Guess whose air conditioner isn't working. Oh, that's right. I kind of gave it away in the title. Because I KNOW you didn't think I was calling Farmer H hot, as in a sexy beast. Though technically, that phrase may be half right.
I don't know what the deal is. Everything was just fine all day Thursday. As far as I knew. The thermostat was set on 74. The temperature on it read 74. I went to town and did my business. Came back. It was still 74, though 89 outside.
Next thing you know, Farmer H is back from the doctor and Goodwill, sitting in his recliner, when I ascend the stairs at 7:30.
"Whew! It's HOT up here!"
"Oh, you always say that, but you run a HEATER downstairs!"
"Well...it's chilly in the basement, and that heater is for my knees! It's really hot up here, though." I looked at the thermostat. "Why is it 77 degrees in here?"
"Huh...77? I didn't do anything to it!"
"Well, that's what is says, and it seems really hot. I guess it's broken AGAIN! I'm tired of paying two or three hundred dollars every other month for them to come out and fiddle with it! Tell them we shouldn't have to pay if they're not really fixing it, or get somebody else to do it. Good luck now, because it's going to be 95 degrees tomorrow. And we won't have AIR CONDITIONING!"
"I'll call somebody else and see if I can get them out here. I'll open up the windows tonight..."
"Good. So I can breathe whatever makes my nose run while I'm out walking."
"There's nothing we can do right now. But DON'T RUN YOUR HEATER and heat up the house!"
Uh huh. Because it's MY fault we're sweltering.
Sweet Gummi Mary! If everybody turned off their job skills when they came home, my kids would be simpletons, the cobbler's kids would run around barefoot, the ROCKERS' kids would be romping on lush landscaped grass, the gas station chicken store owners' kids would be eating hummus, and the Diet Coke truck driver's kids would be drinking KoolAid.
Farmer H hobbled out back to take a look at the unit, and pronounced it "Not running." He had no idea why, because, he said, he didn't have a meter. For someone who takes things apart and puts them back together all day, and invents parts to make machines run...I kind of expected more from him.
Friday, July 7, 2017
Thursday, July 6, 2017
I Hope Nobody Is Snickering At The Best Policy
Today I stopped by Country Mart to get some scratchers from their machine. Not for myself, of course! To send to the #1 Son in his weekly letter. I send him two tickets a week, and between the two machines that dispense them, Country Mart has a good selection. Unlike the gas station chicken store, which has limited space in their counter case, and only has four different $5 tickets at any given time. That's what I send #1. The $5 tickets. He didn't say if he won anything this week so probably not. But last week he won ten dollars, and he's been winning a little for a long streak lately.
Of course, while I was there, I figured I might as well get some tickets for myself, right? I was already there, being selfless. So what could it hurt? Those machines don't give change. So I have to make sure they have what I want before I put my money in. I got a Golden Ticket for myself from the left machine, which left me the right amount to get #1's two tickets. THEN I moved to the right side machine, and put in a five to get myself another ticket. As I was getting it out of the tray at the bottom,
I SAW A TICKET LAYING THERE.
It was up against the front lip of the tray, leaning there. It was one of the newest tickets, a $1 version, called Happy Camper. I picked it up and looked at it, making sure it wasn't a used one. Nope. Hadn't been scratched. What to do, what to do? It wasn't my ticket. When I was vending at the left machine, a guy in jeans, thin, with longish dark hair, was squatting down at the right machine. He went out the door as I walked over there. I had to wait on a lady going out before I could cross over. No way could I catch that guy on the parking lot. But it wasn't my ticket.
I took that found ticket to the service desk. I never go there. Not even to cash in my winners. I take them to other stores where I buy. I am not a regular to the service people at Country Mart. The last time I was at the service desk was to return expired cheese, way back when my grandma was alive, and I was making her a Christmas basket. And the time before that, it was to rent some VIDEOS for The Pony, him liking the Thomas the Tank Engine one they had so well that they eventually GAVE it to him, when they got rid of videos in favor of DVDs.
"I found this in the machine. It probably belongs to the man who was there right ahead of me. But it's not mine. So here it is, in case he comes back looking for it."
