The Pony's Mom's Eyes Are Bigger Than His Stomach

I sent The Pony home with Thanksgiving leftovers, and told him to not eat them past Sunday night. That's four days. Don't wanna take any chances with his delicate digestive system, heh, heh. He had deviled eggs, stuffing, roasted vegetables, and turkey.

Saturday evening, I got a text from The Pony.

"I didn't actually eat any leftovers yesterday. I didn't get off until 7 and fell asleep before I was gonna warm them. Then I did eat half a dozen deviled eggs."

"Don't fart around me!"

"You gave me 18 of them! And they've gotta be gone by tomorrow night!"

"Dad said they MIGHT be okay on Monday."

"The eggs? I doubt that. The veggies would be fine, but the meat is iffy and the eggs would not."

 

"Don't make yourself sick over my generosity! It's okay to throw them out. The meat is likely okay. People commenting online about a news article saying to throw them out after four days say THEY eat their Thanksgiving leftovers for SEVEN days!"

 

"Internet commenters are not always the brightest bulbs in the box!"

 

"And yet they're still alive to comment!"

 

"Fair! But I doubt they have to walk and drive 8 hours a day away from a bathroom!"

 

Anyhoo... The Pony went on to say the he was ordering a pizza to have with a drink since it's a night before a day off. And that later he planned to have more deviled eggs and warm up a bowl of vegetables. AND that he could use turkey as a topping on the pizza, especially for the leftover pizza.

 

I hope I don't make The Pony develop a dislike of my deviled eggs! I just had that many left over to give him, since Farmer H and I wouldn't eat a bunch for leftovers. And to be fair, I DID give him two Chinese Tupperware containers of the roasted vegetables.

 

Enough is as good as a feast. I don't want The Pony to stuff himself into queasiness.

The Treatment Is Worse Than The Injury

Sweet Gummi Mary! I think Farmer H's surgeon/doctor was right! The most recent redness around his rumpus was from the BANDAID used to cover it! Of course, he still had the half-stitch left in his incision that needed to come out, to stop the constant irritation, and let his incision close completely. But what I discovered Friday evening makes me a believer in this bandaid conspiracy! That surg/doc wasn't just whistlin' Dixie.

Remember how I mentioned that my leg was itching almost unbearably on Wednesday night? It was all I could do not to scratch. No way do I want to infect my gaping gouge from T-Hoe's door. Anyhoo... I figured it would eventually stop. Must be the healing process. I mentioned it to Farmer H, and he said, yeah, stuff itches as it heals.

 

I was preoccupied with getting the Thanksgiving foods ready on Thursday. Too busy to get in the shower before the big meal. Once it was over, and right before I got up to wash the dishes, I told Pony that I was taking off my bandaid from the day before, to let my leg breathe a bit. It came off easily (the bandaid, not the leg, heh, heh!).

I decided to leave the bandaid off overnight. I was busy cleaning up the kitchen, and reuniting with HIPPIE at the kitchen table. Farmer H went to bed. So I just skipped my shower. Took one on Friday before going to town. Farmer H was off at his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2), unavailable for bandaiding me. So again, I let my wound breathe.

When I got home and changed out of town clothes, I asked Farmer H to take a look and make sure my boo-boo wasn't getting infected. He gasped.

"WHAT? Is it infected? It doesn't hurt."

"No. But those bandaids are definitely causing a reaction! I'll take a picture for you."

Welp! Or should I say "WELT!" Here's the evidence. Look away, if the thumbnail didn't already scare you off. The gaping wound is not the focus, but the ITCHY RED SKIN AROUND IT!

 

No mistaking that shape! And that's AFTER a day without the bandaid! The bandaid that came off easily, one half of it already flapping and unstuck. We're not using them any more! I have half a mind to write Band-Aid and send them this picture. But the other half of my mind is lazy. Besides, they'd probably just send me some coupons for free bandaids. Something is definitely wrong here! Maybe a bad batch of glue.

What are the odds that both Farmer H and I, two completely unrelated people, would have this reaction?

