Store to cash in some scratchers. I didn't get my 44 oz Diet Coke!!! That was intentional. I was headed to Hardee's, remember, to feast on old grease. It might have been just as well. The Woman Owner was behind the counter. I pointed out that I was not getting my magical elixir, and she nodded toward the soda fountain. 

 

"Man Owner is looking for some soda."

 

I guess he was putting in new syrup in the giant plastic bag that hooks up with a hose underneath the fountain. I glanced, but didn't notice if he was working on my Diet Coke.

 

I had a $50 winner to cash in. I bought $16 worth of new scratchers. While at the counter, a man came in to wait impatiently at my side, not behind me where the line belongs. And a woman came in to ask about the red ticket free gas weekly giveaway, although the number was clearly posted on the front wall, where it has been for many years.

 

"Okay. That's two $3 tickets, and two $5 tickets. I owe you back $34. It seems so odd without your handful of change for your soda. Today, I'm giving YOU change!"

 

With that, she reached out by the open slot in the bottom of the plexiglass barrier, and dropped COINS into my hand. I was a bit surprised. I hadn't been paying attention, because I'd actually asked for THREE of the $3 tickets, but she forgot the Bingo. I wasn't going to make her get one and ring it up again, because people were waiting. But I was calculating my change. 

 

Whereas I'd been expecting to pay $19, and get back a twenty, a ten, and a one... I now was facing a twenty, a ten, and FOUR ones. Yet she gave me NO BILLS! Just coins!

 

"Um. I should get back more than that..."

 

"What? Uh... OH NO! What's wrong with me? Let's see... OH! I gave you 34 CENTS, and I owe you 34 DOLLARS! Here, give me back the coins."

 

I don't know why I make her so nervous. I'm a calm person. Really. Not in any hurry. I chat if she starts talking to me. This time, she's been telling me that she hadn't had caffeine in 25 years, because her doctor forbade it. We didn't get around to the reason, because the other customers came in.

 

Why are mistakes always like this? Giving me back LESS. She COULD have erred in my favor, you know, and mistakenly given me $3400! Of course I would have informed her of the error...

 

Anyhoo... fresh on the heels of yesterday's greasy stubby fries debacle, thanks to HARDEE'S...I now present a proper box of fries from Burger King:

 

 

I didn't even pose them. That's how they fell out of the box when I took them out of the bag. They were real, and they were spectacular. I put the picture here so I can scroll down to yesterday's post and compare them to the travesty that was HARDEE'S fries.

While The Farmer's Away, Mrs. HM Won't Pay

With Farmer H gone on his mini-vacation for three days, I've been kicking up my heels and enjoying my time that is actually MY time. No one to cater to. No deadlines for fixing supper. In fact, I've been having my supper lupper carried-in, and then I can remain in my lair without hiking up those 13 rail-less steps to throw something in a pan to sizzle for Farmer H's supper. You know something else?

MRS. HM DON'T PAY!

I see no reason to use my weekly allowance to buy my own fast food during these three days. After all, Farmer H is dining high on the hog, probably taking The Pony out for STEAK every night. That's their usual restaurant choice. With Farmer H soaking up the house budget money on the credit card, with a two-night hotel stay, sight-seeing visits, gas, and meals... I figure I might as well take my own (much-less) share. 

Monday, I went by Burger King, and picked up a Whopper meal and a mini chocolate shake. They were delicious. Tuesday was rainy, and I decided to stay in Hillmomba proper, and try the same kind of meal at Hardee's. I am now filled with old grease and regrets.

 

Look at my fries. It's like they were scooped out the bottom of the bin. The leftovers from the lunch rush. The BIGGEST one is right there in front. Kind of hard to grasp those stubs to dip them in ketchup. What good are fries if not dipped in ketchup? The entire container of fries was filled with STUBS! And they tasted like old grease. In fact, I didn't finish them. I only ate about 1/3 of the container. That might seem like a lot to you, but Mrs. HM is not known for her dainty eating habits, nor not finishing what's on her plate! Those are now DOG FRIES!

I had high hopes for my burger. It was a Frisco Angus Burger. Angus beef patty with bacon, tomato, mayo, and swiss cheese on sourdough toast. I really wanted to like it. 

But it also had that old grease taste.

Of course I'm going to tattle to Farmer H, and show him this picture. One of his buddies owns the Hillmomba Hardee's. Maybe he doesn't know what his staff is up to. Or maybe they're going by his policies! Just a heads-up for his business. I won't be going back for quite a while. 

Oh, I also had a strawberry shake from Hardee's. It was not thick and delicious like my Burger King mini chocolate shake. It was liquidy. In the past, I've found Hardee's shakes to be tasty and thick.

I hope they weren't using old grease in the shakes...

Rumors Of Their Closing Are Greatly Exaggerated

The Gas Station Chicken Store has taken the signs off their door. The signs advertising that they are accepting applications, and that their new hours are 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. on Saturday and Sunday.

I KNOW! I almost have to set an alarm to get there before closing time! Those hours just started this weekend. The workers on Saturday and Sunday? Man Owner and Woman Owner. They have a new gal who works 2:00 p.m. to close on the weekdays now. My regular hours of patronage.

Anyhoo... Sunday, Woman Owner was sitting on a stool with her head in her hand as I drained the soda fountain of my magical elixir.

"I had to rush to make sure I got here before closing time!" [It was 2:40 p.m.]

"Well, we thank you!"

"I need to get up earlier and get moving. Maybe this will help."