That lady looked at me like I had two heads. Not in a BAD way. But like I was an oddity.
"Okayyy...what did he look like?"
I described him and she said she would put it under the counter in case he came back. HEY! He COULD come back, you know. People are fanatics about their lottery tickets. Or so I've heard. Anyhoo...that lady might have scratched it as soon as I walked out the door. Or turned and started making fun of me to her cohort. Or gone home later to write a blog post about it.
Still. It wasn't my ticket. I don't like the $1 scratchers.
Of course, while I was there, I figured I might as well get some tickets for myself, right? I was already there, being selfless. So what could it hurt? Those machines don't give change. So I have to make sure they have what I want before I put my money in. I got a Golden Ticket for myself from the left machine, which left me the right amount to get #1's two tickets. THEN I moved to the right side machine, and put in a five to get myself another ticket. As I was getting it out of the tray at the bottom,
I SAW A TICKET LAYING THERE.
It was up against the front lip of the tray, leaning there. It was one of the newest tickets, a $1 version, called Happy Camper. I picked it up and looked at it, making sure it wasn't a used one. Nope. Hadn't been scratched. What to do, what to do? It wasn't my ticket. When I was vending at the left machine, a guy in jeans, thin, with longish dark hair, was squatting down at the right machine. He went out the door as I walked over there. I had to wait on a lady going out before I could cross over. No way could I catch that guy on the parking lot. But it wasn't my ticket.
I took that found ticket to the service desk. I never go there. Not even to cash in my winners. I take them to other stores where I buy. I am not a regular to the service people at Country Mart. The last time I was at the service desk was to return expired cheese, way back when my grandma was alive, and I was making her a Christmas basket. And the time before that, it was to rent some VIDEOS for The Pony, him liking the Thomas the Tank Engine one they had so well that they eventually GAVE it to him, when they got rid of videos in favor of DVDs.
"I found this in the machine. It probably belongs to the man who was there right ahead of me. But it's not mine. So here it is, in case he comes back looking for it."
That lady looked at me like I had two heads. Not in a BAD way. But like I was an oddity.
"Okayyy...what did he look like?"
I described him and she said she would put it under the counter in case he came back. HEY! He COULD come back, you know. People are fanatics about their lottery tickets. Or so I've heard. Anyhoo...that lady might have scratched it as soon as I walked out the door. Or turned and started making fun of me to her cohort. Or gone home later to write a blog post about it.
Still. It wasn't my ticket. I don't like the $1 scratchers.
Wednesday, July 5, 2017
Putting Farmer H On Blast From The Past
A while back, Farmer H came home from work telling a story of how he was almost in some trouble. Heh, heh. Like anyone could believe THAT!
I think it was one of the times he returned from Sweden, or right before he went to Sweden. I don't keep good records where Farmer H's transgressions are concerned. It's enough that I catalog them in my brain, as to the severity, and how they affect ME. Dates are not that important. This tale has been on the back burner because it did NOT affect me.
Seems that Farmer H went out to lunch with some work cronies. Normally, he takes lunch by himself, grabs some hot dogs from the 7-Eleven, eats them in his car at the park, takes a nap, and gets rousted by the police because somebody calls and complains that there's a man sleeping in the park. Anyhoo...on this day, he went out to lunch, because one of the guys had his daughter shadowing him in the workplace. Farmer H never said specifically whose little shadow she was, but they wanted her to have a nice lunch. Not hot dogs alone in the park with the police.
When Farmer H got back to work after lunch, he was missing an important machine part. It was a tiny thing. Maybe the size of pencil-topper eraser or two. The way he described it, that part was like one of those little thingies that boys at school used to bring to shock each other with. It was black plastic and metal, and I don't know how they made it shock. I was in the business of taking them away, not drawing up a schematic.
Farmer H said that part was in his shirt pocket. One of the shirts that he gets from the uniform service every week. When he looked in his pocket, he noticed the lack of the important machine part, and an unraveled seam in the side of the pocket. He looked all around for the part, but the last he remembered seeing it, he had slipped it into his pocket when he went to lunch. Because you don't want a little part like that to get lost.
