If Mrs. HM Is There, A Weirdo Is Sure To Appear

As I was preparing to pump T-Hoe's gas on Thursday at the Sis-Town Casey's, a weirdo came out of nowhere to speak to me. Actually, she came out of the store, and walked up to her car parked on the opposite side of my pump. She was a frazzled lady with wavy brown hair, in a red sweatshirt and jeans.

"I feel like such an idiot. I paid for $1 worth of gas with my card."

Okay... what was I supposed to say? "Why yes, you ARE certainly an idiot." Or not. Was a response required? Nobody else was near us. I tried to be polite. Though wondering if she was only buying $1 of gas, which was $3.09 per gallon, or if she ran out of cash and needed another dollar.

"Well, a couple weeks ago, I went in to pre-pay, and the guy told me I might want to move to another pump, because the nozzle was gone on mine!"

"Oh. My son-in-law sent me to get gas, but he didn't give me any money!" 

She got a red plastic gas can with a yellow spout out of her car, and started taking off the cap. I suppose maybe the son-in-law was going to mow grass. Or had run out of gas somewhere in his vehicle. 

"Well. I guess maybe it's just one of those days..."

"I went to school to pick up my granddaughter because she was sick. I stopped and bought her a Sprite. And when I opened it, the soda sprayed all over my car."

"Oh, no. I hope she feels better..."

Then I got in T-Hoe and left. Before more tales of woe were forthcoming.

Are Icicles Forming In Not-Heaven?

Sweet Gummi Mary! Go out and look at the sky. Are pigs flying? Is today the 12th of Never? Did the Cleveland Browns win the Super Bowl? Can you squeeze blood from a stone? Do hens have a full set of chompers? Did somebody find that needle in a haystack?

THE UNIVERSE HAS STOPPED CONSPIRING AGAINST MRS. HM!!!

While I was working on my taxes Wednesday, I got a text that 2 of 3 prescriptions were ready. And just before I filed, I got another text that 3 of 3 prescriptions were ready!

Oh, and you'll never believe THIS, but when I picked them up and looked in the bag, ALL THREE PRESCRIPTIONS HAVE THREE REFILLS REMAINING!

That's a victory, people! 

Of course I will still make an appointment to get my regular bloodwork and exam. But I might just stretch it until time for that last refill. Wouldn't want to get the med schedule discombobulated again. It will only be one month off.

Counting To Six

Here we go again...

It's time to refill my regular medicines, but two of the three are out of refills. I called in all three on Monday. The recorded message said they were out of refills, that they would contact my doctor, and that my prescriptions should be ready on Tuesday afternoon. On Tuesday afternoon, I got an automated text that one prescription was ready.

I called my pharmacy, because sometimes all are ready, but they only text about one. They used to be more automated-ly efficient, telling me things such as 1 of 3 prescriptions are ready. Anyhoo... the gal was polite. Gave her name. Asked for my birthdate. Then said that only one was ready. 

"Okay. Is it because two are out of refills?"

"I don't know. Let me see. Yes. Two are out of refills. We sent a message to your doctor."

"Okay. Did they refuse it? Because I will call their office."

"Um. It looks like they just haven't gotten back to us. Do you want me to re-send it?"

"Yes, please. I'll wait another day, and then call to check on it. Thank you."

Here's the thing. I go to the doctor every six months for bloodwork and prescription refills. Remember this issue before, when he only gave me the prescription and four refills? And you brainwashed loyal readers kept telling me that I needed to get my bloodwork before I could get my six months more of refills, which I already KNEW, the point being that my NP was shorting me on the refills!

I am not an idiot. I understand that I can't get years' worth of refills without an exam. I didn't just fall off the turnip truck. I KNOW that it is standard practice to have bloodwork every six months to see if there are any problems with the medications. Not only is this not my first rodeo, I have a giant belt buckle making me a six-month-med-bloodwork champion!!!

Anyhoo... here's my current issue. My last appointment was Monday, November 7. I even mentioned it to you way back then. I remember, because we went to vote that same day, at the OLD MORGUE! See? It's coming back to you, isn't it?

Now if you count on your fingers, you will see that it has not been SIX MONTHS since my last bloodwork and appointment. That would be on May 7. So here's the deal. IF I have to get another appointment to get my refills that are out, it will only have been five months. I would imagine the insurance company would take issue with that, and possibly make me pay for the bloodwork.

What kind of a scam is THIS? Do I need an office visit every five months, and bloodwork every six months? That's crazy talk!

Of course if I find out on Wednesday that I need an appointment, I will have to call and bring this up with the doctor office. Which means I will call and get a recording, then wait for someone to call me back. Which will likely not happen, and I'll have to call again. Which could drag out until I run out of my meds.

I am fully convinced that the medical establishment is currently trying to thin the herd of elderlies...

It's Going To Take A Little Time

I am kind of numb, mourning my Sweet, Sweet Juno. They're just pets, but each one takes a little piece of your heart with them. She had a good life here, and just got old. Nothing tragic. She knew she was loved.

Parts of my days are fine. Then I have a memory of Juno. I look at things as BJD and AJD. Before Juno's Death, and After Juno's Death. Like the treats on the kitchen counter, that got stalled due to my fever. Last night I gave my little Jack the chicken breast with only a few bites taken, that I didn't feel like eating when I was sick. It was being saved for Juno. I even told Farmer H to give it to her, but he couldn't find her.

That was too much food at once for my little Jack. But I wanted him to have it. I'm sure he enjoyed it. Especially without Juno breathing down his neck, trying to take it away!

R.I.P, My Sweet, Sweet Juno

I met Farmer H at the end of the driveway on Sunday, as I was headed to town, and he was coming home from a long day at his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store2). He asked if I had seen Juno, that she had not come out for the dry food that morning. I said no, and that she hadn't even scavenged the two dry pieces of bread that I gave Jack on Saturday, to which he had turned up his nose. Farmer H said he was going to look around for her, and start up the Gator.

My first stop in town was the Casey's. As I turned to slide down out of the driver's seat, I spied a penny. While opening my phone's photo app, I heard a text come in. It was Farmer H.

"I found her. She was in the dog house on the end of the porch. Neighbor is coming up to dig a hole so we can bury her."

It was over by the time I got home. The neighbor down the hill, the one my little Jack bit on the heel when Farmer H returned a tractor part that had fallen off in the road, brought up his tractor and dug a hole, since new-back Farmer H cannot dig nor climb on a tractor. He said he just saw Juno running around his field a couple days ago.

Farmer H said Juno was half out of the house, as I she had been coming out and something happened. She was stiff, but not bloated. So he thinks maybe it happened Friday night or Saturday, according to when he last looked for her. I regret that my fever kept me inside.

