Little Shoppe Of Flowers

My cousin used to own a florist shop. We've always used that one for our floral needs. The name had nothing to do with my cousin. She kept the name when she bought the business. A couple years few years ago, she sold the business to retire, and the new owner kept the name as well.

I don't know if we still go there because of our former familial loyalty, because of the name recognition, or because it's the closest florist. Anyhoo...that's where I went on Saturday, seeking an arrangement for XMM's (ex-mayor's mother's) funeral.

Let the record show that I searched online Friday night, looking at various funereal foliage. I hadn't discussed it with Farmer H, but I was pretty sure he'd prefer a plant, rather than flowers. Flowers look nice, but they're decaying within a couple of days. I had my eye on a Peace Lily. I know that the ex-mayor appreciates plants. He ran a florist business himself, right out of school. I toyed with the idea of ordering it online, and being done with it. But something held me back. I decided to get up early, and go in person to my cousin's old flower shop. Which we will, for blog purposes, call The Little Shoppe of Flowers.

The last time we used The Little Shoppe of Flowers was for The Pony's proms, junior and senior year. We were not disappointed, getting two lovely wrist corsages, and accompanying boutonnieres. Somewhere in between boutonnieres, we also got a funeral arrangement for one or more relatives I don't recall. We had an unfortunate rash of expirations in the aunts and uncles over a six-month period.

Anyhoo...I remembered that The Little Shoppe of Flowers had seemed a bit disorganized the first visit after Cuz closed up shop. I figured it was just the new owner getting used to running a business. For example, they didn't quite know how to take a debit card. Or print out a receipt from their computer. So I paid cash, and took a handwritten receipt. No big deal. I always carry cash.

The next occasion for patronage, the husband of the new owner was sitting in the office area, dandling a grandbaby on his knee. Okay. Some people need their relatives for child care. I understand. The fact that he knew not even the basics of how to help me was a bit disconcerting, but he did holler for the owner to come out of the back room, where she was busy arranging. Again, there was the awkwardness of paying, but again, I had cash ready.

The third time, it was like a family reunion on the porch. Which, mind you, is not very large at all. So I had to weave though assorted folk in deck chairs, hoping I didn't get my ample rumpus too close to anyone's nose as I passed by. Not that my ample rumpus isn't fresh, mind you. Only that nobody really wants to see an ample rumpus close-up when they're having a hoedown on their business's front porch.

Silly me. I just assumed that the new owner would eventually get her act together, and run that place like a professional. You know what happens when we assume. It was like some old granny-lady rolled out of bed that morning, and said, "Hey, Grampy! Let's sell us some flowers!"

In my Peace Lily quest, I found the old man still sitting in the office area, chatting with the grandbaby, who is now an older toddler, and was playing with an electronic thingy smaller than a notebook, but bigger than a PCP/GameBoy gadget. Maybe it was one of those oversize phones. Anyhoo...I was hoping that she'd be able to do their transactions and computer work for them!

Sadly, she was not asked. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Old Man called New Owner out of the back room. "What can I help you with?"

"I'm looking for a plant, for a funeral. To be delivered this afternoon."

"Honey, I'm all out of plants until after the weekend. All I have left are poinsettias." She motioned to a red and a white, sitting on the floor.

"Oh. Well. I don't really want flowers, because they just don't last. Um..."

Seriously, I considered walking out of there, to seek my Peace Lily elsewhere. But I had things to do. And I was already there. And I'd not had any complaints with them before. And they DID have a 5-star rating on the innernets.

"Will that be okay? Do people send poinsettias to funerals?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Okay. I'll take the white one."

I gave her the information, and confirmed that it would be delivered by 4:30. I was a bit concerned when I had to spell Farmer H's name for her three times. And when she wrote down The Pony's name, which is very common, almost as common as Tom, Dick, or Harry, and misspelled it by leaving out a letter. It would have been like writing Pny instead of Pony. Then she had trouble typing up the information on her computer. She handed me the receipt, and I turned to go, as she was picking the poinsettia up off the floor. Which I guess is better than slapping a SOLD sticker on it.

"Do you want me to take the joy out of it?"

"Excuse me?"

