Just One More Reason She's My Favorite

When I entered the Gas Station Chicken Store on Friday, there was only one other customer. He was a bearded man in a red plaid kilt, with a cast from wrist to bicep on his right arm. He was having trouble sliding his card through their portable card-scanner.

"I can't do it."

"Yes you can."

"I've only got one arm, GIRLFRIEND!"

"All you have to do it tap it right there... BOYFRIEND!"

That's when it dawned on me that this was actually Fave's boyfriend, he who fell off a roof and broke his wrist last weekend. At the time, the news-bearer said it was his wrist, but it definitely involved an arm. I guess with only the use of one hand, a kilt is practical. Though I don't know if he otherwise wears one or not.

Anyhoo... she told him I'm the "nice lady" who brings her scatchers every Thursday. He said, "Oh, so YOU'RE the one responsible for all those tickets littering the car."

"Yes. That's me. Enabling the habit."

I don't think he held it against me. When he left, Fave said that she won $60 this week. Which included a $50 winner on a $5 crossword. Which means I just missed a $50 winner, heh, heh. Because when I buy hers, it's always the second one after I buy my own. I'm glad Fave won it. I've had my own luck this past week.

Anyhoo... as she was getting my scratchers, Fave said:

"Have you lost weight? You look thin today."

I had to laugh. You know me, quite the jokester. Fave sensed it right away, what I was about to say. "Oh! I didn't mean it like that! That sounded bad, didn't it? I just meant that I really noticed it today..."

"Not a problem. Yes, I have. It's something I've been working on for two years now. I take it as a compliment."

"I feel so bad. Really. I didn't mean it to sound that way. Me and my big mouth."

"It's fine. Don't worry. I'm not offended."

A couple guys came in to pay for gas, and I left with my tickets. I was in T-Hoe, writing on the back of them, when Fave came out the side door by the propane tanks. I put my window down.

"I just wanted to come out and apologize."

"I told you, it's fine! I won't hold it against you, heh, heh! Your tickets are safe!"

"Okay. I just wanted to make sure. I would never say anything to hurt your feelings."

"They're not hurt! It was a compliment for me. We're fine."

Heh, heh. I can't wait to tell Fave on Saturday that I won't be there Sunday, because of The Pony coming out for Father's Day. Maybe I'll say, "I won't be here Sunday. I'll be home gaining weight."

It will be fun to have something to rib her about. But I won't touch her boyfriend's kilt... that might offend her.

Maybe Not A Brainiac

This Shaver adventure has made Mrs. HM question her intelligence! After all, she's a former VALedictorian, who has reproduced two valedictorian offspring. Yet all it took was a tiny Chinese shaver to make a fool of her! AS IF a normal person would know which side was up, and which side was down. Surely I'm not the only person to mistake a reading of 100% for a reading of %001. Well... maybe I AM.

I was ready to call that purchase a loss. I'd learned my lesson about buying on-sale Chinese merchandise from Amazon. I would search again, and try a domestic shaver with good reviews, at a moderate price. Of course, Farmer H, in his annoying way, had to say:

"Walmart probably sells them."

DUH! Do you think? Never mind that I haven't stepped foot in the Devil's Playground since I came home from my Unfortunate HospitVALzation after a 4-day stay for pneumonia. At first I was just too weak. But as I grew stronger, so did my resolve to not play into the Devil's hands. I was mad about their approach to The Virus, with the cattle chutes out front, forcing a zig-zag extra-long walk just to get inside. And then the one-way aisles. Which Farmer H said he just ignored. But which I pulled my cart down backwards, lest I be spotted on surveillance, and this transgression added to my Permanent Record.

"I haven't been in there in four years, and I'm not starting now! YOU can get me a shaver, then."

I said to the man who could not find my lotion there, even though I sent him with a picture on his phone, and he consulted a clerk for help. Thank the Gummi Mary that he got my little Shaver fixed. Who knows what kind of contraption he might have brought home. Probably some sheep-shearing clippers. Or Edward Scissorhands himself (since I caught Farmer H watching this movie the other day when his MeTV channel was missing).

Yes, my intellect has been insulted by a tiny shaver. It brings back unfond memories of my first day of teaching, in Mountain Grove, Missouri, when I wrote my name on the board, along with my subject, for all my new students to see:

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom

SCIENE

Darn That Little Shaver

The good news is that I did not amputate a leg with my new Shaver. The bad news is that I don't think I used it as intended. Like Ed Sheeran and his first kiss on a Friday night... I don't reckon that I did it right.

I settled down on the short couch to attempt a shave. I spread a towel across the floor for my feet and legs. It's not an ideal place for leg-shaving, but that's where I take off my velcro leg wraps before showering, and then put them on again. I wanted to shave my legs before the shower, so they'd be ready for lotioning when I got out.

I pushed the power button on my shaver. It did a 3-2-1 countdown. That locks it for travel, so it doesn't accidentally get jostled and turn on. Not what I intended. I held down the power button again. 1-2-3 countup. That puts it back in the using mode. But it didn't seem to be on. The light showing the power charge was on. But there was no noise. No hum. No vibration. Huh. Was this some special magical shaver?

