The Pony Takes A Picture Of His Balls On The Footrest Of Farmer H's Recliner

Made you look! Okay, okay! Maybe that IS a little bit clickbaity. But it is LITERALLY the truth. Give me a break, I didn't even include the fact that The Pony took a picture of his BLUE balls!

Sweet Gummi Mary! I found the most interesting treat EVER! Well. Except for maybe those insects on a stick in some of the countries I've seen on The Amazing Race. But for around Hillmomba, these are quite a unique treat! I found them on a back aisle end cap in Save A Lot. I didn't even break stride. Just grabbed one as I wheeled by with my cart/walker.

 

Don't worry! That's The Pony's FINGER holding the lid of the plastic jar containing his balls. Don't they make your mouth water? I really thought The Pony would like this treat. After all, he loves the cheese balls version. But no. He ate ONE SINGLE BALL and almost spit it out! Not a fan. I'd like to be sad about it, but all I can think is MORE FOR ME!!!

The cashier saw them and said,

"Oh, you're getting the cotton candy balls! I got some for home, and they're over half gone already! We love them! They're really sweet in the beginning, but then they get better."

I don't know how she kept that plastic jar half-FULL in her house! I tried a few. Put the lid back on. Went to do other things, Came back after I made supper. Took the lid off again. Had 3 or 4. Gave the jar to Farmer H so he could try them. He poured out a handful and gave them back. I had another 3 or 4. Put the lid on. Farmer H wanted them back. I swear he was elbow-deep in that container!

"Pony. Look. Your dad probably has a ring of blue around his mouth. He's shoveling them in like movie theater popcorn! Just smashing a handful against his lips!"

We didn't have the living room light on, but I swear I could see a bit of a blue glow on Farmer H, from the kitchen light. 

I am definitely leaving these Cotton Candy Balls upstairs. They're addictive! If I go back to Save A Lot this week, I'm getting another jar of them. The Pony doesn't know what he's missing...

The Off-Putting, Self-Important Entitlement Of 40-Something Men

Excuse me. Could somebody give my ample rumpus a boost as I climb upon my soapbox? Hey, now! Don't go getting handsy! There's plenty o' rumpus to go around.

My speech is not about a quantity of 40-something men. It's only about TWO of them. Men in their 40s. I encountered them while out and about in Hillmomba on Saturday.

Even Steven is such a prankster.

The first 40-S walked into the Gas Station Chicken Store while I was fourth in line. A man was getting cigarettes and paying with a card at the counter. That takes so long! (Says the gal who cashes in scratchers ever day!)

The next customer was a woman whose husband was pumping gas. They had already paid, but had somehow locked themselves out of their fancy ride, which has keyless entry. I don't understand how those things work. The Pony has it for his Rogue. But the lady said they live 90 minutes away, and would have to borrow a car to drive home for the actual key to get it started. Man Owner suggested Triple A to unlock the car, but she didn't know if they could start it for her. She was just apologizing for blocking the pump for so long.

The next customer was the guy ahead of me, paying for gas and a 32 oz beverage (lightweight!) with cash. I knew I was next. I'd been standing behind him for quite a while, and had seen the 40-S in the red T-shirt come through the door as it made the DING sound. He had been standing on the other side of the aisle, behind where the stalled car woman waited.

As the cigarette buyer left, I stepped up to pay for my magical elixir, and of course trade in my scratchers. As I set my 44 oz Diet Coke on the counter, 40-S pierced my brain with his dagger-eyes. So blatant was he that I back-talked him. You know I rarely do such a thing in public. I don't like to cause a scene.

"I've been waiting for a while. I saw you come in while I was in line. So don't think I'm butting ahead of you."

40-S remained silent, which was the smartest thing he could do. Nobody ever needed a tourniquet for a dagger-eye incident. Surely 40-S knew that he hadn't seen me enter the store since he'd parked himself behind the car locker-outer. Obviously I was there before him.

