My dark basement lair was invaded by Farmer H last week. Just because there's no door, he thinks he can pop in whenever he wants. He thinks he's sneaky about it, but I can hear him stumping down the 13 wooden steps on his footless ankles. I might need to burn some sage around my doorway to keep him out.
"It's hot in here."
"No. It's too cool."
"Running that heater heats up the house. It makes the air conditioner work harder."
"It's just a little heater under the desk. There aren't even any vents in my office."
"Well, the heat goes right up through the floor."
"How come it doesn't make the living room warmer in the winter? Besides, the thermostat is set on 74 now. I can't imagine how this heat is making the air conditioner come on."
"It must be 80 in here!"
"I don't think so. I can't stand the heat. That's why I stay out of the kitchen, heh, heh! But really, when the power is off, and the air conditioner isn't working? I am miserable at 76 degrees. So I'm pretty sure it's not 80 in here. I'm just taking the chill off, and it makes my knees feel better. I'd be all red-faced and sweaty if it was 80. Upstairs it may be 74, but down here it's cooler. I need a blanket when I'm in my OPC (Old People Chair) with the heater on!"
The Moderator of Basement Office Temperatures took out his Samsung Stylo 5, and said, "I'm going to test the temperature."
"What in the NOT-HEAVEN! How can you do THAT with your phone?"
"The same way it tells you the outside temperature."
"Um. That comes from the weather station near you. Your phone is not actually taking the temperature. A phone isn't full of mercury, and doesn't have a bimetallic strip like a thermostat. It doesn't read temperature."
"I say it does."
"No."
"Well, I will get a thermometer and put it in here."
"Where?"
"If I have one in the workshop, I'll get it right now!"
"Okay. You do that."
"Huh. I don't see one," he said through the wall. "I'll bring one from the BARn."
"Fine."
Heh, heh! I felt like a wily over-imbiber, trying to avoid getting pinched by the coppers for drunken driving by blowing a high percentage on a breathalyzer. I had turned off my underdesk heater, and knew the longer it took Farmer H to complete his mission, the cooler my lair would become...
The joke was on me, though! Farmer H never did bring back a thermometer! I'm pretty sure he was just gaslighting me about his phone telling me the temperature in my lair. Right? Because surely he would have done so if it actually worked.
Monday, September 7, 2020
Sunday, September 6, 2020
A Gory Celebration
I was doing mental cartwheels Saturday, celebrating my big scratcher win in my mind, at the counter of the Gas Station Chicken Store. Oh, it was a real win, a $500 win, not imaginary. Only the celebration was imaginary.
The Man Owner waited on me. Good thing I saw his car out front. The regular clerks can only pay out $300 or less. And here was a new clerk getting ready to start her shift, getting last minute instructions from the Woman Owner, like a second-string quarterback getting advice from the head coach before running onto the field.
The Man Owner was behind his plexiglas partitions, counting out my money. He's a friendly fellow. I reached into the opening and pulled out my stack of bills. He then rang up my soda and another scratcher. A customer had entered, and was standing behind me. Closer than 6 FEET! Anyhoo... I left the store and started across the parking lot to T-Hoe.
As I looked down on the little asphalt ramp that is in front of the door (looking a bit like it had been poured by Farmer H and his leftover-blacktop-scoring buddy, Buddy)... I noticed blood dripping off my arm!
WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN???
How did I injure myself in the Gas Station Chicken Store? I didn't get jabbed by anything sharp at the soda fountain. The hole for the 44 oz cups was empty, so I'd helped myself to one sticking out of an already ripped open plastic sleeve of 44s in a box at the end of the counter. Us regulars can do that, you know.
I hadn't touched anything at the counter. Only shoved my tickets through the slot, and took my money back. There was nothing else to gore me in there.
Sweet Gummi Mary! Now my short sleeve had dipped itself into the free-flowing river of blood on my forearm. AND I had a spot on the bottom of my shirt pocket.
THAT'S IT!
A toothpick in my pocket had poked its pointy end out, and stabbed my arm skin! When I got to T-Hoe, I dabbed at it to staunch the flow. There were TWO wounds. Like one good stabbing deserved another. I dabbed and dabbed. Got a new Puffs With Lotion, and dabbed some more. Applied pressure. I really need to carry some bandaids in the T-Hoe. There's never one when I need it. I'd just bought some at Save A Lot on Monday. But they were all in the Mansion.
Once safe in my lit basement lair, I took a picture of the now-scabbing entry wound.
I assure you, my wound was much bloodier than this photo makes it look. A virtual bloodbath, I tell you! Almost in need of a tourniquet! Believe it or not, that's my TANNED arm, from hanging out T-Hoe's window while I wait in line at Dairy Queen.
Here's a bit of a closeup...