Farmer H's Rumpus Grows A Tale

Farmer H went to the doctor on Wednesday. You may recall that he was having rumpus trouble in the area where that electronic shocker stimulator thingy was implanted to zap his bladder if it misbehaved too frequently. I'm pretty sure I mentioned how he asked me to look at the right rumpus area, because it was hurting. This was a couple weeks or more after the implantation. You'd think it would be getting better. However... when I took a look, the area was red, and when I reached to touch the edge, pus shot out!

I put antibiotic ointment on the area, and a bandaid. It seemed to be doing better. I'd change the bandaid every day or two. The left rumpus, where the external wires had been implanted to test if the experiment was going to work, was healing and scabbing over nicely since the wires had come out. Then a few days ago, Farmer H said his right rumpus was really hurting again.

THE WHOLE AREA WAS RED! Not "hot" red. But red. A rectangle around where that device is under the skin. I told Farmer H that didn't look normal! So he called the surgeon/doctor, who told him to come in. Here's the scoop:

The surgeon said that Farmer H did NOT have an infection. He said it looked like his skin was having a reaction to the bandaid. Oh, and by the way, he poked around in the incision area, and found a STITCH! Not a whole stitch. He said it was a half stitch. One that he'd used to close the outside of the incision, and should have dissolved. Then he sent in a prescription to Farmer H's pharmacy for an ANTIBIOTIC pill! So unusual, with no infection...

I say that this is a case of CYA. Cover Your Rumpus. Don't admit that you left a stitch in there that caused an infection! Oh, and the antibiotic, which Farmer H can't remember the name, but says it's a huge horse pill... can cause a problem with potassium. So now Farmer H has to go Friday for a blood test to check his potassium, in addition to stopping his regular daily potassium pill. You don't want to mess around with potassium levels, people! It can affect your heartbeat. 

Anyhoo... I guess the scenario as presented by the surgeon/doctor is plausible. Thursday night, Farmer H's right rumpus looked better. It was scabbing over, and the red skin area was less red, and parts looked like it was peeling like snake skin.

Farmer H thinks that little 1/4 inch of stitch was poking out just enough that it got irritated every time he pulled his tighty-whities up and down. I think sitting in the buttwater soup of the big triangle tub in the master bathroom for his aching back/legs did not help the "stitchuation."

The antibiotic is for seven days. I hope Farmer H's lab is open Friday, so he can see if his potassium level is affected. Otherwise, it will be Monday before he can get the blood test. The sixth day of the seven days of antibiotic.

Oh, and the bandaid situation? I asked why it hadn't done that all the other times I put a bandaid on it for him. But this was one of the new bandaids Farmer H had picked up for ME. It has sticky on all four sides, while the others we'd been using had the typical two-side sticky. 

 

Funny how my leg was itchin' like the dickens Wednesday night. I could hardly stand it. When the bandaid loosened itself and came off Thursday, I left it off. No more itching...

No Rest For The Wicked Weary Mrs. HM

Farmer H offered to forego Thanksgiving dinner for a trip to the casino. Don't think he was thinking of Mrs. HM. Not wanting her to work so hard over several days to prepare dishes and then clean up and make use of the leftovers. That was not his motive. 

"I get tired of hearing you complain."

Well. I get tired of doing all the work! I could gladly plop myself in front of the TV, and listen to Farmer H complain while getting the whole meal ready. 

I don't know why Farmer H thinks he is in charge of commanding me not to complain! It's not as if I'm yelling at HIM. If I want to whine about dropping something on the floor, or forgetting to carry items to the table that I need for chopping, what business is it of his? He can't hear anything ELSE I say from the kitchen. Ignores me, or gives answers that have nothing to do with my questions, even when I holler them in. But let me say something to myself when things don't go my way, and he hears every word of it, and it makes him uncomfortable! Wait. That's not true. It makes him spittin' mad! For nothing! It has nothing to do with him!