My next stop was Country Mart. I was third in line there. Ahead of me were two guys who'd been sent to pick up some canning supplies. Some special kind of salt or something. I was shopping near them on the olive aisle. They were waiting on a customer who'd already paid, but had some malfunction. Something had not been charged right, and it involved cigarettes. A manager had to come over with a special card, and it didn't work. So back she went to the service desk.

A 40-Something guy in a faded blue T-shirt was in line behind me. I was leaning on my cart/walker, waving my ample rumpus around, because me right knee was stiffening up from the standing. The cigarette buyer looked at all of us, and said, "Sorry, guys." I'm pretty sure he included me as a guy. I don't blame him for the wait. Cigarette buyers are people, too. We all have our vices.

Anyhoo... a tall blond clerk came out of the service area, and said, "I can help somebody over on 4."

40-S2 shot in that direction as if out of Olympic starting blocks in the 100-meter dash! He was taking no chance on those of us ahead of him getting to that check-out lane before him! Heh, heh! Those Canning Dudes went around the FRONT of the check-out lanes, and came up the wrong way to the register, and BEAT 40-S2! I think I chortled.

As this scenario was playing out, as soon as 40-S2 took off, I muttered, "Sure! Hurry up and get there before the people ahead of you IN LINE get a chance!" I'm pretty sure he heard me. Because as the two Canning Dudes were paying, 40-S2 came slinking back down the main aisle. He went past me. As if he'd forgotten something. Which maybe he had. Serves him right! As I was loading my groceries in the cart, he pulled into line behind me.

Thanks, Even Steven, for helping me be more assertive...

We Ain't Havin' A Ball

 Here's a picture of The Ball That Held The Wings, for all you inquiring minds.

 

The pointy end is on the top. It got squooshed in the trash, because who would NOT try to compact that ball to take up less room? I tried to pop it back into shape, even opening the lid, but there was still a bunch of clingy garlic ranch sauce in there. I might pick through the trash for my loyal readers, to unearth this relic, but I draw the line at actually touching leftover sauce.

In other news, we're not having a ball this weekend.

THE PONY HAS STILL NOT SEEN AN ORTHOPEDIC DOC FOR HIS BROKEN ANKLE!

He called the Kansas City regional office himself, where a lady named for a part of the female anatomy told him that oh, yes, she remembered his claim, it was held up because of a missing form.

"That form was emailed to you on Wednesday afternoon!"

After a short time on muzak hold, The Pony was told that if they found it, they would put it in. He asked for a phone call or email for confirmation when it was, and she said, "If we remember."

As you might guess, nobody called. The Pony notified his supervisor and union rep, who said to keep them updated. The Pony decided to file that form himself, online (which the union rep had told him about) around 1:30. By 2:00, The Lady Named For a Part of the Female Anatomy called and told him it was kicked out, because she found his form, but it was not signed by the supervisor who took the info the night of the ankle-breaking, then went on vacation the next day.

SIGH... so the acting supervisor was out of the office, but said she'd look it over when she got back. Somehow this albatross took flight at 3:30 p.m. The Pony got a voice mail from The Lady Named For a Part of the Female Anatomy, and a case number. 

He called Urgent Care with that info, knowing that it would be impossible for them to schedule an appointment that late on a Friday. The gal there told him that "The Lady Named For a Part of the Female Anatomy said to send her all your info, and she would schedule an appointment with an orthopedic specialist."

So now it's hurry up and wait some more, until Monday morning. At which time Farmer H will be home, and there might be an avalanche of rolling heads if he takes it upon himself to get The Pony to a bone doctor. 

The Pony got the name of the doctor that the other ankle-breaker used. He's local, and a podiatrist working out of the hospital clinic. The Pony is going to call The Lady Named For a Part of the Female Anatomy, and tell her he's going to this doctor, unless she's already made an appointment. And maybe anyway, even if she has. Farmer H knows this guy, and says he's pretty sure they'll take The Pony as a WALK IN patient on Monday. 