The littlest 'pick-prick has a small lump under it. As if I'd skewered the skin with that pocket toothpick. I guess my mental celebration and the resulting endorphins made me oblivious to the puncture(s).
I'm sure glad I don't carry fish hooks in my pocket! And I might want to re-think the two aspirins a day I'm taking in an effort to take a break from the ibuprofen.
The Man Owner waited on me. Good thing I saw his car out front. The regular clerks can only pay out $300 or less. And here was a new clerk getting ready to start her shift, getting last minute instructions from the Woman Owner, like a second-string quarterback getting advice from the head coach before running onto the field.
The Man Owner was behind his plexiglas partitions, counting out my money. He's a friendly fellow. I reached into the opening and pulled out my stack of bills. He then rang up my soda and another scratcher. A customer had entered, and was standing behind me. Closer than 6 FEET! Anyhoo... I left the store and started across the parking lot to T-Hoe.
As I looked down on the little asphalt ramp that is in front of the door (looking a bit like it had been poured by Farmer H and his leftover-blacktop-scoring buddy, Buddy)... I noticed blood dripping off my arm!
WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN???
How did I injure myself in the Gas Station Chicken Store? I didn't get jabbed by anything sharp at the soda fountain. The hole for the 44 oz cups was empty, so I'd helped myself to one sticking out of an already ripped open plastic sleeve of 44s in a box at the end of the counter. Us regulars can do that, you know.
I hadn't touched anything at the counter. Only shoved my tickets through the slot, and took my money back. There was nothing else to gore me in there.
Sweet Gummi Mary! Now my short sleeve had dipped itself into the free-flowing river of blood on my forearm. AND I had a spot on the bottom of my shirt pocket.
THAT'S IT!
A toothpick in my pocket had poked its pointy end out, and stabbed my arm skin! When I got to T-Hoe, I dabbed at it to staunch the flow. There were TWO wounds. Like one good stabbing deserved another. I dabbed and dabbed. Got a new Puffs With Lotion, and dabbed some more. Applied pressure. I really need to carry some bandaids in the T-Hoe. There's never one when I need it. I'd just bought some at Save A Lot on Monday. But they were all in the Mansion.
Once safe in my lit basement lair, I took a picture of the now-scabbing entry wound.
Here's a bit of a closeup...
I'm sure glad I don't carry fish hooks in my pocket! And I might want to re-think the two aspirins a day I'm taking in an effort to take a break from the ibuprofen.
Saturday, September 5, 2020
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, Callous Child-Hater, Petty Tightwad, Or Bad Juju Warder-Offer
I try to control the purse strings around here. I pretty much succeed, except on the GIANT purchases like a secret lawnmower. Or on the very small, like breakfast/lunch on Thursday.
Farmer H had business in, around, and on the journey back from Casino Town. We left home at 10:15, and stopped at a McDonald's for The Pony to have a Sausage Biscuit Combo, Farmer H to have the 2 for $4 Sausage Egg McMuffins, and me to have a Filet O Fish. I like singing that song from years back: "Gimme that Filet O Fish, gimme that fish!" sung by a mechanical wall bass.
Anyhoo... as Farmer H finished ordering at the drive-thru, the gal said, "That's $12.85. Do you want to round up and donate your change to Ronald McDonald House Charities?"
Let the record show that I have nothing against sick children who need a place for their families to stay while they're getting treatment. But I DO like to investigate charities to see if the money actually goes where it's purported to go. I have my regular charities that I donate to, and don't take kindly to being pressured at assorted drive-thru windows and checkout lines.
Before I could say anything, Farmer H said, "Sure."
And the gal said, "That will be THIRTEEN DOLLARS."
Well. I was stewing like a tough cut of meat in a crockpot! Why should we donate our change? Farmer H was paying with a debit card. It's not like there was a coin shortage and he was doing them a favor. Not saving anybody from handling VIRUSy money. Why would anybody want to round off their purchase? Are we barrelling down the plastic highway at the speed of light, next exit Cashless Society?
I had no objection to the specific charity (until I looked it up later). Just the principle. I wasn't even upset about losing 15 cents from the rounding. Nope. I had another objection.
"WHY in Not-Heaven would you do THAT? We are on our way to the CASINO, and you're putting THIRTEEN dollars on our debit card!"
Uh huh. We traipsed around that casino with a $13 albatross-medallion figuratively hanging around our gambling necks! To add insult to injury, Farmer H left $40 ahead, and The Pony and I were losers. Such a bitter pill to swallow, that Farmer H reaped luck from that unlucky 13.
___________________________________________________________________
Later, I found this interesting article about how McDonald's takes credit for Ronald McDonald House Charities, yet donates less than CUSTOMERS, and less than their corporate partners, while reaping the Do-Goody reputation. Sorry to the kids that I wanted to withhold 15 cents. Not sorry to the corporation that only donates 0.32% of its pre-tax profits to charity. I didn't see any information that said the donations go for anything besides helping the kids. It's the purported fact that the customers give 14X as much money to the charity as McDonald's.