This part was for a machine in Sweden. There are only two such machines in the world. Farmer H said they MIGHT have been able to contract a company to make a part from his description, but that it would take too long and not be available when he needed it. Farmer H said there was nothing to do but go back to the restaurant and look for the part.
As he pulled into the parking lot, there was a guy leaving the parking space where Farmer H had been parked earlier. He stopped to get out, and that man hollered, "You ruined me from pulling out of this parking space!" Farmer H explained his predicament, and the man got out of his vehicle and walked around with Farmer H to help him look for the machine part. Because Farmer H is just that good with people who don't know him.
They looked all around that parking space, and around the lot. Farmer H was hoping that nobody had run over it and broken it in the time since he had left. Then the parking-space helper-guy said, "You don't think it would be on the sidewalk, do you?" So they looked on the sidewalk, AND PARKING-SPACE HELPER-GUY FOUND IT!
Which was a good thing. Because to hear Farmer H tell it, that uniform shirt pocket would have been even more ripped up if that part wasn't found...from Farmer H's tit being in the wringer!
I think it was one of the times he returned from Sweden, or right before he went to Sweden. I don't keep good records where Farmer H's transgressions are concerned. It's enough that I catalog them in my brain, as to the severity, and how they affect ME. Dates are not that important. This tale has been on the back burner because it did NOT affect me.
Seems that Farmer H went out to lunch with some work cronies. Normally, he takes lunch by himself, grabs some hot dogs from the 7-Eleven, eats them in his car at the park, takes a nap, and gets rousted by the police because somebody calls and complains that there's a man sleeping in the park. Anyhoo...on this day, he went out to lunch, because one of the guys had his daughter shadowing him in the workplace. Farmer H never said specifically whose little shadow she was, but they wanted her to have a nice lunch. Not hot dogs alone in the park with the police.
When Farmer H got back to work after lunch, he was missing an important machine part. It was a tiny thing. Maybe the size of pencil-topper eraser or two. The way he described it, that part was like one of those little thingies that boys at school used to bring to shock each other with. It was black plastic and metal, and I don't know how they made it shock. I was in the business of taking them away, not drawing up a schematic.
Farmer H said that part was in his shirt pocket. One of the shirts that he gets from the uniform service every week. When he looked in his pocket, he noticed the lack of the important machine part, and an unraveled seam in the side of the pocket. He looked all around for the part, but the last he remembered seeing it, he had slipped it into his pocket when he went to lunch. Because you don't want a little part like that to get lost.
This part was for a machine in Sweden. There are only two such machines in the world. Farmer H said they MIGHT have been able to contract a company to make a part from his description, but that it would take too long and not be available when he needed it. Farmer H said there was nothing to do but go back to the restaurant and look for the part.
As he pulled into the parking lot, there was a guy leaving the parking space where Farmer H had been parked earlier. He stopped to get out, and that man hollered, "You ruined me from pulling out of this parking space!" Farmer H explained his predicament, and the man got out of his vehicle and walked around with Farmer H to help him look for the machine part. Because Farmer H is just that good with people who don't know him.
They looked all around that parking space, and around the lot. Farmer H was hoping that nobody had run over it and broken it in the time since he had left. Then the parking-space helper-guy said, "You don't think it would be on the sidewalk, do you?" So they looked on the sidewalk, AND PARKING-SPACE HELPER-GUY FOUND IT!
Which was a good thing. Because to hear Farmer H tell it, that uniform shirt pocket would have been even more ripped up if that part wasn't found...from Farmer H's tit being in the wringer!
Tuesday, July 4, 2017
Hillmomba Nights (Or At Least Late Evenings)
I've been putting off my nightly driveway walks later and later, because of the heat and the sun. I can take one or the other, but not both. The Mansion sits high upon a hill, and sunset does not come early like it does in the valleys. Not until after 8:00 does the sun dip behind the tree-limb horizon.