My Sweet, Sweet Juno. She was a good dog. We saved her from a roadside death, and she repaid us by being my loyal furry friend for 11.5 years. She had a good life, running free through the fields and after the Gator, barking all night, and stealing Jack's food. She knew she was loved.

I miss her terribly, and wish I had the opportunity for one more head pat, and one less, "You stink."

May you find forever happiness, my Sweet, Sweet Juno, on that big farm upstate, over the rainbow bridge.

Where Oh Where

I am concerned about my Sweet, Sweet Juno. I have not seen her since I came home Wednesday evening, and then developed my fever. Farmer H put out food for the dogs as usual. He couldn't find Juno on Thursday to give her the can of food. In fact, even early in the week, she would not come to the back porch when I called her for it. But she would come to the side porch as I left, and I'd put it in her regular food dish.

Anyhoo... on Thursday evening, Farmer H was worried that maybe he had locked her in the BARn when he was over there re-setting the thermostat. So he went out to start up the Gator and drive over, and Juno came running. So she got her canned food.

I did not see her on the porch all day Friday. Didn't hear her bark when the other dogs did. She didn't come running on Saturday when I came home from town. Farmer H said he smelled her, but didn't see her. Meaning he smelled pee from her walking by, I guess. But who knows how old that was.

We have not seen her in her regular house, nor in the houses at the end of the porch outside our bedroom. No barking. Jack was lying in her sunny spot on the back porch Saturday noonish. 

I'm going to have Farmer H start up the Gator, and see if that brings her. And look in the buildings he's been in since he last saw her.

Farmer H said she might have just gone off by herself, knowing it was the end... That's what our old dog Grizzly did. We found him stretched out on the gravel of Shackytown Boulevard when returning home from the first day of school. I hope Juno's heart was not broken from not seeing me for several days.

HM Is Not The Psychic Farmer H Imagines

First cat out of the bag... let's establish that I am feeling MUCH better. I think I have beaten my affliction. I feel almost normal now, at 9:23 on Friday night. Missed another day of scratcher-buying, but I can eat and drink, and took a shower, and might even wash dishes later in the night! I wrote Genius's letter, paid three bills, and sent them for mailing with Farmer H. Farmer H is another story. One that will be told on my not-so-secret blog on Sunday.

Farmer H plopped himself in his recliner around 4:45 after a two-hour nap. I had just sat down on the short couch, not wanting to disturb him in the bedroom by taking a shower. I started a conversation, which took a turn when Farmer H opened his mouth. We were watching The Incredible Dr. Pol, when Farmer H said:

"Neighbor's dog has a collar."

Using context clues, I knew that he meant a cone-of-shame, the plastic thingies that keep dogs from licking or chewing out stitches.

"Huh. What happened to it?"

"It was all over Facebook. People saying how expensive vets are these days..."

Farmer H was scrolling on his phone. I assumed he was going to read me what she said about her dog, and what people have been paying their veterinarians. I waited. And waited. Farmer H was tap-tapping with his thumbs.

"AND...?"

"What do you mean, AND?"

"I'm waiting to hear about the dog."

"Oh. I was answering a couple texts from people wanting things. I was going to look up the dog thing..."

So I still waited, putting off my shower. And then Farmer H spouted out:

"So-and-So's sister So-sy apparently wrecked her car. She's asking her how that mailbox is doing."

"WHAT? What are you talking about?"

"So-and-So. Genius's friend from high school. Her sister is a city police officer. Wrecked her car."

"How am I supposed to know that's who you're talking about? Genius has been out of high school for 10 years!"

"Well, she was a good friend."

"With a common name."

But then Farmer H went even farther off the deep end.

"She had a good round. A 70 and an 80 and an 83. The 70 is really good."

"WHAT? I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Friend's sister! She plays golf. I can't believe you don't know that."

"Well, if you had mentioned Friend, or even golf, I might have picked up on it. I don't know how I'm supposed to understand. I'm not on Facebook. How would I even know that?"

"It always pops up on my phone."

Sweet Gummi Mary! I never did find out about the dog...

Not Too Sick To Be Annoyed

Coming up on Hour 20 of my sickness. I am too sick to do a lot of things:

Too sick to drive to town for scratchers.

Too sick to go get our weekly cash from the bank drive-thru.

Too sick to put gas in T-Hoe. 

Too sick to write Genius's weekly letter.

Too sick to write checks for three bills.

Too sick to record two debit card purchases by Farmer H.

Too sick to eat.

Too sick to drink.

I am not, however, too sick to feel annoyance with Farmer H.

For the most part, he's supportive. Which mainly consists of saying that I should go to the doctor. But also, he opened a box of Puffs With Lotion for me. Not that I have a lot of snot. I just have occasional congestion that needs blown out, like every other day

I vacillate between wanting Farmer H home, and wanting him gone. He left around 9:00 on Thursday morning, and went to the bank for me. Ate his lunch at the Senior Center. Chicken Pot Pie, Beets, Brussels Sprouts, and Tapioca Pudding. Sent me a text to see if I wanted him to bring me anything. I did not.

Farmer H came home around 1:00, and slept in his recliner while I slept in bed for about 2 hours. Then he left me alone again to go look at some fishing plugs he wants to buy from a guy.

HE LEFT THE TV ON ANDY GRIFFITH! 

So here I am at the kitchen table, and I have to listen to it. Darn him.

Hunkering Down In Hillmomba

I'm not feeling well tonight. It's currently 10:27 p.m. I have a headache at the back of my neck, and nausea, with .5 degree of fever. My hands are shaking with chills. Gonna go sit on the short couch, and take a vomit bowl with me. Just in case. Plus my metal water bottle, to sip a teaspoon of water every five minutes or so, to stay hydrated.

If I still feel bad on Thursday, I am not going to town for errand day. We're supposed to have rain and flooding for 3-4 days. If I get Genius's letter written, Farmer H can mail it for me. T-Hoe's gas, and the weekly cash allowance, can wait. I don't even feel like scratchers right now. :(

The Mending Continues

Farmer H is well enough to go to the auction again. He had contemplated an earlier outing, but confessed that he really wasn't up to sitting on those chairs for an extended period. The auction he went to on Monday night was one of the far-away, longer auctions he frequents. He left home at 4:30, and returned at 9:00. With treats!

That's three of the four bags he bought. I am no stranger to Ghirardelli Chocolates. However, I WAS pleasantly un-introduced to this gingerbread version!

"Here, try one," said Farmer H, setting an open bag in front of me.

"Eww! That doesn't even sound good!"

"They're pretty good."

Farmer H went to take off his back brace, and said he was going to bed. That bag of Ghirardelli Gingerbread Squares sat there mocking me. After an hour or so, I reached in and tore open a square. It looked like a Nestle's Crunch. Milk chocolate, with little crunchy bits embedded. I took a bite.

YUCK! That was not good. But then I took another bite. Huh. Not too bad. And another. Well. This tasted pretty good. After the last bite, I considered the flavor. Yuck. I really didn't like it all that much.

