In Our Continuing Series On People Doing Their Jobs Not-Right...

It will come as no surprise to you that The Pony's credit card issue has not been resolved. In fact, The Pony's credit card issue is exactly the same as it was 12 DAYS AGO when I called the credit card company on Oct 4.

You may recall that the rep told me to have our branch bank fax them the documentation they have on file, and that nobody at the bank would answer the phone. But the next day when I called, I got a real person, only to find out that she WORKS FROM HOME and has nothing to do with in-bank operations. And informed me that fax is an old technology, rarely used. SO... I drove to the bank, where an office-lady offered to fax, but I told her my call-back to a different credit card rep pointed me to EMAIL the info. So she did. She said to give it a week to get in the system.

With the bank holiday for Columbus Day (now Indigenous Peoples Day) on Monday, I waited. Waited until Thursday to follow through. I called the credit card company. Heh, heh! I got one of the reps I talked to before. He looked it up, and said there is nothing showing that has changed. No record of info received. I asked if I could email the documents myself. No. It is really best to FAX the documents. He gave me the fax number.

Of course nobody at the branch bank would answer the phone. Straight to the corporate number again. So I had to drive out there, rushing, since I'd spent 15 minutes on hold for the credit card rep, was in the midst of reading off my account number when we were cut off, and then waited another 10 minutes on hold to get the guy I'd talked to before. Anyhoo... I rushed to the bank to make it by the 2:30 lobby-close time, only to find out I had misunderstood, and it closed at 2:00.

So.... I went to the drive-thru. Sent documents through the tube. Got a greeting this time.

"How are you doing?"

"Not well. I thought I had this issue taken care of last Tuesday. But NOTHING has been done."

"Oh. I think I'm the person who helped you that day."

"Well, they have no record of receiving our documentation. The credit card rep says it really should be faxed, and that I can't email it myself. So the papers I sent in have the fax number. He didn't give me a contact name."

"Oh. We really don't use our fax. Anything I send just seems to go out there and float around. Nobody gets it. We have two fax machines, and they're both the same way."

"He said to fax the documents. What if I go over to your main bank in Bill-Paying Town? Can they do it for me?"

"Oh, no. They are the same as us. We just don't send faxes any more."

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

"Do you want me to try and fax them?"

"Yes. I sent in the number."

She came back after about 5 minutes.

"I tried, twice, but it's not sending."

"I don't have any other way to get the information to them. I guess the only solution is to cancel this credit card, and open a new one."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that. This one has such a history to it."

"It's no good if we can't use it!"

"I will make a copy of your papers, and tomorrow I will reach out to the credit card company."

"Good luck with that. I was on hold for 15 minutes, then another 10."

"If I need any information from you, I will give you a call. I can't do it now, because I'm the only one here. Tomorrow I will have staff, and I can do it then."

When I got home, I looked at my papers she sent back. She included a copy of the fax report that said the document had not gone through. I saw the number she had put into the fax. I might be crazy, but I'm pretty sure it works like any long-distance number, and you have to first put in a "1" and then the area code and 7-digit phone number. She had not put in a 1. I might be crazy, but I'm thinking that could be the reason why these dimwits can never get their fax machines to work!

I told Farmer H that I was thinking about DRIVING OUT TO THE BANK (25-minute trip for me) the next morning, to ask her to try sending it with a "1" before the fax number. Because you KNOW that nobody would answer the phone if I tried to call and explain it. The more I thought about it, I decided NO. Why should I get up early, and waste T-Hoe's gas to drive to the bank at 9:00 a.m. and tell them how to do their job?

I will go back to the bank on Monday. I have other business to do there anyway. I will ask what the progress is on this credit card issue. If nothing has been accomplished, I'm going to ask what The Pony needs to do to open another credit card, and then I'll spend my last 15 minutes ever on hold with this credit card company to call and cancel this one. Like The Pony says, closing a credit card does not affect his credit rating that he's built up over the past 3-4 years. It's not like it gets erased.

Funny how "during the current situation," as the bank automated line calls it, the bank can't do business with you over the phone as normal, and their lobby hours are reduced. You know, because THE VIRUS can only attack you before 9:00 and after 2:00, and over the phone. Yet a doctor won't renew your regular prescriptions for 6 months with a telephone appointment, but only if you drag yourself into the office (mine located in the hospital building) where you have to rub six-foot elbows with possible sick people.

Maybe the doctor should meet with patients in the bank lobby between 9:00 and 2:00, where and when nobody can be infected...