I tried pushing the power button again. Got the countdown. Then the countup. Well. Maybe it WAS on, somehow. I moved it across my leg. Looked like some of that hair was trimmed. I don't have a lot. But what I had was long and scraggly in a little patch. Now it looked short and scraggly. I did it again. Yep! That hair was gone. I ran that Shaver over a couple of other patches. Then gave up.

When Farmer H came home, I explained my Shaver issue. That man purely LOVES to tinker with any kind of machine. I gave him the instructions, but he only took a glance. He said he was trying to take it apart.

"I had the top off. To look in where the blades supposedly are. There's that white plastic part on the two edges. I think it belongs there. It doesn't seem to be a guard you have to remove to make it run. I didn't try to pry it loose, because I didn't want to break it. Be careful if you take that off. There's going to be some hair in there, because somehow it still shaved."

Farmer H's supper was ready, so he stopped his investigation. Before he came back to the kitchen for assorted desserts, he said, 

"I got your Shaver working. I took off the top. It was just stuck. I knocked it loose, and now it works."

He brought it to the kitchen, and I could hear the hum. Good to know!

A Close Shave For An Idiot

Mrs. HM is sometimes not the brightest crayon in the box. The sharpest tool in the shed. Every now and then, her porchlight is on, but nobody's home upstairs. Like on Wednesday, when she opened her latest Amazon delivery.

The delivery itself was fine. Three items. An assortment of colored file folders for sorting flip house documents/bills. A large bottle of Curel lotion, for use on my legs after shower/before enclosing in their support stockings and velcro wraps. And a shaver.

Let the record show that Mrs. HM has never used a shaver. She has used a disposable plastic razor. Over the past couple years, her legs have gone bald! So no need for leg-shaving. But with my current leg therapy, the lower legs have started sprouting again! OT says this is good. It happens sometimes as the circulation gets better. She said she's not offended. She's worked on hair legs before.

Each session when we've unwrapped my legs, marveled over their appearance, and I've climbed up on the hydraulic table/bed... I've said, "I really need to shave my legs." OT advised me to use a shaver. Not a razor. Because we don't want to risk any nicks that need healing. 

Anyhoo... it's a cute little shaver. Only came in one color: purple. It was on sale for 63% off. Compact. Charges with a USB cord. I figured it was just what I needed.

I took it out of the box, figuring I could charge it by plugging into HIPPIE while doing my morning innernetting. Then it would be ready for shaving when I unwrapped my legs for a shower around noon. It had a short white charging cord. I connected the shaver to HIPPIE.

As you may recall, HIPPIE has been having power issues. Often shutting down spontaneously, with a message that he was overheating. Sometimes the message is that the battery needs to be replaced. The Pony says that will cost more than a new computer. Which I already have anyway, but prefer the familiarity of HIPPIE until his last gasp.

Anyhoo... I noticed that the power was not changing. It didn't seem that Shaver was getting a charge from HIPPIE. I changed the USB cord to a different port. Still nothing. Maybe HIPPIE's battery didn't want to exert itself on an auxiliary device. I took Shaver to the kitchen counter, and plugged it into my quick-charging thingy that I used for my phone. When I checked five minutes later, there was still no change. Huh. The instruction booklet said that charging would take one hour. But surely it should be showing minor progress after five minutes.

Dang it! I figured I'd just have to order a different shaver. It WAS made in China. I guess you get what you pay for. I unplugged it and got ready to put it back in the box. As I laid Shaver down to open the box, I noticed something:

Shaver had been upside down! It came with a 100% charge! I had been thinking that China just had a funny way of showing the percent. Like Spanish has the question mark in front.

I hope I'm smart enough to use Shaver without amputating a leg...

The Lack Of Awareness Is Mind-Numbing

Mrs. HM is on another crusade. Join her, if you will, on her foray into a world rife with entitledness and/or ignorance. This necessitates climbing upon her high horse. Put your foot in the stirrup there, and give me your hand. Upsy-daisy! There you go. Careful not to pound my elevated steed's flanks with your heels. There's no rush. It's not like we're waiting to pay for soft-serve ice cream cones...

Monday after my leg therapy, I stopped by the Sis-Town Casey's for scratchers. The line was orderly. My mission accomplished, I went out the door and walked down the front sidewalk to T-Hoe. I had my handicap placard hanging, but didn't park in the handicap space. I don't like it here, because there's a regular space next to it on the left, which allows regular parkers to get too close, and block T-Hoe's door from opening completely. Instead, I prefer the farther-away space on the other side of the striped handicap walkway with the concrete ramp onto the sidewalk.

This space lets me open the door completely, and walk up that ramp. As I started down the little built-in ramp, a little black sports car started pulling in. HALFWAY IN THE STRIPED AREA! I stopped, lest I be struck by an automobile. Small, but still bigger than Mrs. HM! 