I would have had another after supper on Tuesday. But Farmer H had taken the open bag to put beside his recliner for an afternoon snack. I don't like them well enough to get up and go get one. Or expend the effort to open another bag.

Paid For, Ready to Flame, Getting a Name

Farmer H went out to the Lake Development and paid the assessment on Sunday. $430 yearly for the right to own a little square of property with only trees on it, and access to a big lake, ponds, swimming pool, and fishing. We don't go out there much any more. Used to, when HOS (Hick's Oldest Son) and The Veteran were in their tweens. 

Anyhoo... I found the story of the shady dealer who sold our lot that he didn't own. There are two links in it that provide more of the confusing information. It was on my not-so-secret blog back in June 2021.

Farmer H paid the assessment, and asked about the yearly fire tag, which is separate, and paid to the fire department out there. He said the gal didn't know anything about it. "She wasn't very bright."

So he brought back the extra check I had given him, saying he's not worried about the fire tag. Indeed. I don't mind supporting the fire department, and pay them every year (that I get a bill!!!). But short of lightning striking a tree on that lot, no fire is likely. We have no structures to be damaged. If the trees burn, it really won't affect us. Anybody with a building nearby should be paying their fire tag. So the firemen would watch ours burn, but put out theirs. That's how it goes with rural fire tags.

Farmer H said the sign he put up in 2021 has faded. That you can't see the lot number on it now. AND that the guy next to us has put a sign about five feet over our property line with HIS lot number on it. So Farmer H is going to take a new sign with our name and lot number, and put it on a pole on the property line. Just for the record.

Mrs. HM's Pride Has Goneth, And She Is Currently In Free Fall

Seems like only two days ago that I was patting myself on the back for paying my T-Mobile bill online (one time only), and my DISH bill through the mail because their online system is down. Oh. That's right. It WAS only two days ago. Silly Mrs. HM, thinking she is current on all her financial obligations...

Sunday morning at the Not-Heavenish hour of 8:30, Farmer H sent me a text.

"HM, Lake Development just called and asked if we were going to pay our assessment. I told her I was sure you had already paid it."

"I will check, but I don't remember if we got it in November. Give me about a half hour."

So I went to look through my records, which consist of my checkbook register, where I old-fashionedly record the checks I write, refusing to rely on an online system. Anyhoo... I had records of all our tax payments for the Mansion and Pony House and the Flip House, and personal property tax, but nothing for the Lake Development assessment. They all come around the same time, November.

I called Farmer H and told him all that I remembered.

"We hadn't gotten our assessment bill by December. I told you about it. I asked if you thought maybe that weirdo who was trying to sell our lot to another dude might have done something to change the name on our lot, and it got sent to the wrong person. You said you doubted that could happen, but you'd go out to the office and check, and take a drive by our lot, to make sure that guy wasn't building anything on it. I just looked up the Lake Development website, and I remember going there back then, to see if they had an announcement about being late with the assessment mailings. I found nothing. I didn't call, because the office was not open at the time I was trying to find out. And then you said you'd go out there, but I guess you forgot. We never got a bill, and so I didn't remember to pay. You can call her back, and probably pay over the phone with your debit card."

"No. I'll go out there and pay it. I'll call her back and tell her."

"They are only open from noon to 4:00 on Monday. And also those hours on Thursday. Make sure you drive by our lot, too!"

So here I was feeling kind of guilty, because we always pay our bills!!! Providing we GET a bill, heh, heh! Then I went to write this, and tried to find that story about the guy attempting to sell our lot. I guess I don't know the right key words to search. Or maybe I put that part (with the picture where he posted a different address on our lot!) on my not-so-secret blog. Anyhoo... I DID find another story about a problem getting an assessment bill!

Not from last year, but the year before! When they were, in fact, late sending out the bills.

The Beginnings Of Normalcy Appear At The Mansion

We're coming up on three weeks from Farmer H's back surgery. Every day he's a little bit better. He still comes home early from his Storage Unit Store, but it has been cold, and that affects business, as well as his physical comfort. Saturday was 31 degrees, with a windchill of 21. The wind was brutal. I hate wind!

Farmer H was in his recliner from 12:45 to when I left home at 3:30. He knew I was going to the store, since I had consulted him on any treats he wanted, and told him the meal plan for the week. I also told him I'd be back around 5:00, with his supper of Country Mart deli chicken dinner.

Anyhoo... when I got home, there was no sign of help coming from within the Mansion. Last time I did the shopping, Farmer H came out to help. I made sure he only carried the lightweight bags, and not the heavy items like bananas or onions or canned goods. I really could have used him this time, for nothing else than guarding the meat!

Here's the thing. I carry bags from T-Hoe's rear to the side porch. As space is available, I set the bags on a chair there, and go back for more. When it's all on the porch, I climb the steps, and begin transferring it to the kitchen. I do not take each load up the steps and inside, as Farmer H is wont to do.

Anyhoo... the dogs have not bothered the groceries before, mainly because I don't give them the opportunity. My little Jack is not one to grab stuff. I don't trust Copper Jack, but my Jack won't let him on the porch while I'm on the move. My Sweet, Sweet Juno has lost her once-loyal mind! I do not trust her these days. She has several times put her nose on my water bottle spout while it was in my hand! And also when I set it on the chair by my purse while going down the steps. She never did this before. I don't like the idea of her having access to my meats!

This time, I had a giant tray of pork steaks. A bag of boneless skinless chicken thighs. And two deli chicken dinners in styrofoam containers. So... I could leave the meats in the back of T-Hoe, and rely on Copper Jack not jumping up to grab them, while I carried the rest of the groceries to leave on the porch. Or I could take the meats first to the porch, and pile a couple other items on top, hoping the crinkling of the bags in the wind would keep the dogs at bay.

I elected to carry the chicken dinners to the front seat of T-Hoe, to wait (car door closed) with my purse and water bottle, while I carried the non-meat items to the porch chair. Then I went back and got the meats to put on the chair, where I could see them while getting the chicken dinners and purse/water from T-Hoe.

Once up the steps, I grabbed the meats to take with me. As I was hauling that first load to the kitchen, I (might have sarcastically) said, "Don't worry. I've got it."

Farmer H called from the recliner: "Are you talking to me or the dogs?"

"It doesn't matter, since NEITHER OF YOU ARE HELPING ME!"

Then I went back to get the rest of the stuff. When I came in, I carried it, too, to the cutting block, then gave the dogs a treat of stale hot dog bun. Farmer H still made no move to help. Which I noted. Verbally. 

Farmer H got up and came to the kitchen, saying all I needed to do was tell him that I needed help.

"I did!"

"All I heard you say was that neither me or the dogs was helping you."

"Yeah. Which would imply that I needed help."