Extreme RumpusHolery In Hillmomba

You know how easygoing Mrs. HM is, right? So shy and timid that she doesn't complain when people step in front of her in line. Doesn't take back damaged foods from the drive-thru line. Will not call out haughty rudeness from customer service personnel. She makes lemonade out of those sour lemons, scathingly dragging them over hot coals in her supersecret blog.

Thursday, Mrs. HM reached her breaking point.

I was in the Gas Station Chicken Store, having parked T-Hoe in the space at the side of the building near the FREE AIR hose. Thus leaving the handicap space behind T-Hoe vacant for those who may need it more. A light rain had started. I procured my magical elixir and scratchers, and returned to T-Hoe. No cars around that side of the building. Nobody pumping diesel fuel at the pump on that side.

I was writing CH on the back of my tickets, so I'd know where a potential winner came from. CH stands for CHICKEN. A big winner would mean that I wouldn't buy that ticket there for a week or so. Anyhoo... I put the tickets in my purse, and was strapping on my seatbelt when

A BLACK TRUCK PULLING A CAMPER TRAILER CUT ACROSS T-HOE'S BOW!

I thought he was just leaving out the back alley. DANG THIS GUY! He was way too close. I was afraid he was going to scrape T-Hoe's right front bumper area with the side of that camper! Camper-pullers are not nearly so skilled as semi truck drivers. They can get very close, but you know they're not hitting you, just steering the right angle to get their big truck though a turn. I had my hand hovering over the horn, the right hand turning the key to back up out of the way, when

THE BLACK TRUCK STOPPED WITH THE CAMPER ANGLED 2 INCHES FROM T-HOE, AND THE DRIVER GOT OUT!!!

 

That rumpushole was walking toward the FREE AIR hose! He had deliberately BLOCKED ME IN so he could put air in his precious camper tires!

 

The end of that camper extended past T-Hoe's passenger door. I wish I would have taken a picture right there, but I was SO MAD, and in so much of a hurry to back up before some handicapper parked there and pinned me in, that I just backed up to get around that camper and off the Gas Station Chicken Store parking lot.

 

Let the record show that Mrs. HM was cussin' a blue streak! I know that rumpushole heard me through T-Hoe's closed window. I HOPE he heard me. I did not call him a rumpushole. That was too nice for him.

 

I was absolutely shaking with rage! I think steam was coming out my ears. My face felt red as a fire engine. My blood pressure probably shot high enough to ring the bell on one of those carnival hammer games.

 

I was heading over to Dairy Queen for the BBQ Chicken Strip Basket that I'd been looking forward to all day. And let me tell you, what a day it had BEEN, up to this point. This was just the rotten cherry on top. I was just starting to calm down as I pulled out of the street between DQ and my pharmacy, BBQ Chicken Strips wafting a pleasant aroma from their bag on the passenger seat, when I spied THAT STINKIN' RUMPUSHOLE at the stoplight up ahead!

 

 

Yes. I took a picture while driving 12 mph in the turn lane. I actually took TWO pictures, but my phone is apparently rumpushole sympathetic, and the closer one didn't snap. But I'm zooming in!

 

Too bad his license plate is unreadable. I could have called to report him for driving with only one headlight!

 

I'm pretty sure he saw me taking his picture. Heh, heh! Maybe that enraged him! He headed toward Country Mart. I don't know any other reason to go up that road. If he'd made a right turn at the light, he would have been able to get on the highway within 100 feet, and drive north to the state park less than 10 miles away. 

I didn't turn around to go block him in. I had my BBQ Chicken Strips whispering EAT ME!

Whatever happened to that old thing called WAIT YOUR FREAKIN' TURN IF SOMEBODY IS PARKED AT THE AIR HOSE AREA AHEAD OF YOU???

Even The Elderly Want To Help Mrs. HM

Wednesday, I took the SPRINT bill for mailing. I'd planned to go to the main post office because it's more reliable, but time got away from me, and I didn't want to use more T-Hoe gas. So I went to the dead-mouse-smelling post office. I thought about parking in their lot, and using the ramp, not the stairs. Such a toss-up. Walk four times farther, or go up six steps? I opted for the steps. They have a sturdy rail.

I parked in front, on the street. I got out and hobbled behind T-Hoe, holding on to his rear to step up on the sidewalk. An older gentleman was walking down the sidewalk toward me. He had gray hair, and was wearing shorts. I thought he was going in the post office, so I stopped to wait. He slowed down.

"Oh, I thought you were going inside, so I was going to let you go ahead of me. Because I'm really slow."

"Are you just mailing that letter?" the Old Man asked, coming to a stop. 

I realized he was going to offer to TAKE MY LETTER IN AND PUT IT IN THE SLOT!