Anyhoo... with The Pony living so nearby, I hate to rob him of Thanksgiving. He works hard. He had Tuesday as a regular day off. And Thanksgiving Day off. Farmer H also told The Pony we could go to the casino for Thanksgiving. But then he'd have no leftovers. AND the casino doesn't serve deviled eggs, The Pony's favorite. So rather than rob The Pony of a proffered casino trip (we hadn't been for two months), I said we could go to the casino on Tuesday, and I'd still cook to have Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday.

I did scale back my menu. Poor Pony isn't getting his Oreo Cake. He said that was fine, he can make one for himself when he wants it. We are still having Pony Favorites: deviled eggs, stuffing, roasted vegetables, and Sister Schubert's rolls. I even bought him some Kerrygold butter! We'll have turkey breast and a 7-layer salad, too. Plus cheesecake for dessert. So we're not going to starve.

Right now I'm typing this at 1:30 a.m. The deviled eggs and the vegetables are done. The first set of dishes is washed. I was going to make the salad, but I'm tired, and only feel like making four layers. So I will do that Thursday morning after I put the turkey breast in the oven. Then the table and counter need cleaning off.

I doubt I'll get much sleep, what with Farmer H not going anywhere, and probably laying abed BREATHING when I want to rest. I guess one day without sleep won't hurt me.

Oh, yeah. It's also our 33rd wedding anniversary.

Revenge Would Be So Easy, But Mrs. HM Is Not A Vindictive Woman

While Farmer H was out and about Monday morning, he went to get me some larger bandaids to cover my door-slammed leg. It's not a big wound. Maybe a quarter-inch of a little hole, and a scratch. T-Hoe's door was not as bloodthirsty as that of A-Cad, which left a deep gouge of more than two inches long, and an inch wide. So this owie doesn't require a large bandaid to cover it. We already had some 2 x 4 inch bandaids that I got at Country Mart, to cover the place on Farmer H's rumpus where the incision was made to insert the shocker thingy he got a month or so ago.

Farmer H returned from town, bearing bags and boxes and pouches. He had a skin thingy excised from his shoulder, and his doctor gave him gauze squares and tape. He was sure to state:

"Them are for me. For my shoulder. We have to change it every day. But I got you some bigger bandaids. They're 4 x 8."

That sounded awfully large! How would I even have him apply it? Across my calf? Up and down? I picked up the box to look at it.

"Um. These are NOT 8 inches! They're 2 7/8 inch by 4 inch. So barely bigger than the ones we already have two boxes of."

"Are you sure? Huh. I guess that must have been the OTHER box I picked up..."

Which is not a tragedy. I don't need an 8-inch bandaid. These will cover it, but won't be any different than the others. It will cover, and then get sodden, and peel off. So I'm not faulting Farmer H with his purchase, but only with his inattentiveness to detail. In case size might have mattered.

Here's the bone I have to pick. After my shower, and before I headed to town, Farmer H put a bandaid on my leg for me. He could have been ready. I told him I'd be out of the shower at 2:30, and he said he was leaving at 2:45 to meet a guy at his old storage locker for something. Yet when I went to the living room at 2:30, Farmer H was still in his recliner. Nothing ready.

"You know we always need a paper towel, to make sure the area around it is dry so the bandaid with stick."

"I'll go get one."

"And the ointment."

"It's already here on the table, from doing my hip this morning."

So... I stretched out my leg while leaning on the marred coffee table. It seemed to take Farmer H forever to rip open the bandaid, put on ointment, dab at my leg skin, and then position the bandaid. Sill, all was going fine, until...

"YOUCH!"

"That didn't hurt you."

"I think I'M the judge of what hurts me! You pushed RIGHT ON THE HOLE!"

"No I didn't. I was smoothing the edge."

"I think I know where you pushed, and how it hurt! You always do that! Push RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE INJURY!"

"No I don't."

Yes. He does. I guess he thinks he has to pat in the middle of the bandaid to make it stick. I don't know his motives. I'm pretty sure it's not malicious intent. Just stupidity.

I could really make his life miserable, poking the center of his shoulder incision, or that rumpus thingy that is not looking right. (Farmer H has an appointment Wednesday for that.)

Good thing I'm not vindictive.