"I hollered to ask if you needed help, and you didn't answer me."

"I must have been out on the porch, getting the rest of the stuff without help."

"Whatever." Said Farmer H as he returned to the recliner, leaving seven bags of groceries sitting on the cutting block and kitchen counters.

Apparently, it's worth it for him to get up and walk to the kitchen and complain about helping, but not worth it to put away a few items while he's there.

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Farmer H has been picking up the mail now that he's able to drive again. I have been declaring that we should have gotten a phone bill. We get one for the landline, and one for our cell phones. Since Sprint changed to T-Mobile, the billing has changed. It should have changed a while back, I guess, since we had to get new SIM cards in our phones. But we continued to get the re-usable Sprint envelopes and bill.

A couple months ago, we got notices that our bill would have a new look, so to be on the lookout for it. Yes. We got a T-Mobile bill, which I think I complained about here, due to the bazillion pages inside an oversized envelope, showing every call. Anyhoo... I mailed the check as normal. In fact, I looked back on Friday to see WHEN I mailed it. February 12, and it was processed on February 16.

When Farmer H came home unexpectedly midday, he said he put the mail on the kitchen counter.

"Oh, did we get the T-Mobile bill? I got a text this morning saying the payment is due on the 22nd. But we haven't gotten a bill!"

"Yeah. I think we got it."

Well. No. When I checked, it was the DISH bill. Sweet Gummi Mary! That meant I needed to get online to pay the T-Mobile bill with a one-time payment. I'm NOT signing up to have it automatically withdrawn from my account. What follows will explain why...

It was deceptively easy to make my one-time payment to T-Mobile. All I needed was my phone number, and my debit card and zip code. Easy peasy.

THEN I decided to go ahead and pay the DISH bill. I've been doing it with one-time payments for about a year. Maybe a little more. Because they are so sluggish with their billing. It's due on the 25th. But the bill kept coming later and later, although they send an email around the 10th saying it's due. Even by paying online, it takes three days to process! And their website is a major headache to navigate. But I do it, so as not to be late with the payment every month.

Anyhoo... I went to log into MyDISH, and a screen came up saying they were having problems with their system, BUT they had a new website to make a payment. Yeah, right. What could possibly go wrong? There was a list of FAQs, and all the answers referred to their many workers trying hard to get their website back on track. People wanted to know how to find their account number to make a payment, since they could not access their accounts online. The answer was that MAYBE it would be in a previous correspondence email. 

The site also said that EVERY DISH CUSTOMER was sent a statement IN THE MAIL for March! Even the ones who have autopay! 

Well! I closed down that page right quick! No way was I taking a chance on sending an online payment on a NEW site when the old one wasn't working at all! It even said customers should write down their transaction number, in case there was a problem, since they could not send out email confirmation!

Heh, heh. I put a check in the old-fashioned paper payment envelope and put it in the mail. If it's late, too bad so sad! They should thank their lucky stars that I'm paying! What about people like Genius, who don't use checks at all? Good thing he doesn't have DISH.

Sometimes, the old ways are the best...

I Can't Do Them Justice

Thursday, I bought some new stamps. I use the plain flag version on bills, but I like to brighten up Genius's weekly letters with a colorful stamp. Sweet Gummi Mary! This new selection is beautiful! My phone camera cannot do them justice!

This collection is called the Mighty Mississippi. Larger versions of each scene would be suitable for framing! Along the side of each stamp is the state the scene is from. I had to use a magnifying glass to read them, but when I flipped over the sheet, there's a map on the back showing them in order:

These stamps came on a sheet of 10. So I bought two, to get my regular quota of 20 stamps per book. They were the same price as normal stamps.

My favorite of the group is Kentucky. I'm a sucker for a sunset. Or sunrise. Not sure what this is. Of course my second favorite has to be Missouri, showing the St. Louis Arch. Anybody who's ever been to St. Louis knows this picture was taken from the Illinois bank of the Mississippi, which is the best vantage point to show the Arch on the St. Louis riverfront.

I'm pleased with them. Genius will probably throw the envelope away without even noticing...

The Sun Even Shines On Mrs. HM's Rumpus Some Days

After throwing myself a pity party on Sunday and Monday, since The Pony won $200 on his scratcher, and I had no such luck... Even Steven sent me a belated gift.

I cut off the bottom of the picture, because I had already scratched off the barcode, but those COIN symbols mean that you win the prize automatically. That's a $100 winner on a $5 ticket! I got it Tuesday, out of the right machine at Country Mart.

Poor Genius. I bought three $5 tickets. I didn't want him to have two from the same machine. So I set aside two tickets for him, and chose this one for myself. Of course I sent him a text with the picture, telling him how close he'd been to getting that $100 winner mailed to him. I guess there's a little bit of that Casey's line rumpushole in me!

You never know. Genius might have an even bigger winner on one of the tickets I'm sending!

Mrs. HM's Latest Affliction (No Invalid)

As if the paper cut on my right hand, inflicted by the electric bill for Farmer H's SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2) wasn't bad enough... now I have suffered a shower injury to my left hand!

Yes. When you're old, even a daily task such as showering can leave you disabled. It wasn't a slip, nor an extreme case of hard water, heh, heh. It was just carelessness when I turned to close the sliding door after stepping into the shower. My left hand hit the little metal rail on the inside of the door. That handle which Farmer H uses to drape a washcloth, thinking it will magically dry, even though I take a shower six hours after he does.

It hurt a little, like stubbing a toe. But immediately that area puffed up with a purple knot. Like I had a knuckle on top of a knuckle. Ten hours later, it was still purple, though not as puffy:

The photo doesn't do it justice. Even Farmer H could see my double-knuckle across the living room, and he only has one (working) eye! Of course, that was right after I got out of the shower.

There it is again, against the backdrop of my pachyderm-ish skin. It doesn't hurt much. So I'm not actually disabled. The paper cut was more painful.

I guess I must have hit right on a vein. The daily aspirin did the rest. I'm pretty sure I will make a full recovery.

There's An Ill Wind Blowing In Hillmomba

Or rather, there's a wind blowing that's making Mrs. HM ill. 

I was fine when I left for town with Farmer H riding shotgun in T-Hoe, to pick up SilverRedO from Mick the Mechanic's shop. New brakes that cost a pretty penny! Anyhoo... the temperature was 34 degrees, with a brisk wind.

When I stopped down by Mailbox Row to put on my seatbelt, a weird piece of fluffy stuff landed on the windshield, right between my eyes. Of course it clung there. We couldn't tell if it was an insect or tree fluff. Farmer H suggested that I turn on the windshield wipers, but I feared a smear would be even worse that that half-inch obstruction. After a half mile, it finally blew away.