The dogs work themselves into a frenzy when I come out, even if it's NOT the night to take up the dumpster. That's supersized frenzy night. They romp and growl and bark and take off. Jack and Copper run along the fence line, or duck under it to scare up a rabbit in Copper's grown-over field. They often follow it across the gravel road onto neighbor Tommy's property, where he's been clearing paths through the brush. Sometimes they end up in the horse field of the Killer Poodle's house. And usually, they double back to our yard, and run down the fence line into our woods, or across the front yard/field towards the BARn field.
Sometimes I see a big fat rabbit making a dash down the fence line into the woods. Sometimes I just see dogs with noses near the ground. My Sweet, Sweet Juno is a fair-weather rabbit-chaser. She starts out like she's going to help. Follows the other two hunters, then stands her ground. Poor dumb Ann (the shepherd/lab) used to use this technique while Grizzly (the beagle/lab) and Tank (the papers-to-be-registered beagle) scared the bunny out of the cover and into the open field. Ann was a good team player. Juno is not. Juno would be the last substitute into the game, playing only on Parent's Night, with a 50-point lead, and better off donating her time as manager.
Last night I was at the far end of the driveway, making my turnaround on the third lap. I know where to turn around, because there's a week-old pile of poop there. I don't think it's dog poop. It's like a small pile of logs, the shape which could be dog poop, but it has weeds or hair or feathers mixed in. Farmer H thinks it might be from a fox or coyote or raccoon that might have been what's getting our chickens.
Anyhoo...there I was, dusk setting in, turning around by the pile of poop, when I almost tripped. You know how you sense something at your feet. It wasn't touching me, but it could have. I looked down to see a mid-sized rabbit sitting between my feet. I stopped. It hopped over my right foot and headed for the main sinkhole in the stand of trees that divides the front yard/field from the BARn field.
And here came the hounds! Silent, though. Jack first. Slicing across that gravel road and into our field toward the driveway like a small dirty-white furry torpedo. Then came Copper. They were right on that trail, but then lost the bunny. I saw them double back, still sniffing the ground. I guess that little guy got away.
Juno ambled back through the yard and laid down, smiling at me. I don't think she earned her snack last night. She needs to watch her girlish figure.
The dogs work themselves into a frenzy when I come out, even if it's NOT the night to take up the dumpster. That's supersized frenzy night. They romp and growl and bark and take off. Jack and Copper run along the fence line, or duck under it to scare up a rabbit in Copper's grown-over field. They often follow it across the gravel road onto neighbor Tommy's property, where he's been clearing paths through the brush. Sometimes they end up in the horse field of the Killer Poodle's house. And usually, they double back to our yard, and run down the fence line into our woods, or across the front yard/field towards the BARn field.
Sometimes I see a big fat rabbit making a dash down the fence line into the woods. Sometimes I just see dogs with noses near the ground. My Sweet, Sweet Juno is a fair-weather rabbit-chaser. She starts out like she's going to help. Follows the other two hunters, then stands her ground. Poor dumb Ann (the shepherd/lab) used to use this technique while Grizzly (the beagle/lab) and Tank (the papers-to-be-registered beagle) scared the bunny out of the cover and into the open field. Ann was a good team player. Juno is not. Juno would be the last substitute into the game, playing only on Parent's Night, with a 50-point lead, and better off donating her time as manager.
Last night I was at the far end of the driveway, making my turnaround on the third lap. I know where to turn around, because there's a week-old pile of poop there. I don't think it's dog poop. It's like a small pile of logs, the shape which could be dog poop, but it has weeds or hair or feathers mixed in. Farmer H thinks it might be from a fox or coyote or raccoon that might have been what's getting our chickens.
Anyhoo...there I was, dusk setting in, turning around by the pile of poop, when I almost tripped. You know how you sense something at your feet. It wasn't touching me, but it could have. I looked down to see a mid-sized rabbit sitting between my feet. I stopped. It hopped over my right foot and headed for the main sinkhole in the stand of trees that divides the front yard/field from the BARn field.
And here came the hounds! Silent, though. Jack first. Slicing across that gravel road and into our field toward the driveway like a small dirty-white furry torpedo. Then came Copper. They were right on that trail, but then lost the bunny. I saw them double back, still sniffing the ground. I guess that little guy got away.