I'm pretty sure they don't ask customers if they want to round DOWN to the nearest dollar...
Farmer H had business in, around, and on the journey back from Casino Town. We left home at 10:15, and stopped at a McDonald's for The Pony to have a Sausage Biscuit Combo, Farmer H to have the 2 for $4 Sausage Egg McMuffins, and me to have a Filet O Fish. I like singing that song from years back: "Gimme that Filet O Fish, gimme that fish!" sung by a mechanical wall bass.
Anyhoo... as Farmer H finished ordering at the drive-thru, the gal said, "That's $12.85. Do you want to round up and donate your change to Ronald McDonald House Charities?"
Let the record show that I have nothing against sick children who need a place for their families to stay while they're getting treatment. But I DO like to investigate charities to see if the money actually goes where it's purported to go. I have my regular charities that I donate to, and don't take kindly to being pressured at assorted drive-thru windows and checkout lines.
Before I could say anything, Farmer H said, "Sure."
And the gal said, "That will be THIRTEEN DOLLARS."
Well. I was stewing like a tough cut of meat in a crockpot! Why should we donate our change? Farmer H was paying with a debit card. It's not like there was a coin shortage and he was doing them a favor. Not saving anybody from handling VIRUSy money. Why would anybody want to round off their purchase? Are we barrelling down the plastic highway at the speed of light, next exit Cashless Society?
I had no objection to the specific charity (until I looked it up later). Just the principle. I wasn't even upset about losing 15 cents from the rounding. Nope. I had another objection.
"WHY in Not-Heaven would you do THAT? We are on our way to the CASINO, and you're putting THIRTEEN dollars on our debit card!"
Uh huh. We traipsed around that casino with a $13 albatross-medallion figuratively hanging around our gambling necks! To add insult to injury, Farmer H left $40 ahead, and The Pony and I were losers. Such a bitter pill to swallow, that Farmer H reaped luck from that unlucky 13.
___________________________________________________________________
Later, I found this interesting article about how McDonald's takes credit for Ronald McDonald House Charities, yet donates less than CUSTOMERS, and less than their corporate partners, while reaping the Do-Goody reputation. Sorry to the kids that I wanted to withhold 15 cents. Not sorry to the corporation that only donates 0.32% of its pre-tax profits to charity. I didn't see any information that said the donations go for anything besides helping the kids. It's the purported fact that the customers give 14X as much money to the charity as McDonald's.
I'm pretty sure they don't ask customers if they want to round DOWN to the nearest dollar...
Friday, September 4, 2020
Mansion Of The Residing Son
Misunderstood song lyrics, Mrs. HM style...
There is a Mansion in Hillmomba
They call The Residing Son
It's been the ruin of at least one poor mom
And now, you know I'm THE ONE
His daddy was a junker
He cheered his own hurrah
His mother was a gamblin' gal
Down in Hillmomba
Now the only thing a Pony needs
Is butter and a tub
And with these two he's quite adept
So many things to flub
Oh mother, tell your children
Not to do what I did, DUH!
Spend your lives always cleaning up
The Mansion in Hillmomba
Well, I got one foot in the T-Hoe
The other foot on the ground
I'm driving back to Hillmomba
To commiserate with my hound
Well, there is a Mansion in Hillmomba
They call The Residing Son
It's been the ruin of at least one poor mom
And now, you know I'm THE ONE
There is a Mansion in Hillmomba
They call The Residing Son
It's been the ruin of at least one poor mom
And now, you know I'm THE ONE
His daddy was a junker
He cheered his own hurrah
His mother was a gamblin' gal
Down in Hillmomba
Now the only thing a Pony needs
Is butter and a tub
And with these two he's quite adept
So many things to flub
Oh mother, tell your children
Not to do what I did, DUH!
Spend your lives always cleaning up
The Mansion in Hillmomba
Well, I got one foot in the T-Hoe
The other foot on the ground
I'm driving back to Hillmomba
To commiserate with my hound
Well, there is a Mansion in Hillmomba
They call The Residing Son
It's been the ruin of at least one poor mom
And now, you know I'm THE ONE
Thursday, September 3, 2020
Pasta La Pizza, Baby!
I called The Pony into the kitchen to help me make his pasta on Tuesday night. He is capable of making his own pasta, since he survived three years of college after he moved out of the dorm that was across the street from Papa John's Pizza. The Pony thinks I am reining him in, but in reality, I am just looking out for my kitchen.
"I need the big skillet to fry the hamburger to put in Dad's sauce."
"This one?"
"That's the small one that was sitting on top of the big one. But okay, it will probably do."
Seriously! They were nestled. The little skillet inside the big skillet, in the drawer at the bottom of the stove. I don't know how he saw one without the other. Nor suddenly forgot little in comparison to big.