The Pony objects to being called a WALK IN patient.

I'm About To Lose My Crap Sandwich

I'm a little queasy at the moment, and it's not from feasting on the crap sandwich Even Steven has somehow found necessary to feed me this week. Y'all could have helped me, you know, when I offered to share my treat with you. Then I wouldn't be so stuffed, and about to refund my crap sandwich due to this crazy roller coaster ride of a week. So many ups and downs! My head is spinning. Although that might be from scratching the inside of my ear with the tip of a Bic fine-point pen lid.

 

As I write this on Thursday night, ONE WEEK AFTER THE PONY BROKE HIS ANKLE AT WORK... he still has not been able to get an appointment with an orthopedic specialist. Still no cast, just the soft brace and wrap put on at Urgent Care last Thursday.

Every day, we get our hopes up that something is being done. And every day, we plummet to the depths of despair that it is not. FINALLY, after contact with the regional office that handles the workers' comp issues, The Pony's acting supervisor found out what paperwork was missing from the report they'd compiled. We stopped by and signed it Wednesday. It was submitted that evening to the regional office. 

The Pony has been in contact with his union rep. Everything seemed to be coalescing to lead to a NUMBER that was needed by Urgent Care to refer him to an orthopedic doctor. The union rep said The Pony should ask for a copy of that specific form, which should have been given to him, and to make sure everything on it was correct. If not, to submit one online.

Here's the roller coaster drop for the day. The Pony had put in a call and a text early in the morning. By noon, he still hadn't heard anything back about getting a copy to look at. THEN he got a response from his acting supervisor.

"Mom, she said she'd send me a copy as soon as she gets back to the office. She's at the doctor. She didn't say if it was MY doctor, or her own. Do you think she was over at Urgent Care giving them my stuff?"

"Um. NO. I'm pretty sure any doctor she's at would be for herself. Otherwise, she would have said 'your Urgent Care.' To get you off her back with the texting."

"Oh. Maybe something happened at work. I'll just have to wait."

"Yeah. You've waited THIS long. Obviously it's not getting done again today. One thing's for sure: SHE BETTER NOT SHOW UP FOR WORK WITH A FRESH CAST ON HER ANKLE!"

Sometimes, ya gotta laugh, or you'll cry.

________________________________________________________________________

The Pony got his copy of the form. It was indeed filled out correctly. It HAS been sent to the regional office, whose contact name and phone number he also got. He's calling Friday morning to see if a claim number has been issued. At which point he will call Urgent Care with the info.

Can't say I'm overly optimistic...

________________________________________________________________________

More Evidence That The Pony's Chromosomes Are Missing The Common Sense Gene

The Pony wanted lunch/supper from Pizza Hut on Wednesday. Since we were out taking his broken (and still uncasted) ankle for a drive, under the guise of seeking treatment. We were once again unsuccessful in that arena. Don't get me started!!!

The Pony wanted a Personal Pan Pizza, and also some boneless chicken wings. Which are basically breaded chicken nuggets at Pizza Hut. They come in a black plastic ball the size of a large cantaloupe. It reminds me of a Pokemon ball, since that's the era in which my boys were of toy age.

Anyhoo... I think this is the dumbest packaging ever. I've only had the wings there a couple times, and I hated that ball more than I hated the wings. So awkward. So much wasted space. The tiny wings lie on the bottom in some sauce. Sometimes you get a lot, sometimes almost none. I don't get the whole BALL concept for this container. Put it in Chinese Tupperware. Then it can be re-used. Not in some thin-plastic BALL, that takes up room in the trash, and is good for nothing.