"Yes, but I can do that. Thank you, though."

You know you're really feeble when old people take pity on you and want to help!

THIS Is Why We Can't Co-Exist

Let the record show that Mrs. HM is a murderer. She will not suffer a house spider to live. Not in her Mansion, not on her watch. Nope. A spider is an invader to be dealt with. The wages of invasion are death.

I would never needlessly kill an outdoor spider. That's nature. Spider turf. Even on the porch. I don't live on the porch. I don't sleep on the porch where a spider might crawl in my open mouth while I'm sawing logs, nor in my ear canal or nostril. Carry on, outdoor arachnids. I have no business with you today. Or any day. Even when I drag my face though your inconvenient webs stretched across the walkway to the garage.

Tuesday, I was a bit preoccupied, needing to make a doctor appointment for my six-month blood work and prescription refills, and also needing to call my credit union about an imminent financial transaction concerning Pony House. I reached into my purse, sitting there on the kitchen counter beside the sink, to take out the checkbook for a deposit slip.

YIKES!

A spider ran up the edge of the bank envelope I had wedged beside my checkbook! Up over the side of my purse, and onto the counter SOMEWHERE!

No. That just won't do! I will not have a spider living in my purse! No siree, Bob! It was not a round spider, with legs branching out like wagon wheel spokes. It was a long spider. With four legs forwards, and four legs back. Not a hairy spider, but not smooth, either. Kind of velvet-looking. Dark brown, close to black. 

Sweet Gummi Mary! I HAD to find that spider! For the express purpose of KILLING HIM! I caught a glimpse of him as he skittered from the under-purse area to a pack of peanut butter crackers. I keep them on the counter, and every two days I put a little 4-pack into a baggie to take along in T-Hoe. My lupper has been coming later and later, around 4:00-5:00. While on my travels, I sometimes eat two peanut butter crackers if my stomach demands a deposit. This pack had four of the original eight 4-packs left. Enough cover for a spider to hide under. 

I grabbed a paper towel and went around the counter towards the kitchen table. For a better killing angle. I lifted the cracker pack, and off skittered the spider! Under a manila envelope holding some Pony papers. DANG IT! I went back around the counter, and lifted the manila envelope. That spider darted into a stack of regular envelopes, the mail from Saturday that I had not yet sorted, seeing as how we got no mail on Sunday or Monday.

Great. There were 4-5 envelopes there. No bills, or I'd have already dealt with them. On top was some junk mail from Direct TV. I didn't care what was under it. I smashed down on the stack. Waited. I didn't see any movement. I started lifting off one envelope at a time. 

AHA! There was the spider, kind of stuck to the third envelope down. Taking no chances, I jammed the paper towel down on him, pinched it, and opened it up to look.

GOT 'IM!

Yes. The spider was all curled up, just like The Pony enlightened me, having apparently lost his hydraulic leg-moving system. Into the wastebasket waiting below the counter, in the opening left for a dishwasher.

Good riddance to bad company.

Too Many Cooks Foil The Trough

The Mansion kitchen ain't big enough for the both of us! The Pony gets a rare day off, and uses it to take over my meal prep time! Almost as if it was premeditated. Which it wasn't, because The Pony is not a planner.

The Pony's last day off before Monday was the previous previous Sunday. So he's worked 8 days straight, all but one of them more than 10 hours a day. I understood that he would probably sleep in. By 1:30, I was getting concerned.

"PONY! Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"You haven't been out of your room for anything!"

Normally I would hear him clanking ice into his metal cup, or thumping to the bathroom. But not this time. He DID come out of his room shortly. I had just made a pot of noodles, chicken, mushrooms, peas, and parmesan cheese, tossed with part of a jar of alfredo sauce. The Pony won't touch that. It's like kryptonite to him. I'd asked Sunday night if he wanted some left without the mushrooms and peas, but he did not.

Anyhoo... The Pony said that when I went to town, he'd be making tacos with leftovers in the freezer. Namely diced chicken, and the remains of some instant Spanish rice from last Sunday. He often (when he has time off) makes his one meal of the day while I'm in town. 

However... when I returned from town, The Pony was just starting his "lupper." I'd been gone from 2:30 to 4:00. You'd think that would have been enough time to make food and GET OUT of the kitchen. I was wanting to strap on the old feedbag. Belly up to the trough. To warm up my noodle dish and grab a couple of Hawaiian rolls, and head to my lair with a fresh 44 oz Diet Coke. But there was The Pony, standing at the stove.

"Oh. I guess I'll wait until you're done before I can have my own lupper."

"I guess."

"Hey! Don't do that!"

"I'm just breaking up the rice."