"Now, I need the big pan for the noodles."
"This one?"
"No. Not that one. Here. Give that one to me for the sauce. Now the BIG pan. With two handles. Set it on the front burner until I get this hamburger done and out of the way."
"Okay."
"You can start the sauce. You want that jar kind you bought? Pour it in. It might not be enough. Open a little jar of pizza sauce to add. Maybe just half. That's what I usually do."
I was turned, putting grease bread out of the hamburger skillet into a bowl for the dogs' treat the next day. When I turned back to the skillet, I noticed The Pony right next to it,
POURING THE JAR OF SAUCE INTO THE BIG PAN!
"WAIT! What are you DOING? Why did you pour pasta sauce in the big pan??? That's for the noodles! It's a big pot for putting in lots of water and boiling noodles! They foam up."
"Well, I know you always use this pan when we have pasta..."
"FOR THE NOODLES! The sauce is always in that pan on the back burner. The saucepan. It's LITERALLY called a SAUCEpan!"
"Hush!"
"Here. I'll pour it into the saucepan. It won't hurt the big pan. I'm not rinsing it. Just more flavor for boiling the noodles. Now... you can make the garlic butter for the steak rolls."
The Pony was behind me, at the cutting block, spooning minced garlic into a bowl of softened I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. He had the steak rolls opened up, their tops and bottoms exposed on a pizza pan covered with foil, ready for buttering.
THUD!
"What was that? Do I want to know?"
"It was the fork that I was using to mix the garlic and the butter. I had it leaning on the side of the bowl, but when I used my knife to get some butter out for spreading, it tipped over because it wasn't balanced anymore, and the bowl was right at the edge of the cutting block..."
[Aha! A combination of the greasy bacon spoon flipping balance problem, and the diced chicken activity too close to the edge of the cutting block!]
"When you're done there, take this little can of mushrooms. The pop top thingy broke off. Use the can opener."
Simple, right? It's a manual can opener.
"Um. Here is your can opener to wash. It got the blade in the mushroom juice. The can is really full of juice."
But it doesn't end there. After The Pony went to soak in his nightly bath, I was putting away the leftovers in FRIG II. On the top shelf sat half a jar of PASTA SAUCE! The Pony had poured in the whole jar of pizza sauce, and only half the pasta sauce.
"I need the big skillet to fry the hamburger to put in Dad's sauce."
"This one?"
"That's the small one that was sitting on top of the big one. But okay, it will probably do."
Seriously! They were nestled. The little skillet inside the big skillet, in the drawer at the bottom of the stove. I don't know how he saw one without the other. Nor suddenly forgot little in comparison to big.
"Now, I need the big pan for the noodles."
"This one?"
"No. Not that one. Here. Give that one to me for the sauce. Now the BIG pan. With two handles. Set it on the front burner until I get this hamburger done and out of the way."
"Okay."
"You can start the sauce. You want that jar kind you bought? Pour it in. It might not be enough. Open a little jar of pizza sauce to add. Maybe just half. That's what I usually do."
I was turned, putting grease bread out of the hamburger skillet into a bowl for the dogs' treat the next day. When I turned back to the skillet, I noticed The Pony right next to it,
POURING THE JAR OF SAUCE INTO THE BIG PAN!
"WAIT! What are you DOING? Why did you pour pasta sauce in the big pan??? That's for the noodles! It's a big pot for putting in lots of water and boiling noodles! They foam up."
"Well, I know you always use this pan when we have pasta..."
"FOR THE NOODLES! The sauce is always in that pan on the back burner. The saucepan. It's LITERALLY called a SAUCEpan!"
"Hush!"
"Here. I'll pour it into the saucepan. It won't hurt the big pan. I'm not rinsing it. Just more flavor for boiling the noodles. Now... you can make the garlic butter for the steak rolls."
The Pony was behind me, at the cutting block, spooning minced garlic into a bowl of softened I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. He had the steak rolls opened up, their tops and bottoms exposed on a pizza pan covered with foil, ready for buttering.
THUD!
"What was that? Do I want to know?"
"It was the fork that I was using to mix the garlic and the butter. I had it leaning on the side of the bowl, but when I used my knife to get some butter out for spreading, it tipped over because it wasn't balanced anymore, and the bowl was right at the edge of the cutting block..."
[Aha! A combination of the greasy bacon spoon flipping balance problem, and the diced chicken activity too close to the edge of the cutting block!]
"When you're done there, take this little can of mushrooms. The pop top thingy broke off. Use the can opener."
Simple, right? It's a manual can opener.
"Um. Here is your can opener to wash. It got the blade in the mushroom juice. The can is really full of juice."