My scratcher-buying and bill-mailing had me out of T-Hoe four times, being whipped by the wind. On my last stop, the drive-thru at Dairy Queen for the 2-for-$5 menu where I like to get soft pretzel sticks with queso, and a regular cheeseburger, I developed a headache.

I haven't had a headache for awhile now. I think this one is sinus-related. Just before the headache, I had a scratchy-throat episode. I think there must be some kind of pollen whipping around on the wind. When I stopped for the mail coming home, another of those fluffy things sailed past my head.

I should have felt no pain at all, having taken my daily aspirin two hours before leaving for town, plus a knee-related acetaminophen right before starting out the door. Now the pain is at the back of my skull, with crackles when I move my neck, and I'm getting tension in my shoulders. 

Farmer H tried to strong-arm me into taking an Aleve, which he can't have right now according to his medicine list after surgery. No siree, Bob! That's way too much ibuprofen-ish medicine for me. I'll take an ibuprofen every now and then if I have severe pain, but it makes my hands puffy. So I sure don't need extra of such a drug.

I wonder if Farmer H is feeling well enough to start trying to kill me again...

Mrs. HM's Laugh Was Hearty

She who laughs last laughs best. Mrs. HM is not ROFL, due to mobility issues, but she is definitely HAR-HAR-HAR-ing from the bottom of her jiggling belly!

Remember that rumpushole who "hated to tell her" that the $50 scratcher she had just purchased for The Pony was probably a loser? THIS TICKET:

I had shared the tale with the deli lady at Country Mart. And on the way to give The Pony his ticket on Sunday, I also shared the story with my favorite cashier at the Gas Station Chicken Store. She had a different take. Oh, he was still a rumpushole. But she thought he told me because he hoped I wouldn't buy it. That he wanted to buy the next one for himself! I could understand that scenario, although I would never buy another consecutive ticket right after a win. But he WAS in line again, with his winner, to cash it in. And he DID ask me the number on my ticket...

Anyhoo... I stopped by The Pony's house, and he trotted out to T-Hoe to scratch his ticket with a gold dollar coin that I have on the console. It's the one he always uses for scratching. The Pony prances to his own drummer. He first scratches any special bonus area. Then he starts at the bottom of the ticket, scratching off the numbers, looking for a symbol, or two or more of the same number. THEN he scratches off the numbers at the top that are meant to try for a match.

Bottom row, nothing but numbers. Next row, on the second number area, he uncovered a 10X SYMBOL! The Pony was quite excited by this find. He dutifully scratched off all other numbers, though usually there are no more matches after a multiplier is found. THEN he want back to uncover the prize:

That's a $200 WINNER! I am thrilled for The Pony. I am even more thrilled that stupid rumpushole guy was outsmarted by me keeping that ticket, even though he tried to take away all my hope for a winner!

The Pony wants me to cash in the ticket, and save the money for him until our next casino trip. I hope it marinates in LUCK until then!

The Day Of Double Rumpusholes

Remember yesterday, when I told you about a rumpushole who ruined my lottery purchase on Thursday? Well. He was not the only rumpushole I encountered.

I started for home, cresting the hill by Farmer H's old Storage Unit Store, obeying the speed limit like a person who cares about her permanent record. I never speed along that strip of road, because there are numerous side streets, including one to the elementary school. People are always pulling out, sometimes not waiting their proper turn. The speed limit there is 45 mph, and I don't exceed it.

Right before I got to the turn for Mick the Mechanic's shop, which signifies the end of town and the beginning of the section of road that heads past the prison and over the bridge to the Mansion turn-off, I noticed a little gray-green SUV coming up fast behind me. FAST. Almost attaching itself to T-Hoe's bumper.

The speed limit here is 55. Shh... don't tell anyone, but I sometimes drive 60 on this stretch of road. Not with a tailgater, though. They make me feel unsafe. And a little bit perturbed. So I keep my speed at the legal limit.

This Rumpushole was having none of it. Getting as close to T-Hoe as he could, and then riding over the center line to see. Weaving back and forth. On bumper. Over center line. If he had only backed off a little bit, it would have been easier to see if he had an opportunity to pass. He was asking to get his rumpus handed to him if he darted out while a car was oncoming.

Anyhoo... I found this highly distracting. If he got out there and got hit, I could be involved in the collateral damage. On the semi-straight stretch leading up to the bridge, Rumpushole darted out to pass. Remember that I was going 55 mph. I kept my speed steady. Rumpushole must have been going at least 70 mph when he darted around me. 

Not gonna lie. I flipped him the bird. The big ol' badfinger. Just to let off some steam. I didn't think he would actually see it, because who looks into the window of a car you're passing when you're going 70 mph coming up on a bridge with nowhere to pull off if there's an oncoming car?

Rumpushole hit the bridge and started fishtailing! That's what too much speed will do to you, especially when the road is wet from rain. He got his little gray-green SUV under control, but was still in the middle of the center line as he exited the bridge. I had my left blinker on to turn onto the blacktop road that leads to our gravel road.

Ahead of me, I saw Rumpushole stick his whole left arm out the window, flipping me the bird. Heh, heh! What a nincompoop. I couldn't give a fat rat's rumpus what he did. He was away from me, speeding towards his own destruction. No way could he know if I even saw his birdie.

I was inwardly chortling at the though of him coming up on the white pickup truck that had been ahead of me. Some people make their own drama.

He Was Probably On His Way To Take Candy From A Baby, Rain On A Parade, And Deposit A Turd In A Punch Bowl

What in the NOT-HEAVEN is wrong with people???

Thursday, I was in the Sis-Town Casey's, pre-paying for gas (the nozzle is back on Pump 4!) and buying scratchers. I was getting a ticket for The Pony to thank him for taking Farmer H to surgery. He will be getting several tickets in place of gas money. His choice. Plus he used his vacation time to get a day off to help out. 

Anyhoo... I was getting The Pony a $50 ticket! I don't buy them for myself. But when I told The Pony how much I had budgeted for his payment, he asked for a $50 ticket. It was already on the counter with my $3 tickets, and the cashier was ringing them up.

"I hate to tell you, but your $50 ticket is probably a loser!"

Sweet Gummi Mary! A guy in line behind me felt the need to blurt this out.

"Because I just had a winner. What is yours, number 8 or number 10? I had number 9."

"It's number 10. And it's for my son, not for me. I'll be sure not to tell him that."

"Oh, what did you win?" asked the cashier, who must have sold it to him.

"Fifty dollars."

Well. That's the minimum on that ticket. You can't win less than you paid for a scratcher.

Anyhoo... here's my point. WHAT A D!CK !!! WHY would somebody blurt that out to spoil your enjoyment of your ticket? People buy lottery for the HOPE of winning something good. And this guy was taking away hope. For no reason whatsoever. It would be different if he had a big winner, and was excited and wanted to share. But money back is not a big winner.