"The joy. Do you want it left in, or out?" She was motioning to a plastic stick with the word JOY at the top, jammed down into the poinsettia. The red one has something else, like REJOICE.

"Oh. Yes. Please."

"Sure. Some people like to leave it in."

The poinsettia of mourning was delivered on time. Sis complimented me on it. I told her I wasn't sure if it was appropriate, and she said, "Sure it is. Some of the arrangements have poinsettia flowers in them. And look over there by the wall."

There were two little potted pine trees, one with a string of plastic lights. They looked just fine. I suppose that after Peace Lilies and poinsettias come pine trees...

But Seriously, Folks

I'm not trying for the easy laugh today. No off-color double entendres from my 13-year-old self. No ridiculing Farmer H for his proven premeditated peccadilloes. Today we mourn the loss of the mother of the ex-mayor.

It's hard to let them go, yet selfish to wish them to stay. The XMM was a gracious lady, full of tales of yore that involved my own kin, and with a kickin' sense of humor. I only saw her a couple times a year, at birthdays or summer cookouts, and always at Christmas. She was one of OUR table, you know. The table in the dining room. Not the riff-raff in the kitchen, all Millennialish, wine-drinking, phone-texting and such. Civilized!

Anyhoo...the XMM had been in good health until a year or two ago. Last Christmas was not her best. A couple of injuries set her back, requiring hospitalization and rehabs. I'm not here to give away her medical information. Just to say that it's hard to let go, when a loved one is not getting better, and is sometimes confused and frightened. We selfishly wish for them to stick around, more for our own benefit, perhaps, than theirs. It's just hard.

When this posts, Farmer H and I will be at the XMM's funeral, most probably a packed house, celebrating her 97 years of life, and letting her move on to whatever awaits us all, when our time here is done.

I'm pretty sure we'd all be happy to have 97 years. I know she made the most of hers.

It's An Even Steveny World. Mrs. HM Just Lives In It.

Hey, have I ever mentioned that I used to be a science teacher? Any science teacher knows about entropy. I'm not talking about the mathematical formula, but the basic concept that systems tend toward disorder. Like Life After People, that show Farmer H used to watch on the History Channel, about how once man is gone, structures decay and collapse, and plants go wild and cover the ruins. Or, in a more short-term example...once a teacher steps out of the classroom, students tend to not remain silently seated in orderly rows, but grow increasingly less orderly until all Not-Heaven breaks loose!

Well, forget all that! Who needs a bunch of stuffy science teachers telling them how the world works, anyway? Mrs. HM is here today to promote her own Theory of Even Stevenness. Which says the positives and the negatives tend to balance each other out and achieve a neutral status.

HEY! It could happen! It happens to Mrs. HM all the time.

Friday, for instance.

There I was at The Devil's Playground, having only stopped in to pick up a Christmas gift for Genius's roommate Friend. I'd seen it a couple days before, and didn't get it. You know how that goes. You regret it later. So I went back, for an R2D2 Christmas ornament. As luck would have it, I found the very one I was seeking, and MORE! A different kind of collectible Star Wars ornament. So I gathered some more, and got in line.

Let the record show that I was also getting a haircut for a funeral (not my own), and had done the mobile check-in app with Terrible Cuts before entering The Devil's Playground. My wait time was 23 minutes, and Terrible Cuts is just a hop, skip, and a jump away from The Devil. When I put my cart third in line, I had three minutes left.

Of course all the lines were backed up. I was in the shortest one. The people hassling the Devil's Handmaiden over a non-working card had the whole conveyor full. I guess they were paying for separate orders. The older lady in front of me had a cart piled full of what looked like her entire Christmas gift haul. She turned around as a higher-up Handmaiden walked by, tsk-tsking at the backed up lines.

"Oh! You are going ahead of me! That's all you have?"

"You don't have to do that. I'm okay."

"You come right up here! You don't have hardly anything, and I have this whole cart!"

"Well...thank you SO MUCH! That's so nice of you!"

We switched places. A 20-something gal with unnaturally red hair came up to Kindly Lady. Apparently they were together. Red said, "Oh, look! Somebody ELSE must love Star Wars, too!"

"Yes! It's the perfect gift. Just what I was looking for!"