Anyhoo... The Pony's nugget-wings were swimming in that white parmesan garlic sauce. He ate them with his FINGERS because we had no fork, but that's part of another story, to be told elsewhere, on Friday. When they were gone, and The Pony got the mail out of EmBee for me, he set the BALL on T-Hoe's dashboard. You can imagine how that went, since I turned directly onto our newly-potholed gravel road.

"Pony! It's not going to stay there!"

"Got it!"

The Pony turned it over, and set it right back where it had been. 

"Maybe that will work better," he said, flipping it upside down. Which was actually right-side up. There was a flat portion on the bottom of the BALL, whereas the top had 

A POINTY TIP!

"I can't believe you laid that BALL up there sitting on a POINT, and expected it to stay! When there was a flat side available."

"But all the sauce was in the pointy part. So I wanted it to stay there. Now the sauce is in the top, dripping down."

Like it mattered in a closed BALL. Which shortly slid over the edge anyway, as T-Hoe bounced across the Great Chasm gully left by recent rains. Good thing The Pony has quick reflexes. Which don't require common sense.

This Leaves A Sour Taste In My Mouth

You may recall that I'm having a bad week. Which started on Thursday, the day after Farmer H left on his vacation out west, when I was SUPPOSED to be having a blissful life of leisure until his return. "NOT-HEAVEN, NO!" bellowed Even Steven, rubbing his hands together, before emitting a sinister, "Bwahaha!"

I'm not sure which end of this crap sandwich to start on. I'm dealing with The Pony's lameness. That's old hat by now. I lay out towels for his bath, which occurs on the side of the big triangle tub in the master bathroom. The Pony just can't quit that tub. I fetch him ice water in a jug, a metal insulated cup, and a plastic insulated mug. I prepare his food and carry it to the living room. I assist in the washing of his Samson-length hair every two to three days. I do his laundry and leave it in a basket for him to fold and shove out of sight. He seems to be off the ibuprofen now. So his care is becoming part of my routine. However...

THE PONY STILL HAS NO APPOINTMENT WITH AN ORTHOPEDIC SPECIALIST!

That's right. It's been 7 days of broken ankle, and he's still in the brace and wrap put on at Urgent Care. He's getting the runaround from both Urgent Care and his boss. Each says they need something from the other, and in the meantime The Pony might be healing incorrectly. He's on the phone with both entities twice a day. When Farmer H returns, heads might roll. He's got an insider in the Department of Labor, or whatever it's called. This work injury is not being dealt with correctly. In fact, it doesn't seem to be being dealt with at all. I can't go into the details. It makes me too sad.

At the other end of my unappetizing plate, we have the $920 bill for anesthesia from Farmer H's medical procedure back in May. The one the clinic assured him was all approved. Every time he asked. Right up to getting on the table for some cutting. And several times since then. Assurance that they were following up with his supplemental insurance to remedy the matter. Well. The only entity that hasn't been getting updates is the one that is owed the money!

Anyhoo... I've been on the phone with a very polite rep from the anesthesia company (if that's what it's called) about our ordeal. My specifics matched up with what they'd been told. However, they've heard nothing since May. So at least there's a note in the file now. We have no problem with paying that bill IF WE ARE ACTUALLY RESPONSIBLE. If we are, it would mean that clinic did not do their job, but we'd deal with them in some way, after settling our debt. We wouldn't be happy about it, but that's how we do things around the Mansion. We pay our bills. Thing is, the clinic is stringing us along with tales of taking care of this matter. NOT telling us that we're stuck paying it because they messed up.

Oh, what a foul crap sandwich I cleave, when employers and clinics attempt to deceive...

Here. Let me slice you off a little piece. I'm willing to share my 7-day lunch with you.

The Pony Gets The Wand

Another busy day for HM's Taxi Service. The Pony has undertaken an endeavor which required a court hearing earlier this month, and a subsequent notice printed in the local newspaper. He thought records were being mailed to him, a form from which he would need at the newspaper. Since almost two weeks had elapsed, with no documents, The Pony decided he should check with the source. A phone call is not his style. So we loaded up the truck and moved to Beverly... WAIT A MINUTE! That was the Beverly Hillbillies. WE loaded up T-Hoe, and headed to the county courthouse. 

