I'm Tired Of Getting What I Pay For

Of all the nerve I have, complaining about BLOGGER! Is it too much to ask that I be able to reply to comments on my own blog? I'm all signed in. I can type the replies. But if I dare to hit PUBLISH, I get a message that says there's an internal error.

What's up with that? Have BLOGGER's innards gone all haywire? A touch of the cyclospora outbreak that's been going around? I didn't even mention lettuce! Or blueberries! BLOGGER has something stuck in its craw, and my replies aren't getting through. Maybe the multiple attempts will come spewing out all at once, and I'LL look like the crazy one.

This has put me off my inclination to type up the daily non-news happenings in and around Greater and Lesser Hillmomba.  :(

Apparently, It Was Not Pony-Tested

The Pony came out on the Sunday before Farmer H's surgery. We had plans to listen to the newest release from the composer we both like. The one who wrote "The Dolls of New Albion," the first one The Pony used to introduce me to his work. It's a steampunk opera about bringing people back to life in doll bodies. 

Anyhoo... we picked up Domino's Pizza for lunch/supper. The Pony was having rum and Diet Pepsi, adding fresh lime juice by using my squeezer. Then something happened...

The Pony broke my squeezer!!! I've had it for many years. It's squeezed limes and lemons for my beverages. All the way back to when I was getting my daily 44 oz Diet Cokes from the fountain at the Gas Station Chicken Store. I loved my squeezer. Never imagined that some calamity could befall such a kitchen staple.

The Pony is stronger than either of us thought!!! That metal sheared right off, on a regular squeeze. They were not even tough limes. Just the little thin-skinned kind, of which half fits in the shape of the squeezer with room to spare.

The Pony took the carcass home! Maybe for a souvenir. I don't know any other use for it. I would have thrown it away. No need saving the metal bones to mark the end of an era.

But don't you fear. Mrs. HM has found herself another squeezer!

Sadly, it was not in my favorite color of green. But there it was, across the aisle in 10Box, just waiting for me to pick it up. I had feared I might need to order one online, since I don't shop at the Devil's Playground. I haven't noticed squeezers in the grocery stores. Then again, I hadn't been looking for them. This one is nothing special. I just left the tag on to show that it was new. It's not like a top-of-the-line squeezer. It came from 10Box, for cryin' out loud!

A yellow squeezer will work just fine. Until The Pony gets ahold of it...

A Gaseous Faux Pas

I don't buy T-Hoe's gas at the Gas Station Chicken Store. It has nothing to do with prices, or the fact that they have the old-style pumps that don't take cards. It has everything to do with accessibility. The gas pumps are on concrete islands, and my knees don't like to step up and down without a rail. So I get T-Hoe's gas on a level Casey's parking lot, even though I'd rather my business go to the Gas Station Chicken Store, a mom and pop operation, rather than a corporate chain.

Anyhoo... lots of people get gas there, even though they have to go inside to pay. It's on a corner, by the stoplight. Just a block off the interstate. Most of the customers are regulars, but plenty of travelers stop in. Sometimes Fave has to tell them how to use the pumps. Which is to lift the lever on the side to start the flow, after they've paid. Or if it's a regular, she'll go ahead and turn on the pump when they pull up, and they can pump before paying.

On Friday, I was behind a big ol' good ol' boy in overalls. He was paying for his gas. There seemed to be a snafu. I gathered that from overhearing him tell Fave:

"Yeah. I got out and started pumping, and she just looked at me. Then I figured it out. I said, 'Oh, did you already pay for this pump?' and she said, 'Yeah.' So make sure you take that off her credit card. I told her I'd tell you."

I don't know how they solved the situation. Maybe Good Ol' Boy finished her amount, and his, and then said he'd pay inside for hers again. All I know is that Fave said that gal had pre-paid $20, and that she took it off her credit card. I guess Good Ol' Boy figured Fave had turned that pump on for him, but then saw the gal come out after she paid.

Oh, what a tangled web, when nobody was even trying to deceive.

FAVE Is Sending Out Good Vibrations

The scratchers have not been kind to me lately. That's understandable. One day a couple weeks ago, I won $346. Notably, it was $200 on a $10 crossword from the left machine at 10Box. AND $100 on a $10 crossword from the right machine at 10Box. The same day! Plus a couple of good winners on $5 tickets. When I win other places, I tease Fave by telling her about my "new best friend," the left machine at 10Box.

Still, I don't hold it against Fave if she doesn't give me big winners. I prefer to buy my tickets from her, because she gives off a good vibe. Other people must think so, too. On Friday, Fave had a story.

"I only won $5 on the tickets you gave me this week. I actually didn't scratch them until this morning. I was too excited last night. I sold a $500 winner to a guy, and he gave me a $50 tip! That really surprised me. I didn't expect him to do that!"

I'm not surprised. People who play the lottery all the time tend to remember who gives them luck, and like to spread it around a little bit. I do it in the form of tickets, because I know Fave likes to play them. But if I won a BIG jackpot, I'd make it sprinkle a little bit for Fave.

The Good, The Bad, And The Relapse (Part 2)

Oh, for the salad days, when the convalescing patient was so undemanding!

Wednesday, Farmer H had an appointment with the urologist. Turns out this wasn't the surgeon, but the guy who put that vibrating thingy in his bladder that's supposed to make it less urgent. Anyhoo... the surgeon's plan had been for this urologist to take out the catheter during this appointment. Farmer H told the nurse, and she said, "I don't know anything about that. I don't think so. I'm going to ask the doctor." Heh, heh. She came back and did it. And the urologist said that of course she should have known that she was supposed to do that. I'm disappointed that Farmer H didn't ask her if the tubing was hooked up correctly in that plastic clippy thing!