But it doesn't end there. After The Pony went to soak in his nightly bath, I was putting away the leftovers in FRIG II. On the top shelf sat half a jar of PASTA SAUCE! The Pony had poured in the whole jar of pizza sauce, and only half the pasta sauce.
Wednesday, September 2, 2020
Nobody Puts Mrs. HM In A Decliner
Sweet Gummi Mary! I've had ANOTHER round of problems with a cashier! I'm pretty sure it's THEM, not ME! Right? Right?
This was not the gal I revealed on my not-so-secret blog, the assistant manager at the Casey's. She has a giant problem with anything I do. She's a Problem-Shouter. No, this yesterday problem was something that hinged on the card-reader at Country Mart. Which has in recent months been bought out by another company, and wants checks made out the them, while still using the giant sign for Country Mart.
Anyhoo... a Young Gal who was training last week was in charge of my checkout. The guy training her back then was telling her how quick she caught on. I don't disagree. She was friendly, and seemed to know what she was doing.
She rang up my groceries, and bagged them according to coldness and shape. Better than most shopping experiences I've had lately. She turned to chat with a co-worker passing through the closed checkout behind her. I put in my debit card, put in the information, coded it for cash back to have money for the lottery machine to get Genius his weekly scratchers. Then I punched the OKAY button to agree to the amount. Put in my PIN. The card reader said it was processing. Not to remove my card. Then it did the little BEEP thing. And the BEEP-BEEP sounds as the screen said to remove my card. I did. Young Gal turned from talking to that co-worker, and hit the button on the register like they usually do.
CARD DECLINED!
What in the NOT-HEAVEN?
I've never had a card declined! It has come back as unable to process, like when Country Mart was having all that trouble a while back with their card readers on every checkout. That was happening to everybody. But now I was DECLINED.
That's not the fault of the cashier. It's how she handled it that set me off. Oh, she never acted like I didn't have the money. I didn't have a care in the world about money in my bank. I carry a large cushion on that balance, because I drop off six months worth of insurance payments over at Newmentia. So there's plenty of money in there, with three months of premiums still outstanding.
Here's what Young Gal did: SHE ASKED IF I TOOK MY CARD OUT TOO SOON! As if I was some novice, who hadn't been using a debit card since before she was born! Let me tell you, I, myself, was not born yesterday. Which is, perhaps, the problem.
Again, Young Gal was perfectly polite. But I sensed a bit of a patronizing component to her assistance. Like when I took my mom for surgery one time, she being around 60 years old at the time, and the doctor talked to ME and ignored her. Like she was in her dotage. I told him to ask HER the questions. "She's right there." And he spoke loudly, enunciating on steroids, getting right in her face when he talked.
Anyhoo... Young Gal reset the register and told me too try again. I did. Halfway through, the screen went black, and then moved on to the final approval screen. Which I wasn't ready for yet. It didn't let me enter the CASH BACK information.
"It won't let me get cash back. The screen blacked out on that."
"Let's try again."
Anyhoo... Young Gal then took it upon herself to walk me through it!
"Here. Put in your card..."
"Yes. I've been doing that here for years."
"Okay, now hit NEXT..."
"No. I am getting cash back. Last time I tried, it went black at that screen, and shut off."
The card reader was currently on that CASH BACK screen. So I punched in my numbers. Hit NEXT. And it went to the final approval screen, like normal.
"Okay, if that's right, hit APPROVE."
"Yes. That's what I did before when it said DECLINED."
This time, the card reader did its beeping and beep-beeping, and showed REMOVE YOUR CARD. And APPROVED.
"Well. That's better than when it didn't work at all a couple months ago!"
Young Gal smiled a bit patronizingly, like she wanted to say, "Bless your heart!" Also a bit relieved that she was getting rid of this crazy old woman. She thanked me, and handed me my receipt.
"Um. You didn't give me my cash back. It's right here on the receipt."
"Oh. Yeah. Okay."
Young Gal reviewed her register tape and forked over the cash.
Life was so much simper when people paid in cash. Or bartered hogs and chickens. Though they're kind of hard to shove into the slot of a lottery machine...
This was not the gal I revealed on my not-so-secret blog, the assistant manager at the Casey's. She has a giant problem with anything I do. She's a Problem-Shouter. No, this yesterday problem was something that hinged on the card-reader at Country Mart. Which has in recent months been bought out by another company, and wants checks made out the them, while still using the giant sign for Country Mart.
Anyhoo... a Young Gal who was training last week was in charge of my checkout. The guy training her back then was telling her how quick she caught on. I don't disagree. She was friendly, and seemed to know what she was doing.
She rang up my groceries, and bagged them according to coldness and shape. Better than most shopping experiences I've had lately. She turned to chat with a co-worker passing through the closed checkout behind her. I put in my debit card, put in the information, coded it for cash back to have money for the lottery machine to get Genius his weekly scratchers. Then I punched the OKAY button to agree to the amount. Put in my PIN. The card reader said it was processing. Not to remove my card. Then it did the little BEEP thing. And the BEEP-BEEP sounds as the screen said to remove my card. I did. Young Gal turned from talking to that co-worker, and hit the button on the register like they usually do.