I was a bit apprehensive. The courthouse is over in Bill-Paying town. It sits in a square of one-way streets. I know my way around. I spent a year on jury duty, you know! But parking is at a premium around the courthouse. There's an annex across the street, with a parking lot behind it. But in case you are extremely unobservant, you know that THE PONY IS ON CRUTCHES with a broken ankle.

"I hope we can find close parking, Pony. If not, I don't know what we'll do. Neither one of us can walk far. I'm pretty sure the street in front of the main entrance is all handicap parking."

"Yeah. And I DO have these crutches. So it shouldn't be a problem."

"IF we can find a space."

I turned onto the two-lane one-way street in front of the courthouse. All the parking spaces were taken. All six or seven of them. WAIT A MINUTE! At the very end of the block. A space was open! I pulled in. Backed up. Straightened T-Hoe. Tried to get closer to the curb. I'm not used to parallel parking on the left side of the road.

Oh, no. Here came a white-haired woman, motioning for me to put the window down. The Pony waved his crutches. And then the woman said, 

"You still have about 10 feet, dear. To back up and get out of the crosswalk."

"Oh. Thanks! I couldn't tell how close I was. I don't want to block that car in behind me."

Whew! Close one! Then I had the stress of standing street-side watching for traffic while The Pony flung open T-Hoe's large door, to slither down over the running board and onto his crutches. We made it to the sidewalk. Then headed for the handicap ramp, rather than the 10 wide concrete steps.

SWEET GUMMI MARY! We might as well have been hiking up the switchbacks of Pike's Peak! The concrete handicap ramp zig-zagged. I bet it was 100 feet long. 50 up the first ramp. Double-back, and 50 up the second ramp. Getting into the building required walking by pillars with toe-catchers. The round pillars sat on square concrete bases about 1 inch high. I know, because of course I caught my toe on one, and almost went down.

"Pony! Watch out for this concrete base. Don't hit it with your crutch!"

There were two sets of automatic sliding double doors. Then a cordoned off area to funnel you into the metal detector. I'm no stranger to a metal detector. I went through one when I was in prison. FOR AN INTERVIEW, people! The first guard said, "Empty your pockets into a bin." All I had taken in were my keys in my pants pockets, and my folded money and debit card in my shirt pocket. They didn't need THAT! I put my keys in a bin, walked through the detectors and got back my keys.

"Um. Do you want me to go through anyway? With my crutches?" 

[Which are metal]

They did. The Pony set off the alarm. The second guard came over and waved a wand all around The Pony's midsection and butt and private area. The Pony passed. On we went to the window of the Circuit Clerk. Where The Pony discovered that NO paperwork was on its way, because the publishing of the notification had to come first. Then the newspaper would send the Circuit Clerk documentation, the order would be finalized, and THEN a copy would be sent to The Pony.

We had to sit on a bench to rest The Pony's cramping good foot. Then back down Pike's Peak, and into T-Hoe, and off to the newspaper. When we had hiked down their ramp, the door had a sign saying the office was not open to the public. Huh. Good thing a dude came over with a key and unlocked the door and let us in anyway. At least they didn't have a metal detector! I don't know why they were closed to the public. It wasn't a mask thing. Nobody inside was wearing one, and there were no signs demanding it.

We were ushered to a desk, after a short wait, and the guy typed in stuff off the form The Pony had with him. I paid the fee with my debit card, since The Pony had conveniently left his stuff in T-Hoe. Believe me, I have an itemized bill ready, after the medical items and this trip.

After that, we headed to gas up T-Hoe, pick up Chinese food, procure my magical elixir, and stop for scratchers. Not a winning day for that, but the food was good. With leftovers stashed in FRIG II.