Juno ambled back through the yard and laid down, smiling at me. I don't think she earned her snack last night. She needs to watch her girlish figure.
Monday, July 3, 2017
I Wanted To Say CRAM IT, But She Already Did
Today we return to the product-review subject matter. Or, more accurately, the review of The Devil's Handmaiden who slings the product.
It happened at The Devil's Playground over in Bill-Paying Town. At the deli counter. You know, the one where that policeman turned to me and said, "YEEESSSS?" when I approached to ask for some chicken wings. He wasn't there last week, and I wasn't looking for chicken wings. I was looking for chicken livers. And some of those wedge fries.
As I walked up to the deli counter, The Handmaiden scurried away, turning her back, busying herself with something on a counter in the inner sanctum. Another Devil's Handmaiden was waiting on another lady, who was getting sliced meat. I wasn't even near the sliceables. I was at the already-prepared area. So how much trouble could I be, really? The Handmaiden would only need to count, or to weigh. I'm pretty sure they do both about a hundred times a day. It was before noon. She couldn't have been burned out yet.
I was in the market for chicken livers for Farmer H, enough to last two meals, and those wedge fries. I don't think we've had any of them for at least a year, what with both boys gone, and me making wise choices. I did not plan on partaking, but Farmer H likes them. With all my purchases to be carted home and into the house, I didn't want to smash them. So when the Handmaiden deigned to come forward and snarl, "What can I get you?" I told her a large container of the wedge fries.
They were quite large, those wedge fries. The length of one of those tall containers. I assumed she would just put them in lengthwise. Maybe laying the container on its side and stacking them until it was full. I didn't specify poundage, or a certain number. I also asked for a large container of chicken livers. What could be easier? Just fill the containers, weigh them, and slap a sticker on them. It's not like trial and error to get me a pound of something.
Huh. You know what happens when we assume. Here is what I got.
Uh huh. The Devil's Handmaiden took her tongs and grabbed at those wedge fries and STUFFED them into the container. SHOVED them down, all willy-nilly, Destroyed the integrity of the wedges. SMOOSHED them to CRAM more on top. I swear, she tamped down those once-wedge fries like she was loading powder in her musket.
I was able to find a few unblemished wedge fries for Farmer H. The first meal. Let the record show that Jack and my Sweet, Sweet Juno reaped the rewards of the carnage a few days later.
What, exactly, is wrong with people these days?
It happened at The Devil's Playground over in Bill-Paying Town. At the deli counter. You know, the one where that policeman turned to me and said, "YEEESSSS?" when I approached to ask for some chicken wings. He wasn't there last week, and I wasn't looking for chicken wings. I was looking for chicken livers. And some of those wedge fries.
As I walked up to the deli counter, The Handmaiden scurried away, turning her back, busying herself with something on a counter in the inner sanctum. Another Devil's Handmaiden was waiting on another lady, who was getting sliced meat. I wasn't even near the sliceables. I was at the already-prepared area. So how much trouble could I be, really? The Handmaiden would only need to count, or to weigh. I'm pretty sure they do both about a hundred times a day. It was before noon. She couldn't have been burned out yet.
I was in the market for chicken livers for Farmer H, enough to last two meals, and those wedge fries. I don't think we've had any of them for at least a year, what with both boys gone, and me making wise choices. I did not plan on partaking, but Farmer H likes them. With all my purchases to be carted home and into the house, I didn't want to smash them. So when the Handmaiden deigned to come forward and snarl, "What can I get you?" I told her a large container of the wedge fries.
They were quite large, those wedge fries. The length of one of those tall containers. I assumed she would just put them in lengthwise. Maybe laying the container on its side and stacking them until it was full. I didn't specify poundage, or a certain number. I also asked for a large container of chicken livers. What could be easier? Just fill the containers, weigh them, and slap a sticker on them. It's not like trial and error to get me a pound of something.
Huh. You know what happens when we assume. Here is what I got.
Uh huh. The Devil's Handmaiden took her tongs and grabbed at those wedge fries and STUFFED them into the container. SHOVED them down, all willy-nilly, Destroyed the integrity of the wedges. SMOOSHED them to CRAM more on top. I swear, she tamped down those once-wedge fries like she was loading powder in her musket.