My faith in humanity was almost restored enough that for those few minutes, people DIDN'T piss me off! So nice of Kindly Lady to put me ahead of herself. I had a good chance of making my haircut check-in on time.

Okay. So that didn't happen. Even though the app showed that I had ZERO wait when I got back to T-Hoe, and drove the half mile to Terrible Cuts...three other customers were already being terribly cut, and I had to wait. No big deal. I sent a picture of my Star Wars loot to Genius, who agreed that it was the perfect gift.

I got my lovely lady-mullet trimmed, not so terribly, by one of the cutters I like. I was actually cheerful, in the Christmas spirit, temps in the 30s, country Christmas songs on T-Hoe's radio, when I left. I went down the outer road behind Terrible Cuts, and sat by the O'Reilly Automotive shop, waiting to make my right turn and head over to the lake road for a stop by the dead mouse smelling post office to pick up a package.

HONK HONK HONK HONK!!!!

What in the Not-Heaven? Some impatient rumpus-orifice had his big white pickup truck on T-Hoe's bumper, honking to beat the band. AS IF the oncoming traffic was under my control. Sweet Gummi Mary! You can't just pull out in front of moving traffic, even if you drive a sturdy T-Hoe. That traffic was spaced out just enough that once a car went by, the next one was too close for me to get out.

Maybe White Trucker didn't notice the guy in black leather on a motorcycle. It was an overcast day, so maybe he just didn't see. No way was I pulling out in front of a motorcycle! That's how my uncle got killed. A truck pulled out in front of him, and he slid under the back of it, trying to stop.

That whole honky thing kind of took a way my Christmas spirit.

Even Steven gives, and Even Steven rips it away. HM's Theory of Even Stevenness.

A Tale Of Two Transactions

"I wish you could be just a little more disinterested and annoyed when you take my money during your shift at the convenience store." Said NO ONE EVER!

Sweet Gummi Mary! People these days take no pride in their job. No longer is a job worth doing worth doing right. That must have fallen by the wayside back when cursive writing was discontinued.

Thursday morning, I popped into Orb K for scratchers to put in Genius's birthday card. No other customers were in the store. Only two other cars were on the lot. A couple of vehicles were pumping gas. It was nothing compared to the whirlwind of activity on a weekend afternoon.

All I wanted were scratchers. I had correct change. I looked at the ticket board close enough to read the numbers of those I wanted. Then I stepped over to the counter. The clerk was facing away from me, fiddling with cigarettes, perhaps. Maybe alcohol. I don't remember what's on that back wall, since I'm neither a smoker nor a drinker.

I know she knew I was there! The door chimes when it opens. I'm never in a hurry. Not even on this day when I needed to get to the post office before 11:30. I'd allowed time. I don't mind to wait if someone is busy helping other customers, or carrying crates of new merchandise to mark. It kind of irks me to be ignored, though. Still, I'm a civil gal. I didn't clear my throat fakely, or tap my toes, or holler, "Hey, Toots! Hows about some service?" Nope. I waited.

Clerk turned around and looked at me like I'd interrupted her saving the world from alien invaders. Like I was something she stepped in. Like I was ten toenails in a candle on the mantel.

That's just wrong. The customer is always right.

In contrast, I was fifth in line at my bank later in the morning. One girl was working the counter, and another was working the drive-thru. The gal at a desk didn't count, because she does other things like open new accounts, and she already had a customer with her.

I waited in the vestibule. It's a really small bank. Maybe three steps from inner door to counter. So people hang back, so as not to be considered snoopy. The folks ahead of me had simple transactions. In barely five minutes, it was my turn. The drive-thru girl came over to the counter.  

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid this is going to take up your time. I have six savings bonds to cash in. They're already filled out, though. And I have my ID, and the death certificate."

"Oh, that's fine. Let me have your documents, and I'll get right on it. Do you just want to cash them out, or deposit them?"

"They usually say I don't have a choice. I have to deposit them."

"Okay. Do you have your account number?"

By the time I slid my checkbook across the counter, Little Teller had a deposit slip ready to fill out. She took my bonds over to the drive-thru area, where her drawer was. A man in a pickup truck had sent his banking through the tube. She took it out, and said, "We're working on it. I'll be with you in a moment." Pleasant as you please.