Farmer H, My Personal (Un)Care(ing) Giver

With the most recent slamming of my leg in a car door (there's a sentence you never want to write), I am dependent on Farmer H to bandage the wound. It's around back on my calf, near the knee bend. I can't see it without contorting or using my cell phone for a picture. Props to Farmer H for applying my first aid accoutrements, but he does not have the best couch-side manner.

 

As with last time, the initial few days of such an injury result in a weeping wound. The bleeding lasts a few hours, then peters out as the plasma floods the injury, carrying away crushed cells and possible pathogens. Of course I'd like the flowing fluid to stop, but I know it serves a purpose. I have to devise a way to deal with it. A bandaid with triple antibiotic ointment covers the broken skin, but still allows the injury to weep.

 

Farmer H thinks LIQUID BANDAID is the solution.

 

"I'll put some of that on it, and that'll stop the fluid! Of course, it WILL hurt. It burns! Unless maybe there's a spray version now, which might not hurt as much. But it will cover it up so the fluid stays in." 

That was Farmer H's stance on Monday morning. After I'd already told him several times the night before that I did NOT want to use Liquid Bandaid.

"NO! Enough with the Liquid Bandaid talk! I already told you I don't want that. I'm afraid my leg might explode if it gets sealed up and can't let the fluid out."

"HA HA HA HA HA!" He had to stop here for a coughing fit, but then continued: "Your leg isn't going to explode, HM! Ha ha ha!"

He doesn't have to be so mean...

Oops! I've Gone And Done It Again.

No rest for the weary, no luck for the losers, and no ablebodiedness for the gimpy.

I closed the car door on my leg again.

 

This time, it was T-Hoe's giant door. Of course I blame Farmer H! No. He did not hold my leg out and slam the door. He wasn't even there. But it happened when I parked at the FREE AIR hose at the Gas Station Chicken Store to put air in T-Hoe's right rear tire. I've been getting a message to check it. Supposed to have 35 pounds of air, and only had 26. With the cold weather, all the tires show low air. The front two have 30 pounds. So I was leaving them alone until Farmer H can drive T-Hoe over to the BARn, and check all the tires, and fill them with his compressor.

 

Anyhoo... because I turned to walk to the BACK of T-Hoe, my routine was thrown off, and I closed the door before I had fully stepped out of the way. I immediately knew I was in trouble. I could feel fluid flowing down my left leg. To add salt to my newly-ripped-open wound, the tire had stopped with the valve stem at the very bottom. The six o'clock position. Almost as if Even Steven had measured it with a compass. That meant I was virtually standing on my head to remove the cap, and hold the air hose nozzle against it.

 

A puddle of blood was forming at my heel. Dang it! I hated to go inside, but I wanted my scratchers cashed in for more. I didn't so much mind that the back of my pants leg was sodden, because nobody looks over the counter at that. But I didn't want to leave puddles. I made sure to stand on the tile, not the rugs. I'm thinking my pants and sock kept soaking up my fluids, since the pants were against the leg while I was standing normally.

 

I called Farmer H to report my predicament. Thank the Gummi Mary, I had already completed my Thanksgiving shopping in two stores, and was headed home. Farmer H came out to help, but he has been forbidden to carry anything due to his back discs. So I had to be quite stern with him, so he only held the door open, and watched the dogs so they didn't eat my turkey breast and bacon while I set two boxes and three bags on the side porch, before climbing the steps and transferring them into the kitchen.

 

Once inside, I changed into my sweatpants and hiked the leg up. I put my pants in the washer to soak, along with the squishy sock. Farmer H wiped down my leg and patched it with triple antibiotic ointment and a 2x4 inch bandaid. He forgot to take a picture so I could see the wound, but said it looked like a 1-2 inch horizontal scratch. No hole like on the gambling trip. It doesn't hurt hardly at all. So I'm hoping for a quicker recovery. 

 

Of course, the fluid is still seeping, because my body is rushing reinforcements to that area to carry away damaged cells and start the healing. I have my foot on a towel, and when I get up, I put a paper towel in my Croc so it doesn't grow so squishy.

 

It's going to be a long week...