Anyhoo... Farmer H was thrilled to have the catheter out. But when he peed after coming home, he was in a panic because he said his pee was all blood. That was listed as a temporary possibility on his discharge paperwork. And also a medicine he was taking said it would turn the urine orange or red. But now he seemed to think he was dying!

"I was going to run down to my store, but I think I'll just stay home. If it looks like this tomorrow, I'm going up to the emergency room."

I wasn't so worried, because of the medicine side effects. Meanwhile, Farmer H seemed to have had a relapse, and thought he was knock-knock-knockin' on (hopefully) Heaven's door.

"I think I have a fever. I'm cold. I'm covered up with this blanket, but I'm freezing. Feel my head. Is it hot?"

"Well, I just washed my hands. So they're cold. But no, you don't FEEL hot. There's a thermometer right there in that box. Why don't you take your temperature? Or maybe you should have asked them to do that an hour ago at the doctor's office. Anyway, you're taking an antibiotic. So that should take care of any infection you might be getting."

"They wouldn't do that there!"

"Why not? It's a DOCTOR'S office! I'm sure they had a thermometer lying around."

Farmer H took his temperature. But he couldn't read the thermometer. No matter how much I explained, and showed him how to slightly turn it. He was holding it VERTICALLY! So I had to go back to the kitchen and put on my glasses and come back and read it for him. The poor pitiful patient. It was right at the arrow that denotes 98.6 degrees. STILL he couldn't see it, even when I held it and slightly turned it.

Farmer H said he was in no pain, now that the catheter was out. Yet when I asked if he was coming to the kitchen for his supper, or did he want me to bring it, he said: "If you could make it and bring it in here, that would be great."

I also mentioned that I guessed I would carry in more of his soda the next day, after I carried in my groceries. No comment from Farmer H, who had returned from his de-catheterization crowing that he could now lift 20 pounds.

I think I liked him better when he was really a patient. Later that night, his pee cleared up. He had a shower. He seemed fine the next morning. I'm still waiting to see what he expects me to do for him now.

The Good, The Bad, And The Relapse (Part 1)

While he was laid up convalescing after his surgery, Farmer H was a pretty good patient. He still went to town, but didn't do anything that was forbidden. He kept his pee bag below his waist. He took his meds. He drank lots of fluid. He rested. 

I tried to help out. I watered the dogs, but Farmer H insisted on feeding them himself. I carried in his six-packs of Diet Mountain Dew, and kept them stocked in FRIG II. I made sure he always had three bottles of cold water available, and that one was on the nightstand when he went to bed. I put his meals on the plate and carried it to him sitting in my OPC (Old People Chair) so he didn't have to get up, and carry his pee bag with one hand.

Tuesday was trash day. So as I left for town on Monday afternoon, I mentioned that I was taking the trash up to the dumpster.

"You don't have to do that, HM. I can do that. I don't think it weighs over 10 pounds. I can take it in the morning when I leave."

"No. There's a rum bottle in there from when The Pony was here yesterday. And there's a big pickle jar. I think it weighs more than you should carry."

When I picked up groceries in town, Farmer H said that he could carry some of them in.

"No. Some of the stuff is heavy. There's no need for you to come out and try to carry a couple bags with only using one hand. I can do it. I'll leave part of it until the next day or two, and only bring the cold stuff and the bananas and bread."

Farmer H had said that it hurt him when bending over to put on his shoes and socks. Of course I offered to do that for him, but he said no. That he slept in his socks so as to only change them every other day. And he could step into his shoes. But by day 5, he was letting me put those shoes and socks on him.

He was actually a low-maintenance patient. And even seemed like he cared about my life being temporarily harder because of his predicament. He cautioned me to be careful while walking the trash a few steps across the yard between the T-Hoe's hood, where I was transporting it, and the dumpster.

But then...

Marking Time Until The Removal

Facing five days of being catheterized and carrying around a giant pee bag like a briefcase, Farmer H barely curtailed his regular activities. He DID agree not to mow the lawns or yard/field. Even though he said the zero-turn mower has a cushy seat. He also agreed not to climb down in the floor at Bargain House, to work on the joists. Even though one more day of work will likely have it ready for listing.

Farmer H's trips to the Senior Center for lunch continued. And stopping in his office for the elderly apartments. He sold at his SUS2.5 on Saturday and Sunday, though he came home around 2:00 on Sunday. He spent afternoons in my OPC (Old People Chair) drinking water and Diet Mountain Dew and watching TV. No more trying to take a shower, after the catheter clip catastrophe. He made do with a sink bath.

Farmer H said the worst part was the pain where the catheter comes out. He was more than ready to drive 30 miles Wednesday to have that contraption removed. He sent me a text right after. "It's out!"

I think the worst part of this experience was Tuesday afternoon, when an old friend called him. Her husband was very ill, in the hospital over in Bill-Paying Town. According to Farmer H, there was nothing more they could do for him, and his brain was no longer functioning. The decision had to be made to end his ordeal. The Friend called, in tears, saying how she was all alone, and didn't know anybody around here. Farmer H had a couple tears while he was telling me about it.

"I said I just couldn't do it. I have this pee bag to carry around, and it's really been hurting this afternoon, and I just couldn't go and sit at the hospital with her. I feel bad for her. I called one of my buddies from the lockers. He knew her husband. He said he'd go down there and see if he could help. So at least she won't be alone when they do it."

Farmer H needs to realize that he can't save the world. Sometimes he needs to take care of himself first.