CARD DECLINED!
What in the NOT-HEAVEN?
I've never had a card declined! It has come back as unable to process, like when Country Mart was having all that trouble a while back with their card readers on every checkout. That was happening to everybody. But now I was DECLINED.
That's not the fault of the cashier. It's how she handled it that set me off. Oh, she never acted like I didn't have the money. I didn't have a care in the world about money in my bank. I carry a large cushion on that balance, because I drop off six months worth of insurance payments over at Newmentia. So there's plenty of money in there, with three months of premiums still outstanding.
Here's what Young Gal did: SHE ASKED IF I TOOK MY CARD OUT TOO SOON! As if I was some novice, who hadn't been using a debit card since before she was born! Let me tell you, I, myself, was not born yesterday. Which is, perhaps, the problem.
Again, Young Gal was perfectly polite. But I sensed a bit of a patronizing component to her assistance. Like when I took my mom for surgery one time, she being around 60 years old at the time, and the doctor talked to ME and ignored her. Like she was in her dotage. I told him to ask HER the questions. "She's right there." And he spoke loudly, enunciating on steroids, getting right in her face when he talked.
Anyhoo... Young Gal reset the register and told me too try again. I did. Halfway through, the screen went black, and then moved on to the final approval screen. Which I wasn't ready for yet. It didn't let me enter the CASH BACK information.
"It won't let me get cash back. The screen blacked out on that."
"Let's try again."
Anyhoo... Young Gal then took it upon herself to walk me through it!
"Here. Put in your card..."
"Yes. I've been doing that here for years."
"Okay, now hit NEXT..."
"No. I am getting cash back. Last time I tried, it went black at that screen, and shut off."
The card reader was currently on that CASH BACK screen. So I punched in my numbers. Hit NEXT. And it went to the final approval screen, like normal.
"Okay, if that's right, hit APPROVE."
"Yes. That's what I did before when it said DECLINED."
This time, the card reader did its beeping and beep-beeping, and showed REMOVE YOUR CARD. And APPROVED.
"Well. That's better than when it didn't work at all a couple months ago!"
Young Gal smiled a bit patronizingly, like she wanted to say, "Bless your heart!" Also a bit relieved that she was getting rid of this crazy old woman. She thanked me, and handed me my receipt.
"Um. You didn't give me my cash back. It's right here on the receipt."
"Oh. Yeah. Okay."
Young Gal reviewed her register tape and forked over the cash.
Life was so much simper when people paid in cash. Or bartered hogs and chickens. Though they're kind of hard to shove into the slot of a lottery machine...
Tuesday, September 1, 2020
Soaked In 16 Seconds
It's Tuesday, and Farmer H is going to the auction. I rarely ask for anything. Certainly not a box of auction meat. The one thing I've been asking for since January is a goblet to stash my found-penny collection. Right now it's in an opaque container that used to hold marinara sauce for Little Caesar's breadsticks. Yes. Of course I washed it! I am not an animal.
Anyhoo... I might ask him to look for a gently-used sturdy boat suitable for floating me home from town. Today I got caught in a SIGNIFICANT downpour while sacrificing myself to obtain hamburger to make Farmer H pasta sauce for his elbow-macaroni supper. Normally, it would be spaghetti, but The Pony has assorted noodles that he brought home from his college apartment kitchen.
Anyhoo... when I left for town, the skies had darkened. I could hear an occasional peal of thunder while in the shower. Yet there was no precipitation as I began my journey. No precipitation, in fact, until I reached the prison. Downpourier and downpourier it got, until I'd traversed another mile to Save A Lot. I sat in T-Hoe, waiting for it to slacken.
CRASH-BOOM!
Lightning flashed, all jaggedy, up over the hill where Farmer H's Storage Unit Store is located. That's pretty close! Maybe 150 yards from Save A Lot. Still, I waited. I had my little red umbrella on the passenger floor. But there was LIGHTNING! Still, my little red umbrella had a plastic cap over the metal on top. And a plastic handle over the metal of the stem. I could probably risk it. I'd been waiting 10 minutes already.
I opened the door, popped up my 'brella, and slid out. Got the door locked, and started walking across the driving part of the lot to the door. WELL! Excuuuuse ME! A car going the wrong way drove by, making me stop and stand in the pouring rain that was blowing sideways. And the threat of LIGHTNING! I'm pretty sure I mumbled under my breath,
"I wouldn't want YOU to stop and let me cross, while you're sitting all dry in your car!"