I was able to find a few unblemished wedge fries for Farmer H. The first meal. Let the record show that Jack and my Sweet, Sweet Juno reaped the rewards of the carnage a few days later.
What, exactly, is wrong with people these days?
Sunday, July 2, 2017
He's A Celebrity, Get Him Out Of Here
Everybody knows one. Some people, like Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, know two. Uh huh. Don't be giving me the stinkeye with your envy-green peepers, though. It's not necessarily a good thing.
I'm talking about those men in the office who are all gung-ho for a potluck dinner. The ones who load up their plates with three of the six servings of Sue Ann Nivens's Veal Prince Orloff, like Mr. Grant at Mary's dinner party. The ones whose plate is so full that they might take a second one. But they have the right, you know, because they brought something to the potluck! Just ask them. Okay. You don't actually need to ask them, because they will tell you about it. Often.
"I signed up for the loaf of bread. They have Wonder Bread for fifty cents at the Hostess Outlet!"
Uh huh. Sir Gabs-a-Lot used to regale us with his culinary exploits often at the Semi Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank. Until his lunch shift was changed. Let the record show that Mrs. HM had nothing to do with that.
This week, I discovered that Farmer H is the new Sir Gabs-a-Lot.
Last weekend, Farmer H went to a family reunion. I have never attended one with him. Both of his parents were deceased when I met him (I had nothing to do with it, I swear), and his brothers were living in other states, and these relatives like Great Aunt Gertie barely know Farmer H. So I didn't think they or I would be missing out on anything by my absence. Some years, one of the boys would go with Farmer H. Under duress. Maybe the #1 Son only went to prevent Farmer H from bragging for another year that, "My boy is pretty smart. He has an IQ of almost 100!"
Anyhoo...for a couple of years, I made a dish for Farmer H to take. Something like deviled eggs, or potato salad. They take a long time to make, you know. And are not exactly suited for an hour's travel, and sitting on a warm picnic table. Let the record show that nobody ever got food poisoning at the family reunion. But if they did, I had nothing to do with it. I swear.
So...Farmer H said that he would pick something up at The Devil's Playground. It might have been one of the years that #1 attended with him. They settled on something simple. A couple of deli sub sandwiches. Of course Farmer H always has a knife with him. It's his bread-and-butter. His factory makes knives. So he bought a couple of foil pans and sliced up two foot-long sandwiches to take to the picnic. Now that's his routine. His loaf of day-old bread, if you will.
I asked Farmer H how his family reunion went, and he said, "Them kids loved that sandwich! They ate it up! There were two girls standing around the table, maybe almost teenagers, and one of them took two pieces of sandwich, and the other one took three! They loved it!"
Yes. Farmer H provided the best sandwich ever known to man. He was the star of his family reunion picnic. To hear him tell it.
I'm living with a celebrity.
I'm talking about those men in the office who are all gung-ho for a potluck dinner. The ones who load up their plates with three of the six servings of Sue Ann Nivens's Veal Prince Orloff, like Mr. Grant at Mary's dinner party. The ones whose plate is so full that they might take a second one. But they have the right, you know, because they brought something to the potluck! Just ask them. Okay. You don't actually need to ask them, because they will tell you about it. Often.
"I signed up for the loaf of bread. They have Wonder Bread for fifty cents at the Hostess Outlet!"
Uh huh. Sir Gabs-a-Lot used to regale us with his culinary exploits often at the Semi Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank. Until his lunch shift was changed. Let the record show that Mrs. HM had nothing to do with that.
This week, I discovered that Farmer H is the new Sir Gabs-a-Lot.
Last weekend, Farmer H went to a family reunion. I have never attended one with him. Both of his parents were deceased when I met him (I had nothing to do with it, I swear), and his brothers were living in other states, and these relatives like Great Aunt Gertie barely know Farmer H. So I didn't think they or I would be missing out on anything by my absence. Some years, one of the boys would go with Farmer H. Under duress. Maybe the #1 Son only went to prevent Farmer H from bragging for another year that, "My boy is pretty smart. He has an IQ of almost 100!"