The sports car stopped, halfway in. I figured the guy was probably going to use that space to turn around, since there were plenty of regular parking spaces in front of the door, plus on the other side of T-Hoe. The handicap space was also open. Maybe he had just misjudged his turn.

I gave the driver a quizzical look, then continued down the ramp. T-Hoe's door opened, since the sports car had stopped before pulling all the way in. Once settled in the driver's seat, door closed, I was SHOCKED to see that sports car back up, straighten out, and pull forward directly into the striped space! As if it was a parking space. The sports car blocked the whole ramp.

That's when I frowned at the driver, who was looking at me. WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN? Was he a psycho? I raised my left eyebrow, my unspoken teacher language for, "What in the Not-Heaven, Dude?" The guy got out of his sports car and stepped up on the sidewalk and went inside. He had no handicap placard, nor plates. He had no visible infirmity that might require close parking. In fact, he had eschewed closer parking, and even the actual handicap space, to park IN THE STRIPED HANDICAP WALKWAY!

Take a snort of that rarefied air atop our high horse, and sigh heavily along with me.

Tales Out Of Treatment

My leg therapy continues. I got Tuesday off! I'd like to think of it as a reward for good behavior, but it was just a result of circumstances. I usually go M/W/F. My OT will be gone on Wednesday. She decided, as I was leaving on Monday, that I could do without the Tuesday session.

"With your progress, I don't see back-to-back treatment having much of an effect. Would you like to just skip Tuesday, and come in on Friday as usual?"

"Yes! That would be fine with me. As long as it doesn't count as a no-show. I don't want that on my permanent record!"

"I'll tell her. It won't count against you."

My treatment lately has been massage to stretch the skin and get the circulation going. There's not much for me to do besides lie on my back on the lifted table/bed, looking at the ceiling. Some days we are more talkative than others. Monday, we somehow went from my DISH local channel woes and talking to ESL help centers with representatives named "Susan" and "Bill," to how kids act in the store.

"My kids were so different. Genius would walk off by himself, saying 'I'm going to electronics to see if they got in any new hard drives.' The Pony wanted to ride in the cart. Even when he was so big his feet would almost drag the floor. He's sit in the basket, playing his GameBoy, and complain. 'Ow! That box of cereal hurt my legs!' I had to tell him no more! He was taking up too much room from the groceries. And when he wasn't in the cart, he'd hide in the middle of those circular clothing racks."

"I was a kid who hid in the racks! But my favorite thing to do, at the mall, was stand in the shop windows with the mannequins. I'd pose just like the one next to me. My mom would go on shopping, then come back to get me when she was ready."

"Oh, no! That's hilarious! Did you look people in the eye when they stared at you?"

"Yes! Some of them would smile at me. But I'd just keep a mannequin face, and look right back at them."

I don't know why I find that so funny. Maybe because it's ONE thing my kids didn't do to embarrass me.

If It Weren't For Bad Luck

I missed my rendezvous with Fave on Thursday. The Pony and I had an early Errand Day, and then a bill-paying session at the Mansion, with a Chinese takeout lunch. I had already let Fave know last Sunday. Just as a matter of courtesy, because she always says, "See you Thursday!" And Thursday is the day I usually give her a couple scratchers sealed in an envelope. Not because she does me any favors in the scratcher department, but because she's a nice gal, and I think she's lucky for me.

Friday, I noticed several cars at the gas pumps. A minivan was parked in my rightful handicap space, but it was pulling up by the FREE AIR hose as I turned onto the lot. Fine with me! I took back my space. A woman got out of the passenger side of the minivan, and went past me inside.

A few customers were waiting to pay. A suspicious guy walked back and forth in front of the fishbowls that hold assorted alcohol in the little shooter bottles, clutching a dollar. Fave seemed preoccupied. She was talking to a lady standing by the door with a cell phone. The one who had passed me. Something was up.

"I don't know what to do. Maybe try to call "M" and "B," to see if they can cover for me. I can't call Woman Owner. It's FRIDAY again! She'll fire me! I just don't know."

"I'd jump behind there and take over the register if I could. I'll keep calling. They're not answering."

Fave greeted me and we did our business. Then she said, "Sorry. My boyfriend fell off a roof."

"Oh, no! I hope he wasn't working on my flip house! I just drove by there and saw the roofers."

Fave chuckled. So I guess her boyfriend was NOT on (and now off) my flip house. I don't know if he was working, or fixing something on her roof, or rescuing a cat. Whatever, he fell off a freakin' roof!

The next day, I found out that Fave won $20 on the tickets I gave her. And that her boyfriend had "...a mild concussion, and a broken wrist. He kept me awake all night crying over the broken wrist."

"Oh, that's too bad. But it COULD have been a lot worse. So I guess it was unlucky, but kind of lucky, in a way."

"Yeah. It could have been worse."

Poor Fave. If it weren't for bad luck, she'd have no luck at all. Especially over the past month. I'm glad her gunshot wound wasn't acting up.