Once inside, I found myself behind the wheel of a recalcitrant cart. Just one wheel that wouldn't cooperate. But it was a front wheel, and forced me from side to side, no rhyme nor reason, in an exponentially worse version of Farmer H's sweaving. Still, I got some pizza sauce, canned mushrooms, hamburger, bag of assorted Tootsie Roll treats for The Pony (and me to share), an assortment of individual chip bags, steak rolls, and Hawaiian Rolls.
After paying, and telling the personable checker that I was exhausted from wrestling that cart, she continued the conversation. It's not like the store was overcrowded.
"You're the smartest person I've talked to today!"
Of course I was! I was pleased that she could sense the VALEDICTORIANNESS oozing out of my pores!
"You're the only one I've seen with an umbrella!"
"Oh. Well. I had it in the back of my car."
"Say, this cart really IS bad! We need to take this one out of use!"
She followed me over to the counter where I was boxing my foodstuffs. Not in a creepy way. She was straightening up the bag racks, and the empty boxes underneath the counter.
"Oh, look! You're lucky. It's really slacked off."
WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN?
It must have really been bad while I was shopping in the back of the store. Because as I looked out, the rain was sluicing down in sheets, and then being blown horizontal. Pieces of trash were sailing along the new river that had formed in the driving lane. Sweet Gummi Mary! I was not looking forward to going out there. I was less looking forward to living the rest of my life in Save A Lot. So I put my box of goodies on the child seat area, rolled the replacement cart out under the overhang by the next-door laundromat, and popped open my umbrella. Leaning over kept the grocery box dry, and my head was dry with the umbrella sitting on my noggin.
EVERYTHING ELSE WAS SOAKED IN SECONDS!
The wind blew the horizontal rain all the way up to my shoulders! The lapping of the river waves went up into my shoes! My pantslegs acted as wicks to soak up a couple pounds of water each. I must have gained 10 pounds of water-weight in seconds!
Once T-Hoe's hatch was raised, I stepped under it and set the umbrella in the back while I transferred the box to his rear. The horizontal rain continued to pelt my left side. Then I had to pick up the umbrella again, close the hatch, and take my cart to the return. To do this, I had to hold the umbrella out in front of my face like a jouster's pointy thing. Otherwise it would have let the rain needle my face, and would probably have turned inside out from the force of the gusts.
The worst part was getting in T-Hoe again. I opened the door and closed the umbrella. Tossed it like a javelin into the floor of the shotgun seat. THEN I hoisted my ever-soaking self onto the running board and sat my ample rumpus on the seat. I had gently laid the door against the chrome strip of the door of the white car parked next to me. I figured the rain would let it slip and slide. I didn't slam it. I need all the room I could get to bend my knees and get my soggy feet in, because the driver's seat was soaked.
DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO TRY AND SWIVEL AN AMPLE RUMPUS IN WET COTTON PANTS ON A DAMP LEATHER SEAT?
Conditions were even worse at the liquor store! I'm glad I went, though, because I won $50 on a $5 pink Lady Luck scratcher! Anyhoo... when I came out of there and closed up my umbrella, it seemed like I was under a downspout! Maybe the wind was blowing the water off the roof. It was like a fire hose spraying down on my head!
By the time I got inside the Gas Station Chicken Store for my magical elixir, the rain had slacked to a normal shower. But the damage was done. I don't know why I bothered to shower. I don't think I even get THAT WET in my own shower! Tendrils of my lovely lady-mullet were plastered all willy-nilly across my face and forehead. I squished when I walked. My pants were almost falling down from the weight of the absorbed water. I think they were a quicker picker-upper than Bounty paper towels!
Let the record show that both the cheerful clerk and the Man Owner tried not to look at me. I imagine they had a good guffaw when I left. The gal DID say, "Is it wet out there?"
Yeah. A little bit. Such a little bit that when I squeaked myself back into T-Hoe, I was barely able to move my arms, due to the wet shirt plastered across my back and shoulders. Once home, I had to disrobe and chuck all my clothes in the dryer, and set my shoes upside down on the air conditioning vents.
I had wasted a shower! But saved on washing that set of clothes.
Anyhoo... I might ask him to look for a gently-used sturdy boat suitable for floating me home from town. Today I got caught in a SIGNIFICANT downpour while sacrificing myself to obtain hamburger to make Farmer H pasta sauce for his elbow-macaroni supper. Normally, it would be spaghetti, but The Pony has assorted noodles that he brought home from his college apartment kitchen.
Anyhoo... when I left for town, the skies had darkened. I could hear an occasional peal of thunder while in the shower. Yet there was no precipitation as I began my journey. No precipitation, in fact, until I reached the prison. Downpourier and downpourier it got, until I'd traversed another mile to Save A Lot. I sat in T-Hoe, waiting for it to slacken.
CRASH-BOOM!