Anyhoo...for a couple of years, I made a dish for Farmer H to take. Something like deviled eggs, or potato salad. They take a long time to make, you know. And are not exactly suited for an hour's travel, and sitting on a warm picnic table. Let the record show that nobody ever got food poisoning at the family reunion. But if they did, I had nothing to do with it. I swear.
So...Farmer H said that he would pick something up at The Devil's Playground. It might have been one of the years that #1 attended with him. They settled on something simple. A couple of deli sub sandwiches. Of course Farmer H always has a knife with him. It's his bread-and-butter. His factory makes knives. So he bought a couple of foil pans and sliced up two foot-long sandwiches to take to the picnic. Now that's his routine. His loaf of day-old bread, if you will.
I asked Farmer H how his family reunion went, and he said, "Them kids loved that sandwich! They ate it up! There were two girls standing around the table, maybe almost teenagers, and one of them took two pieces of sandwich, and the other one took three! They loved it!"
Yes. Farmer H provided the best sandwich ever known to man. He was the star of his family reunion picnic. To hear him tell it.
I'm living with a celebrity.
Saturday, July 1, 2017
The $5,750 Phone Call
I am not well-versed in the meaning of IRONY. In fact, I used to consult my resident couch academian, The Pony, before he left me high and dry (or low and Diet-Coke-soaked), on the proper usage of the term. I think it applies here, but The Pony is on a camping trip, and incommunicado.
Yesterday, I mentioned that the student loan scammers had called on Monday and Tuesday. On Wednesday, I saw that the #1 Son's tuition statement for fall semester was ready for payment. Unlike every other semester statement of his illustrious college career...this one did not show ANTICIPATED AID. #1 usually has 5 scholarships listed at the bottom of his statement. And an adjusted amount that is due this pay period.
#1 is due to graduate in December. He has used his scholarships for 7 semesters so far. During the spring of 2016, he did not attend classes on campus, but worked for an engineering firm in a co-op arrangement. It is quite common for students at #1's university to take a co-op semester. They work a real job, 40 hours a week, to see if they are suited to the work they are educating themselves for. Their scholarships are put on hold until they return. There was no lapse in the scholarships when #1 went back to school during fall of 2016, nor during spring of 2017.
I texted #1 to ask if he needed to do anything about his scholarships. Without them, the fees will drain his college account quicker than he anticipated. He is fortunate, even if that happens, to have the Hillbilly Family Safety Net to allow him to complete his degree, should his living expenses cause a shortfall in his funds. #1 sent a reply to my text, saying he would look into it. That everything he had researched before his co-op said the scholarships would be there after the co-op, and that he didn't have to do anything.
I sent him another text the next day, asking if he found out anything.
"I have not. SOME of us work a full time job, you know."
"How unfortunate. Some of us drink 44 oz of Diet Cokes and peruse conspiracy sites all day, yet are responsible for paying the bills."
"OK. It's hard for me to call because their office closes at 4:30. I am off early at 3:30 on Friday and will call."
"If you think they will talk to me, I'll call. Once I take the money from your account to put in mine to pay, the bank is going to put a 10-day hold on the check. And the bill is due on the 15th."
"They should talk to you. You're on my student account so you can pay. Here's my student number."
So...I called and talked to somebody who sounded like a student answering the phones over lunch. He said this happens a couple times a week. That there's a glitch in the university's system, and it doesn't pick up the scholarships after a co-op semester, and the only way that the university knows is when the parents of the student call asking where the scholarships are.
You would think, wouldn't you, that a university known for churning out TECHNOLOGY geniuses would be able to fix something like that?
Anyhoo...he said it was nothing that #1 had done wrong or neglected to do. That it was a glitch in the system, and it would actually take an appeal process for the scholarships to be reinstated, but that if #1's GPA was okay, it should be fine. But the lady who handles it was out of the office until July 5. So he would send her an email. Then he transferred me to a financial aid counselor.
The financial aid counselor looked up the account, and saw the scholarships, and said that even though the scholarship lady had been emailed, he was going to push them through right then, and to give him a half hour, then call the finance office, who would be able to see them, and give me a new total for the bill due on July 15.