I wouldn't have minded if she did his transaction ahead of me. He WAS a drive-thru customer, and she was just helping out at the counter. However, she finished up my bonds, which require special access to a MEDALLION, as you might recall from a while back on my other blog, and info entered into a federal treasury website. Little Teller got my stuff done, brought me the printouts and receipt, and pleasantly asked if she could help me with something else. Nope! She was so efficient. I thanked her, and moved aside for the next customer behind me.

Little Teller went back to the drive-thru, and apologized to Pickup Man for his wait.

"Oh. That's okay. I thought you forgot about me."

"No, I was assisting another customer at the counter, and it took a little longer than expected. I am sorry for your wait."

"No problem! Thanks a lot!"

Little Teller had Pickup Man eating out of her hand. And he could barely even see her through the tinted glass. It was all in her voice and her attitude.

Now THAT is customer service!

My Deer Lady

I might have had a relapse from my apparently chronic case of Old Rage last week. A relapse that allowed good nature to override the Old Rage.

I was driving home from the Gas Station Chicken Store with my precious 44 oz Diet Coke, approaching the clustercluck intersection between Orb K on the right, and the Save-A-Lot/Subway/Dollar Store mini-mall on the left. No lights. Just a left turn lane for those Save-A-Lot bound. It's really hard to get out of Orb K and that mini-mall. I always plan my own errands to allow a right turn out of each lot, to lessen the confusion of that clucking intersection.

There I was, rolling along at the legal speed limit of 30 mph, when a car started to creep out from Orb K's lot. Sometimes they do this. Get their bumper right up to the roadway, ready to peel out of there when the coast is clear. I took my right foot off T-Hoe's gas pedal, and held it poised over the brake pedal. Just in case.

Sweet Gummi Mary! The mid-size silver sedan nosed out into my lane, and stopped! The old lady behind the wheel was looking right at me. Frozen. Like a deer in the headlights. Her mouth an "O" of surprise. She reminded me of Vicki Lawrence as "Mama" on Mama's Family. And that face in The Scream.

I wasn't even mad! I slowed down and checked my mirror for left-turners, and inched T-Hoe around the front end of that silver sedan by using the left-turn lane. Nothing was stuck in my craw. Not a drop of rain hit my Taking Home the Magical Elixir Parade. My granny panties clung to my ample rumpus smoothly, unwadded. I didn't even mutter profanities. I know how hard it is to get out of there, especially if you're indecisive.

Yeah. I had a momentary relapse from my Old Rage.

Barreling Down The Interstate With Farmer H

Don't worry! This isn't a horror story. Mrs. HM is safe and sound. In fact, the tale comes from our Thanksgiving trip to visit The Pony in Oklahoma. So I've had time to decompress (heh, heh, at first I started typing decompose) from my sweaving adventures with Farmer H. It was actually one of his least scary trips. Not that such a claim is saying much...

Anyhoo...when Mrs. HM goes on a road trip, you can bet there will be many pit stops. Every couple of hours, I have to get out. Not from the stress of riding with Farmer H, but because my blood pressure medicine commands me to find a bathroom. Also, my knees kind of expect a leg-stretching, so as not to fuse in the sitting position permanently.

We have our standard stops. The Casey's in Steelville, Missouri, about 90 minutes from home if we have already fueled up before departure. Then a bonus stop 18 miles later, at the McDonald's in St. James, for a Sausage Egg McMuffin for breakfast. Even though Farmer H sometimes has a pre-breakfast of Casey's donuts.

We used to stop at an interstate Rest Area just south of Genius's college town. But it's been closed for a few years. Not exactly closed closed. You can still drive off the exit and park to rest. But the restrooms are gone! Does that make sense? They tore down the buildings, left the roads, and put up some Port-A-Potties for truckers.

That's okay, I can hold it until the official Rest Area, which is about 20 miles before we get to Springfield. It's nice, with toilets and a Visitor's Center (not that we need it, of course, since we're NATIVE MISSOURIANS), and food and drink machines.

I didn't get a picture of the whole building, because who takes pictures of Rest Areas along the interstate? I took these because of their display.