Lightning flashed, all jaggedy, up over the hill where Farmer H's Storage Unit Store is located. That's pretty close! Maybe 150 yards from Save A Lot. Still, I waited. I had my little red umbrella on the passenger floor. But there was LIGHTNING! Still, my little red umbrella had a plastic cap over the metal on top. And a plastic handle over the metal of the stem. I could probably risk it. I'd been waiting 10 minutes already.
I opened the door, popped up my 'brella, and slid out. Got the door locked, and started walking across the driving part of the lot to the door. WELL! Excuuuuse ME! A car going the wrong way drove by, making me stop and stand in the pouring rain that was blowing sideways. And the threat of LIGHTNING! I'm pretty sure I mumbled under my breath,
"I wouldn't want YOU to stop and let me cross, while you're sitting all dry in your car!"
Once inside, I found myself behind the wheel of a recalcitrant cart. Just one wheel that wouldn't cooperate. But it was a front wheel, and forced me from side to side, no rhyme nor reason, in an exponentially worse version of Farmer H's sweaving. Still, I got some pizza sauce, canned mushrooms, hamburger, bag of assorted Tootsie Roll treats for The Pony (and me to share), an assortment of individual chip bags, steak rolls, and Hawaiian Rolls.
After paying, and telling the personable checker that I was exhausted from wrestling that cart, she continued the conversation. It's not like the store was overcrowded.
"You're the smartest person I've talked to today!"
Of course I was! I was pleased that she could sense the VALEDICTORIANNESS oozing out of my pores!
"You're the only one I've seen with an umbrella!"
"Oh. Well. I had it in the back of my car."
"Say, this cart really IS bad! We need to take this one out of use!"
She followed me over to the counter where I was boxing my foodstuffs. Not in a creepy way. She was straightening up the bag racks, and the empty boxes underneath the counter.
"Oh, look! You're lucky. It's really slacked off."
WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN?
It must have really been bad while I was shopping in the back of the store. Because as I looked out, the rain was sluicing down in sheets, and then being blown horizontal. Pieces of trash were sailing along the new river that had formed in the driving lane. Sweet Gummi Mary! I was not looking forward to going out there. I was less looking forward to living the rest of my life in Save A Lot. So I put my box of goodies on the child seat area, rolled the replacement cart out under the overhang by the next-door laundromat, and popped open my umbrella. Leaning over kept the grocery box dry, and my head was dry with the umbrella sitting on my noggin.
EVERYTHING ELSE WAS SOAKED IN SECONDS!
The wind blew the horizontal rain all the way up to my shoulders! The lapping of the river waves went up into my shoes! My pantslegs acted as wicks to soak up a couple pounds of water each. I must have gained 10 pounds of water-weight in seconds!
Once T-Hoe's hatch was raised, I stepped under it and set the umbrella in the back while I transferred the box to his rear. The horizontal rain continued to pelt my left side. Then I had to pick up the umbrella again, close the hatch, and take my cart to the return. To do this, I had to hold the umbrella out in front of my face like a jouster's pointy thing. Otherwise it would have let the rain needle my face, and would probably have turned inside out from the force of the gusts.
The worst part was getting in T-Hoe again. I opened the door and closed the umbrella. Tossed it like a javelin into the floor of the shotgun seat. THEN I hoisted my ever-soaking self onto the running board and sat my ample rumpus on the seat. I had gently laid the door against the chrome strip of the door of the white car parked next to me. I figured the rain would let it slip and slide. I didn't slam it. I need all the room I could get to bend my knees and get my soggy feet in, because the driver's seat was soaked.
DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO TRY AND SWIVEL AN AMPLE RUMPUS IN WET COTTON PANTS ON A DAMP LEATHER SEAT?
Conditions were even worse at the liquor store! I'm glad I went, though, because I won $50 on a $5 pink Lady Luck scratcher! Anyhoo... when I came out of there and closed up my umbrella, it seemed like I was under a downspout! Maybe the wind was blowing the water off the roof. It was like a fire hose spraying down on my head!
By the time I got inside the Gas Station Chicken Store for my magical elixir, the rain had slacked to a normal shower. But the damage was done. I don't know why I bothered to shower. I don't think I even get THAT WET in my own shower! Tendrils of my lovely lady-mullet were plastered all willy-nilly across my face and forehead. I squished when I walked. My pants were almost falling down from the weight of the absorbed water. I think they were a quicker picker-upper than Bounty paper towels!
Let the record show that both the cheerful clerk and the Man Owner tried not to look at me. I imagine they had a good guffaw when I left. The gal DID say, "Is it wet out there?"
Yeah. A little bit. Such a little bit that when I squeaked myself back into T-Hoe, I was barely able to move my arms, due to the wet shirt plastered across my back and shoulders. Once home, I had to disrobe and chuck all my clothes in the dryer, and set my shoes upside down on the air conditioning vents.
I had wasted a shower! But saved on washing that set of clothes.
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