I did that, and all but one of the scholarships was showing up. So I'll pay the new total and deal with that other one in the coming months.
It might have cost me a few dollars of long distance on my landline, since our cell phones don't work in the house, but I'm pretty sure #1 can kick in several bucks (whether he knows it or not) from the savings on his college fund.
[From the DOO DOO DOO DOO Files: Not 30 seconds after I hit PUBLISH on this post, an email popped up from the BURSAR'S OFFICE that said "Billing Statement." I swear, this computer is reading my mind! The time on the email was 6:22, same as the posting time. EXCEPT the email was from OU, about The Pony's summer tuition, with a balance of zero.]
Yesterday, I mentioned that the student loan scammers had called on Monday and Tuesday. On Wednesday, I saw that the #1 Son's tuition statement for fall semester was ready for payment. Unlike every other semester statement of his illustrious college career...this one did not show ANTICIPATED AID. #1 usually has 5 scholarships listed at the bottom of his statement. And an adjusted amount that is due this pay period.
#1 is due to graduate in December. He has used his scholarships for 7 semesters so far. During the spring of 2016, he did not attend classes on campus, but worked for an engineering firm in a co-op arrangement. It is quite common for students at #1's university to take a co-op semester. They work a real job, 40 hours a week, to see if they are suited to the work they are educating themselves for. Their scholarships are put on hold until they return. There was no lapse in the scholarships when #1 went back to school during fall of 2016, nor during spring of 2017.
I texted #1 to ask if he needed to do anything about his scholarships. Without them, the fees will drain his college account quicker than he anticipated. He is fortunate, even if that happens, to have the Hillbilly Family Safety Net to allow him to complete his degree, should his living expenses cause a shortfall in his funds. #1 sent a reply to my text, saying he would look into it. That everything he had researched before his co-op said the scholarships would be there after the co-op, and that he didn't have to do anything.
I sent him another text the next day, asking if he found out anything.
"I have not. SOME of us work a full time job, you know."
"How unfortunate. Some of us drink 44 oz of Diet Cokes and peruse conspiracy sites all day, yet are responsible for paying the bills."
"OK. It's hard for me to call because their office closes at 4:30. I am off early at 3:30 on Friday and will call."
"If you think they will talk to me, I'll call. Once I take the money from your account to put in mine to pay, the bank is going to put a 10-day hold on the check. And the bill is due on the 15th."
"They should talk to you. You're on my student account so you can pay. Here's my student number."
So...I called and talked to somebody who sounded like a student answering the phones over lunch. He said this happens a couple times a week. That there's a glitch in the university's system, and it doesn't pick up the scholarships after a co-op semester, and the only way that the university knows is when the parents of the student call asking where the scholarships are.
You would think, wouldn't you, that a university known for churning out TECHNOLOGY geniuses would be able to fix something like that?
Anyhoo...he said it was nothing that #1 had done wrong or neglected to do. That it was a glitch in the system, and it would actually take an appeal process for the scholarships to be reinstated, but that if #1's GPA was okay, it should be fine. But the lady who handles it was out of the office until July 5. So he would send her an email. Then he transferred me to a financial aid counselor.
The financial aid counselor looked up the account, and saw the scholarships, and said that even though the scholarship lady had been emailed, he was going to push them through right then, and to give him a half hour, then call the finance office, who would be able to see them, and give me a new total for the bill due on July 15.
I did that, and all but one of the scholarships was showing up. So I'll pay the new total and deal with that other one in the coming months.
It might have cost me a few dollars of long distance on my landline, since our cell phones don't work in the house, but I'm pretty sure #1 can kick in several bucks (whether he knows it or not) from the savings on his college fund.
[From the DOO DOO DOO DOO Files: Not 30 seconds after I hit PUBLISH on this post, an email popped up from the BURSAR'S OFFICE that said "Billing Statement." I swear, this computer is reading my mind! The time on the email was 6:22, same as the posting time. EXCEPT the email was from OU, about The Pony's summer tuition, with a balance of zero.]
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