"Not like THAT! I heard that fork stabbing my nonstick pan when you stabbed it through the rice chunk! You should have microwaved that first, before putting it in a skillet."

"I didn't stab your pan! All you heard was this. The pan rattling on the burner when I broke through the rice."

"I don't think so! Do it again, then. Show me."

"I don't need to do it again."

"Uh huh! Thought so! You KNOW you stabbed my pan! So you won't do it while I'm watching."

"The chicken will be easy to warm. It broke apart."

"Yeah. Because I diced it before it was put in the freezer! All you had to do to the rice was bang the baggie on the cutting block, and it would have separated itself. But wait! Don't try to change the subject!"

"Fine. I'll buy you another skillet, and I'll take this one when I leave."

"It doesn't work that way! You can't just take what you want."

"I guess my pans will be all right. I think they're in that tub in the garage..."

"Huh. I guess I might as well go lay down until I can get my food out and warm it. I guess my soda will get all watery, since I can't put more ice in it, with your laptop taking up the cutting block, and your food all over the counter."

"Yeah. I'll holler at you when I'm done."

"I thought the plan was for you to get your food while I was in town for an hour and a half."

"No. I didn't specifically say that..."

Too bad he was too tired to drive down to Steak N Shake like he used to on his days off.

A Disconcerting Glimpse Of The Pony's Package

The Pony has no qualms about flashing pictures of his package(s) that are a bit out of the ordinary. The packages, not the pictures. Whether it is an oddly misshapen box, or a colorful enigma like this one, The Pony is not shy about documenting random deliverables that he's tasked with handling.

 

"Oh, Mom. Wait till you see this package I had to deliver today. I want to know what YOU think it is!"

 

 

I shall not reveal my response. Let's just say that it may have included the words snap-on, tool, and orifices. Of course The Pony and I had a good snicker, and I don't mean the tasty fun-size treat available for Halloween.

"I KNOW, right? I was thinking: 'Why would they put this in a see-through package?' That's just wrong. And then I read on the package what it really is..."

Do YOU know what this is? Here's a hint. It may not be fit for man, but it's fit for beast. 

A four-legged beast.

______________________________________________________________________

Here. I'll spell it backwards. It's a hsurbhtooT goD.

You put it on a smooth surface with the suction cup bottom, and as the dog tries to chew on it and get it loose, he brushes his own teeth. So sayeth The Pony.

______________________________________________________________________.

SOMEBODY Needs To Invent A Better PurseTrap

I guess it's that time of year again, although I don't know if there really IS a season for begging outside convenience stores. I'm not talking about somebody down on their luck, with a cardboard sign. It's the organized beggars. Not that there's anything wrong with begging. If that's the most efficient way an organization can find to rake in donations, I don't begrudge them their effort. I am free to make the decision whether to open up my purse or not.

You may recall that Mrs. HM does not like this type of soliciting, and rarely gives anything to such a set-up. I have my charities or organizations that I donate to by mail, with a check for my records. I don't like to be bothered by random beggars. I don't like surprises, or variances in my routine. When I patronize a business, my plan is to enter and exit unmolested. No extra effort needed for small talk or refusals.

This week I have seen beggars outside the Gas Station Chicken Store on two consecutive days, at the Hillmomba Caseys, the Sis-Town Casey's, and Orb K. Even if I gave to one, how would the others know? Or should I just say, "I gave at Casey's." Whether I did or didn't. Well. That's a moot point, because so far, 

NOBODY HAS ASKED ME IF I WANT TO DONATE!

Yeah. They just sit there. Or stand there. And look at me as I walk by. Sometimes, one will say, "Hi. How ya doin'." And I reply "Just fine, thanks." Sometimes they are in pairs, busy conversing with each other, and I get a glance, then forgotten. I prefer it this way.

Here's the thing. If they want a donation, they should greet me, say what they're collecting for, and ask if I want to donate. I can either say, "Not today, sorry." Or I can toss a few dollars their way. I always have a few ones in my shirt pocket for an extra scratcher for The Pony. Depends on what they're collecting for. Which I DON'T KNOW!

I think the two early-30s men I passed at Orb K today were wearing aprons that said Knights of Columbus. Which still doesn't say what they want the donations for, even though I've heard of their organization. If I see a man blocking traffic at a stop sign, holding out a big rubber boot, I figure he's collecting for the firefighters. If I see an old man sitting in front of Country Mart with a small table covered with fake wire poppies, I figure it's the American Legion collecting for veterans. But these other beggars do not give me any clue what they are collecting for. They are not mainstream enough for me to recognize.

So... Mrs. HM's purse will remain closed.