It's not like I could shove that ticket back, and tell the cashier I didn't want it. Technically, I suppose I COULD, because I had not yet handed her the money. But that would be a voided transaction and extra wait time for everybody in line.

Maybe this will be one of those rare instances when there are back-to-back winners. We won't know until Sunday, when The Pony scratches the ticket.

I shared that story with the Country Mart deli worker who always talks to me about lottery. She was standing outside on a smoke break when I got out of T-Hoe. After hearing the tale, she said, "Asshole."

Food Fit For A Pony

The Pony is reveling in a full larder. He sent a text Wednesday evening, having done his shopping while Farmer H was at the Senior Center on Tuesday.

"I bought so much food yesterday while Dad was Senior Center lunching that I'm spoiled for choce on what to cook! Chicken of several kinds! Steak! Two kinds of fish! Salad, garlic breads, and tortillas! Rice and spices! Garlic knots, and a positive plethora of pastas, with and without meat! It just relies on having the energy to cook and knowing what I want!"

Well. He made a decision for Thursday supper.

Steak and garlic knots. Looks like he got his steak done just the way he likes it this time.

Bon appetit!

A Crunchy Repast Born Of Bravado

The Pony is such a good child/adult. He used his day off to take Farmer H over to Bill-Paying town for a blood draw. Farmer H has friends around here who would do it. But he knew he could get into and out of The Pony's car, since he rode home from the hospital in it. The Pony was agreeable, with less than a half-day notice. Of course he will be compensated with lottery tickets.

Once they returned, I thanked The Pony for giving up his day off.

"I hope you didn't have anything planned. I know how important time off is when you're working full time."

"Are you kidding? I don't have a life." The Pony proceeded to show me a short video.

To illustrate The Pony's statement that he has no life, I present the following tale...

The Pony was involved in a social media discussion of the best way to peel a hard-boiled egg. Not sure how this came about. It might have something to do with The Pony boiling some eggs he had in his refrigerator that were two months past the date. No big deal to me. I've used them even older than that.

Anyhoo... The Pony, being somewhat of a droll jokester, had commented, "Just eat them in the shell." Somebody replied that unless that is something The Pony makes a habit of, he'd just take somebody else's advice. At which point The Pony made a video of himself EATING A HARD-BOILED EGG UNPEELED!

That's right. He tried to dip it in a small pile of salt on his plate, which of course didn't stick. Then he bit the pointed end, and proceeded to chew and swallow that bite. And another. And another. Until the egg was consumed. I could hardly stand to watch! The sound was horrifying.

"It wasn't really too bad. Very crunchy. I guess you could say I got a little extra calcium in my diet that day."

I'd show you, but I value The Pony's privacy. Perhaps more than he values it himself.

Can't Say I Was Surprised

You may recall from yesterday that Farmer H's pharmacy did not have his medication that was supposed to be ready, per their text. They told me in person that they had to order it, and to come back tomorrow. In fact, they even advised me to come back after 2:00, when they returned from their daily lunch from 1:30 to 2:00. Later that evening, Farmer H got a text that his refill had been ordered, and should be ready the next day, after 10:30 a.m.

Farmer H had to get out of the Mansion anyway to get a blood draw. He said he'd stop by the pharmacy to get his refill. The Pony was his chauffeur. 

It was shortly after noon when Farmer H went into CeilingReds. They told him his prescription was not ready. Not because he was there too early, but because THE MEDICINE DIDN'T COME IN. They told him to try back the next day!

"You told my wife it would be here today. I got a text saying it would be ready."

"Yes. We can't help it that the medicine wasn't delivered."

"I took my last one this morning. I need that medicine. Don't you have a few pills you can give me?"

"Well. We have 37 pills in the back. We can give you a 30-day refill."

So Farmer H paid the $169 for 30 pills. I suppose he can always try for the 90-day supply next month, to save some money.

Of course nobody bothered to notify us that the medication did not come in. So I would have shuffled in there after 2:00, expecting 90 pills, and after being ignored for 10-15 minutes, would have been told to "come back tomorrow."

I wonder if the employees have a secret pool, where they bet on how many days in a row they can make a customer come back.

Wasting Away Again In WeDon'tCareHereVille

A more blatant provider of poor customer service I have never seen than Farmer H's pharmacy. Once again, I was left cooling my heels at the counter while they went about their oh-so-important business of ignoring me, chatting with each other, and pretending they were just a warehouse fulfilling orders. Full of themselves, wondering aloud if a certain drug could be sent by FedEx. Grousing about what a day they'd had. All while I stood patiently at the Pick-Up section of the counter, right in front of them!

Last time I checked, this was a chain pharmacy that has walk-in business. Seems more like they give their customers the business, as Beaver Cleaver might say.

I know I wasn't in the wrong place. The only other choices were COVID Registration, and Consult a Pharmacist. Yet apparently I was as invisible as Barbara and Adam Maitland in Beetlejuice. Walking back and forth in front of me, stapling bags. I'm pretty sure no bag would have complained, had they taken 10 seconds to greet me and inquire as to my purpose there.

FINALLY the older of the two deigned to cast over her shoulder, "I'll be with you in a minute."

She stopped about three feet to my right, grabbed a stapler from the counter, and promptly dropped it. Heh, heh! Is it wrong of me to have trouble containing my glee? But for appearances sake, I gasped.

"OH NO! That didn't land on your foot, did it?" 

Although I knew full well that it DID. I heard the thump, and that was not metal hitting linoleum. She grabbed a second stapler as I held my breath. Dang it. No dropping this time.

"I'm sorry. I'm just ready for this day to be over. My back is hurting."

"My husband just had back surgery." [Take THAT, you self-pitying ignoramous!]

The linebacker gal from a couple days ago was the other wanderer. She had stopped her pacing, and said to me, "You just had back surgery?"

"No. My husband."

StapleToe looked past me, and asked somebody to help a lady who had been sitting in the waiting area. So I was summarily dismissed from that register bay, and left to belly up in no-man's-land further down the counter.

"That's right. Hillbilly. Farmer H. I KNEW I remembered you from the other day. That's Farmer H's wife." It was the very nice lady who had helped me the first time, but was sadly gone when I returned for Farmer H's promised meds. She stepped around from the tall dividing wall shielding the pill-pullers.

Well. Farmer H must be royalty at CeilingReds. He should be. He spends enough money there. Besides, he seems to have a county-wide harem just falling all over themselves to help him. The two HM-shunners suddenly changed their tune. They were falling all over themselves to help me, knowing that I had connections!

The Linebacker got on the computer, and looked up Farmer H's prescription for Jardiance. He had gotten a text that it would be ready after 10:30 a.m. It was now 4:00 p.m. No record of the prescription. After I named it, and said he had gotten a text, The Linebacker found a message about it. Not filled. Did he want 30 days or 90? He said either. She said it would be $468 for 90. And $169 for 30. So I said he'd take the 90, and she said they'd have to order it, and it would be in tomorrow. Sure...