"I am so tired of telling people we're NOT closing! They keep saying, 'I hear you're closing.' No. We can't keep any help. Do you know where those rumors are coming from? The package store up town."

"Maybe they WISH you were closing!"

"Two of our old employees work there. They're the ones saying we're closing. I bet you remember Cheerio. She worked here for years! I know you know her. She worked in the kitchen, and out front."

"OH! Yeah. The real outgoing one, always cheery. She was here off and on. Sometimes years in between."

"Uh huh. But we had to let her go. And you surely know Fussin'. He was good, but he got in a fight with his dad out on the parking lot, and was so upset that he just walked out. Just LEFT! Walked off with nobody here."

"Yeah. Can't have that."

"So as soon as we can hire people who will show up for work, we'll go back to our regular hours. They don't need to be spreading that we're closing."

Monday, I noticed a new sign posted on the clear plastic protector divider at the register.

 

WE ARE NOT CLOSING, DESPITE WHAT IS BEING SAID AT THE LOCAL PACKAGE STORE. [she named it] CONSIDER THE SOURCE. WE ARE HIRING. DO YOU WANT TO WORK?

I'm glad I don't go to THAT liquor store for my scratchers! Those ex-employees were nice enough. I don't know if they're disgruntled, bored, or just misunderstanding the sign people have told them about on the door.

Woman Owner ain't havin' it!

The Magical Unicorn Has Arrived

It's not as exciting as getting sea monkeys, X-ray glasses, or soap that foams up black, that you've ordered off the back of a comic book. Still, it was plenty exciting for The Pony.

HIS SPECIAL CODE NUMBER ARRIVED IN THE MAIL SATURDAY!

You know, the special code number that the new employees of the USPS need to access for every little thing. Like setting up direct deposit for their twice-a-month paychecks. The special code number that. ironically, is distributed THROUGH THE MAIL. What could possibly go wrong? 

 

I think The Pony was even happier to get his special code number than Ralphie in A Christmas Story was to get his Little Orphan Annie decoder ring. I'm pretty sure The Pony's code number didn't tell him to Be Sure To Drink Your Ovaltine. Anyhoo... when I handed the letter to him in the kitchen, he took off for his bedroom to open it in private. He might have been taking selfies with it.

The Pony and his cronies were added to the official rolls of the USPS on Saturday, April 24. On Monday, at orientation, they were told how to set up their account once they received their special code number. So it seems like it only took 7 days for this magical unicorn to be delivered.

Congrats, Pony. You are no longer working for free.

It's Uncanny How Even Steven Lurks In The Bushes, Waiting To Pounce

With The Pony heading off to four days of training out-of-town this week, we had to ensure that he had the wherewithal for survival. We called to get the credit limit raised on his credit card, so he could pay for the room reservation.

Here's the thing about that credit card. It was almost impossible to get. Two years ago, with The Pony all the way in Oklahoma mid-college, Farmer H and I thought it was time that he get some credit established for when he would eventually be living on his own. (Little did we consider that such a date might be INFINITY!) But everywhere I tried said NO. We finally got one through our bank, on his student account. Since I am on that account as well, to do transactions while he was all the way in Oklahoma, I had to be in on the call to raise the limit. 

Sweet Gummi Mary! I must have been on the phone 20-30 minutes. First was a guy with an accent. Kind of like Apu on The Simpsons. I could understand him just fine, but I couldn't HEAR HIM. The volume was all the way up on our new phone. I think we have a problem on the line. There's a hum. But it didn't help that he had such a conversational tone, dropping his volume at the ends of sentences. I asked twice for him to speak up, saying I had a problem on my phone, and he said, "Let me refer you to someone else." 

This Gal was a little louder, but she also had the conversational problem. This is a matter of BUSINESS, people! Stop chatting like we're sitting in a quaint little shop sipping tea. This Gal veered off topic several times, telling me things she related to her personal life. Yes, she was personable, but I had things to do! Like play Candy Crush on my HIPPIE. Anyhoo... after going through how much money each of us makes a month, asking our housing costs, congratulating me profusely on owning my own home, and calculating The Pony's projected annual income... she said, 

"I'm happy to inform you that your credit has now been raised to $1000."

Well. That was a bit anticlimactic. The old limit was $500. The credit card Farmer H and I use (and pay off in full each month) has a limit 25X The Pony's new limit. It seemed like a lot of hassle to go through for that amount. The Pony has never had a late payment, and always paid the full amount. It was usually around $30, for gas. That's all he used credit for, and just to have a record of prompt payment.

The Pony was fine with it. "After all, Mom. They did DOUBLE the limit." 

Anyhoo... The Pony doesn't use his bank account for anything but transferring money to pay his credit card. He will NOW, since he'll be getting a salary. But he didn't keep anything in there over $500. With the raising of the credit card limit, and this trip coming up, I took $1000 of money that I'd been putting aside in case The Pony had needed to pursue another year of college, and deposited it in the account. 

Yes, I made the deposit on Thursday, my errand day, around 3:00. When I stopped to pick up the mail coming home, I saw a letter from Farmer H's insurance. It said that they were not paying for the anesthesia for the surgery he had a couple weeks ago. WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN? What kind of insurance approves a surgery, but expects the patient to be conscious for it???

Anyhoo... Farmer H is going to bring that up to the doctor on his follow-up visit. They had assured him that they had pre-approval for everything. We don't have an actual bill, but the notice from insurance that we MIGHT get one from the provider.

The amount of the uncovered anesthesia charges? $920. I guess Even Steven was feeling $80 worth of generous.