It was to promote safe driving over the holidays, I suppose. Or scare the bejeebers out of people so they wouldn't sweave. They put these up every year. I didn't capture the full scenario, but they have an almost-demolished automobile with a sign explaining that the passengers were wearing seat belts, and lived. Then facing it, they have a barely dented automobile, with a sign explaining the passengers were NOT wearing seat belts, and didn't survive the accident. I always wear a seat belt! They're preachin' to the choir!

Anyhoo...I took the pictures for this guy. I thought it was a creative use of Missouri Department of Transportation (MODoT) equipment. Plus, I liked that really tall stop sign in the back.

We have three other pit stops before we reach The Pony. Another Rest Area that we seldom use, about 90 minutes from here, on the other side of Joplin. I think it's actually run by the state of Oklahoma. And then our Casey's in Adair, Oklahoma, where we eat a pizza slice lunch special. Then the McDonald's in Okema, less than an hour from Norman. Those places can't compare to this Barrel Man. He's my #1 attraction.

But the pizza slice is a pretty close second.

Old Rage

You'd think Mrs. HM would be her rainbows-and-unicorns sunny self, now two-and-a-half years into her retirement. But a funny thing happened on the way to living the permanent vacation.

I HAVE OLD RAGE!

Yeah. I'm SO impatient with stuff that really should be inconsequential. I'm not even talking about Farmer H's antics. Well. Much.

It's the simplest things. Like when I go to sit down in my rolly chair in front of New Delly in my dark basement lair. I grab the armrests (at least the good one on the right side, and the bare metal bar on the left) and pull it forward slightly as I sit down. Because it's on wheels, you know! You can't just plop down all willy-nilly, and expect a rolly chair to wait for you.

I go ballistic when I pull my rolly chair toward me, and the WHEELS BUMP MY HEELS! What's up with that? Who manufactures a chair where the wheels stick out farther than the seat? That's just an accident waiting to happen! If I didn't have a firm grip on the armrest-and-a-half, that rolly chair would bounce off my heels and skitter backwards, causing me to plop down on my ample rumpus, possibly to never arise again. I doubt I'd break a hip, what with my natural padding. But getting up would be a chore on knees like mine. And I've almost broken Farmer H from popping in on me through the day.

Sure, it could be worse. There could be worse things sticking out from under my rolly chair than wheels. The hands of an intruder grabbing my ankles, maybe. So I need to chill on this little annoyance.

Another incident that sticks in my craw is the flow of water from the sink in the NASCAR bathroom. I fill my bubba cup up with water there every day. I'm always careful to not splash around, because our countertop was handpainted by my cousin's wife, back when we first built the house. I don't know how good the finish is that was applied by Farmer H. I don't want to ruin this one-of-a-kind race car mural that was airbrushed circa 1997.

As careful as I am, WATER SPRAYS OUT OF THE SINK SIDEWAYS! I have to get an awkward grip on my cup (do you know how heavy a bubba cup filled with ice and water can get?) with one hand, and try to shield the 360-degree spray with the remaining hand. This process usually involves some colorful language. I know the round thingy at the end of the faucet needs to be soaked in vinegar to dissolve the lime deposits preventing a steady stream. But I can't get it loose, because of the lime deposits. Farmer H has been informed several times.

Sure, it could be worse. Instead of the sink faucet spraying water all around, it could be the toilet spraying water all around. I should consider the source of my spray, and be grateful.

The latest evoker of my ire was discovered Saturday morning at the La-Z-Boy. CHEX MIX CRUMBS WERE PILED IN A HILL ON THE CARPET! Let the record show that Mrs. HM does not eat Chex Mix in the La-Z-Boy. But I bet you know who does!

It's like Farmer H has a hollow leg, and keeps eating and eating that Chex Mix in the evening, stuffing it against his pie-hole like he eats popcorn, crumbling it against his mouth as a wide handful tries to fit between his lips. Like he has a hollow leg that fills up, just until it reaches a knothole in a wooden pegleg, and the crumbs spill out.

Sure, it could be worse. I could have found an old banana peel in the cushions of the La-Z-Boy. I should count to ten, and be happy that it wasn't toenails in the candle this time.

Putting it in perspective like that has helped me calm down to a low simmer.