Anyhoo... Farmer H has to go to a lab for a blood draw, and says he might just stop in himself. Heh, heh! He needs to read them the riot act for being rude to his wifey!

Just Another Nick With The Gall

HEY! People! Leave the sick alone!

Farmer H has settled into his healing routine. Sitting around the Mansion in his tighty-whities. Peeing in The Jug. Snail-speed shuffling with his walker. A nap in the recliner around 10:00 a.m. A nap in the bed around 2:30 p.m. Three meals a day. TV watching.

I also have a routine, though it is far from healing. Doling out meds, preparing meals, washing dishes, sitting on the short couch all night. Fetching items as needed.

We are just fine, thank you. We do not need visitors. Unless it is The (concerned) Pony, texting to offer a Chinese take-out meal for the next day's supper, and to take a look at Farmer H's toenails per his request. That's it. We're simple people. We're not hosting a gala. Not entertaining throngs with our witty repartee. 

Saturday, I was computing at the kitchen table around 1:30 p.m. when I heard Juno's bark. Like a new mother knows her own infant's cries, I know my dog's bark. This was a STRANGER bark.

"I hear Juno. There better not be a car coming down the driveway."

"I don't know. The shades are closed. Probably not. She just barks."

"Well, I'm not answering the door."

Which was meant to alert Farmer H that perhaps he should turn down the volume on the TV, and pretend we were not home. Of course Farmer H was not picking up what I was laying down.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

What in the Not-Heaven? I was still in my comfortable Mansion-clothes. Sweatpants with a hole in the hip, fleece zip-front sweatshirt, stinky Crocs, unshowered. Not exactly presentable to answer the door. Did Farmer H play "gone?" Nope.

"OH! IT'S JUST A PACKAGE! YOU HAVE A PACKAGE!"

I didn't order a package. But now whoever was on the porch could hear the bellowing of Farmer H, clearly AT HOME and not answering the door. I could see the silhouette through the wavy glass of the side windows that flank the front door.

Crap! They were not going away. I stood up, clinging to the kitchen counter as I do, until my knees loosened up. Then I began the long hobble through the kitchen and living room. I opened the front door to see a goofy guy who looked slightly familiar.

"These are for YOU!" he said as he thrust a bouquet into my face. "And this is for Farmer H!" Forcing a card into my hand. 

"Oh. Well. Thanks... do you--"

With that, he pushed the door open and leaned around it to look at Farmer H sitting pantsless in the recliner. I had to take a step back, which put me perilously close to the edge of those 13 rail-less basement stairs. I was trapped there on the landing, blocked by Goofy's body.

"Oh, hey Nick. I can't get up. I'm in my underwear."

"That's okay, buddy. I've got Bev out in the car. Just stopped by to wish you a quick recovery!"

At least he had the good sense to make his exit at that point. It was a nice gesture, but one we could have done without. Well-wishes by text are appreciated, and less taxing on the infirm and the caregiver.

Farmer H Is A Real Pisser

Far be it from Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to speak ill of the ill. Okay. It's not that far at all. But there's something I have to get off my chest, and it ain't the nonexistent hair that my grandpa told me would grow there if I ate salsa on my scrambled eggs.

As you know, Farmer H had back surgery on Monday, to screw together a plate to support the L4 and L5 discs. He was sent home with assorted medical accoutrements. In addition to the wound-sucker vacuum on his back, support hose, back brace, grabber stick, sock-puller-onner, and walker... he had a urinal jug.

Farmer H hangs The Jug on the front of his walker. I can understand how he might not want to get up in the middle of the night and walker his way across the house to the boys' bathroom, which has a higher toilet. So I don't begrudge him relieving himself bedside. He does not expect me to empty The Jug. He does that himself. Which is a good thing. Or so I thought.

Then Farmer H took to using The Jug while he was sitting in his recliner! Right there in the living room! Rather than get up and walker to the bathroom. He's supposed to get up, you know, every 30-45 minutes. His discharge papers said so. But I can goad him into getting up every 2 hours now. Which used to be 1 hour during the first couple days.

On Thursday, I noticed that Farmer H walkered to the bathroom with The Jug half full, and returned with it empty. I did not hear the toilet flush! He leaves the door open, you know. It's an easy sound to catch.

"Don't tell me you're pouring your pee down the sink!"

"It's just a drain, HM. Everything goes out the same pipe."

"NO! That's just wrong! No wonder that bathroom stinks like pee!"

"I run water down it. I have to rinse my Jug anyway."

"That's just wrong! Otherwise, people would just be peeing in their sinks all willy-nilly!"

"Fine. I'll pour it in the toilet."

"The sink still smells!"

"Pour some bleach down it."

Sure. Because what's ONE MORE task for me to fit into my on-call schedule, right?

Anyhoo... Saturday, I served Farmer H his lunch at the cutting block. This has been a recent development. He says it's easier. For HIM, of course. Even though it's also easier for me, that had nothing to do with his decision. It's too hard for him to sit up with his feet on the floor, and juggle a plate and a bowl in his recliner. 

Anyhoo... lunch was his regular bologna and pepper jack cheese on nutty oat bread with yellow mustard, cut in half. And a bowl of carrots/broccoli with Velveeta cheese melted on it. This was around 11:45. He had meds to take at 12:15, which he'd left on the table next to his recliner.

Anyhoo... I was sitting at the kitchen table computing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Farmer H standing between the cutting block and FRIG II. I figured he was getting water in his cup, from the dispenser on the door, to go back and sit down for his meds in the living room. But it was only 11:55. He's not jonesing for his pain pills now that the steroids have relieved his leg pain, but I didn't want him taking his pills early. That's a bad habit to get into.

"What are you doing?"

"Right now? I'm peeing."

"IN THE KITCHEN??? That is SO WRONG!"

"When you have to go, you have to go, HM. Sometimes I really have to go while I'm out in town, or at my store."

"So you're training yourself just to whip it out and go?"

"No. I have to go to a bathroom or port-a-potty for that."

"Which I guarantee are farther away that the BATHROOM JUST AROUND THE CORNER!"

"Whatever..."

"So what are you touching next, with your pee hands?"

"My other half of sandwich."

Seriously? After eating that sandwich, he got up and opened FRIG II to get a little cup of fruit for dessert. So now I have to disinfect the handle of FRIG II.

Oh, and get THIS! After eating, Farmer H burped.

"Excuse me."

As if he is a standard-bearer of manners...

He's Lucky I Didn't Have A Pair Of Wire Snips

Mrs. HM made the ultimate sacrifice on Friday. She inspected Farmer H's feet!!!

You know that Mrs. HM is no fan of feet. Any feet over the age of 1 year. She abhors feet. But when post-surgery Farmer H said he felt a toenail that needed clipping, and asked for assistance, Mrs. HM was there for him.

Farmer H said that after surgery, the nurses would check the pulse in his toes.

"I don't know where to check for toe pulses."

"Huh. And all these years I've been telling my buddies what a smart wife I have."

"I had no reason to take a toe pulse. Nobody ever taught me to do it. It's not in first-aid books. I've heard of doctors or nurses checking for toe pulses. Like on ER. But I didn't see a closeup of where they checked."

"They were seeing if my toes were turning black. Or cold."

"I will look at them. I can tell if they're black."

Anyhoo... Farmer H went to take his regular meds in the master bathroom, and came back with the toenail clippers. I took off his socks. His toes looked fine. A normal color. Warm to the touch. He could wiggle them all. Then he told me that the little piggy who had none, on his right foot, was the one with the toenail that needed clipping.

I looked at the toe. Felt the end and edge of the toenail. There was nothing to clip! It was smooth along the top and side. No corner. No scraggly edge. Perhaps it was digging into the toe next to it. Or perhaps it was trying to become an ingrown toenail. No way could I have latched onto any material to clip.

Farmer H insisted that the toenail needed clipping, and that he couldn't bend to reach it. I explained that I would have to snip the skin to get any of the toenail in the clipper jaws. That's not something a diabetic wants, I'm sure!

Anyhoo... that was around noon. Later in the evening, The Pony sent a text saying he was coming out to clip his dad's toenails on Saturday night. What in the NOT-HEAVEN?

"Oh. He wanted me to check on a toenail earlier, but there's nothing there to clip. I guess maybe he sent you that before I checked them."

"His text was at 3:00."

Huh. The minute I left for town. What a snake in the grass! Going over my head to get somebody else to clip his toenails! When confronted, Farmer H only made his case worse.

"Well, you cain't see. And I knew you didn't want to do it. So I'll have The Pony clip my toenail."

After I was up to my armpits in Farmer H's feet! He could have saved me the effort and the horror. I actually had my hands all over Farmer H's toes FOR NO REASON!

As bad as it is for me, The Pony might have it worse. He will have to live with being the reason Farmer H loses a foot...

Not Quite As Bad As T-Hoe After Passing A Just-Smashed Skunk

Mrs. HM is a stinker! Not as bad as T-Hoe bathed in fresh skunk-juice, but a stinker nonetheless. I'm sure you are shocked at this revelation. As shocked as Mrs. HM upon catching a whiff of not-so-freshness earlier this week.

It was the night Farmer H had his back surgery. The day started at 2:00 a.m. when I had instructions to text and call The Pony to make sure he was up and getting ready. Then a wakeup for Farmer H himself at 3:15. And being ready to host The Pony and The Veteran when they arrived around 3:35. So I was going on no sleep, having been awaiting updates on the surgery, and doing my errands early, waiting for the return of my information-givers. Who didn't get back until 7:30 p.m. By 8:00, I was on my own again. 

I had some supper Country Mart fried chicken and green beans. Did my computing. Went to relax on the short couch while watching TV. I think it was during The Goldbergs at 11:30 p.m., while leaning sideways to ease a tension crick in my back, that I noticed it.

AN ODOR!

Whew! That stunk! My mind was racing. I guess I need to shower. I can't believe I stink this bad. It wasn't hot. I put on my antiperspirant. Why in the Not-Heaven do I smell so rotten? It must be a nervous-energy funk from my stressful day.

At that moment I sat up because I was developing a crick in my neck, and noticed my recently-removed socks draped over the back of the couch, a distance approximately six inches from my head.

Mystery solved! It's time to wash my Crocs again. My black-socked feet had been percolating in them all afternoon. 

When I related this tale to The Pony on the phone the next morning, I'm pretty sure I heard him crack a smile.

Dishwasherless Houses

When The Pony and The Veteran showed up at the Mansion on Monday at 3:45 a.m. to transport Farmer H to the city for his back surgery... I didn't know for sure which door they were going out. I had unlocked both the kitchen door, which we mostly use, and the front door, which is more formal, and turned on both porch lights. They both had come in the front, but Farmer H had parked his rolling little suitcase with his breather (they requested he bring) in the kitchen.

"If you go out the kitchen door, don't mind those dishes on the counter. I wash my dishes in the afternoon."

The Pony didn't miss a beat. "I wash my dishes on the weekend."

So droll, that Pony!

Sorry, that's all I've got today. Farmer H is back home. I spent 2.5 hours taking care of him, then he took his pain med and went to bed. So I'm pretty exhausted. Mainly from worry, and trying to coordinate his travels and procure his meds and food so I won't have to leave him for long over the next few days.

I might adopt The Pony's dishwashing schedule!

The PharmaGoRound

Sweet Gummi Mary! The repercussions of Farmer H's medical lackadaisicality are far-reaching! As I mentioned yesterday, he left me to refill his injectable weekly medicine, but was out of refills. After my brow-beating yesterday over daring to walk in and be the only customer, asking for a service they provide (allegedly) at CeilingReds... I was reluctant to subject myself to such abuse on Tuesday. So I called. 

A MORE UNPLEASANT PHARMACY CHAIN I HAVE NEVER DEAL WITH THAN CEILINGREDS!

From 1:10 to 1:25, I was on the phone. From 1:10 to 1:24 with a recording.

"Tell me in words what you would like to do. You may say a phrase, like 'order a refill,' or 'check on a refill,'--

"Check on a refill."

"What is the phone number?"

"Blah Blah Blah (Farmer H's phone number)"

"I don't see any record of a prescription for that phone number. Would you like to try another phone number?" 

"No."

"What else can I help you with?"

"Talk to a person."

"What do you want to talk to them about?"

"Fax to doctor."

"Our fax number is: blah blah blah."

"What else can I help you with?"

"Talk to a person."

"What do you want to talk to them about?"

"Contacting a doctor."

"Can we affirm that you are a subscriber or a physician?"

"I am not."

"Just say yes or no."

"NO!"

"What else can I help you with?"

"Talk to a person!"

"What do you want to talk to them about?"

"Prescription problem."

"I can connect you with a person who can help you."

"All lines are busy at this time. This pharmacy is closed from 1:30 to 2:00 Monday thru Friday. The pharmacy is open until 6:00 p.m. All lines are busy at this time. You may stay on the line or hang up and call again later."

I stayed on the line! Then got a grumpy person named Stephanie.

"I am calling about a refill for Farmer H Hillbilly that I dropped off yesterday, and you needed to fax his nurse practitioner."

"Okay. Let's see. We have not heard anything back."

"But the fax was sent?"

"Yes."

"So it will probably be at least tomorrow before it's ready?"

"Um. Sure..."

I have a feeling Farmer H will be dealing with this himself when he gets home from the hospital. Nothing wrong with his voice or his phone hand!