Another Random Discovery For The Pony

The Pony never knows what he might find when he opens up a mailbox on his route. I've mentioned on my other blog how the carriers sometimes post pictures on Reddit of strange items that some suspect might be an attempt from postal inspectors to check their honesty. They just leave it, and say: "Not today, Postal Inspector!" 

Such things as money with no note. The consensus there is that it's probably drug money from the resident, meant for their dealer to pick up and leave the goods. Indeed, some have posted pictures of illegal substances left in mailboxes as well.

The Pony found frozen meat a while back. It was on the sidewalk, perhaps because it didn't fit in the mailbox. Thursday's discovery might have been a nice side dish to that sidewalk meat.

At 4:15 I got a text from The Pony:

"This is a new one. Not today, Postato Inspector!"

"Heh, heh! I see what you did there."

Never a dull moment in The Pony's workday. There are worse things that could be found in a mailbox.

Autocorrect Is The Devil

Wednesday morning, I got a text from Genius, showing a gloomy day in Pittsburgh out his window.

"It's SNOWING!"

"That makes me cold."

Of course, I'm always cold. And we've already had our first snow. Not that I wasn't excited for Genius. I would have thought he'd get snow before us. Anyhoo... I went on to say:

"You need to make a big pot of chili."

Well. Good thing I looked at it before I hit send. That dang Autorcorrect had changed my words! Specifically, it changed CHILI to CHILD!!! 

I also informed Genius of that attempted trickery. He thought it was funny. I stopped short of typing my theory that Autorcorrect is the devil. Genius is quite dismissive of my conspiracy theories. But seriously... in what kind of world does an app replace CHILI with CHILD in a context like that?

The Pony also laughed when I told him, and said, "Darn those satanists!" He doesn't buy into my conspiracies either, but at least he will joke about them.

What Hath Doc Wrought?

While at my doctor appointment on Tuesday, the doc NP was reviewing my medications, making sure I still used the same pharmacy. I mentioned how there's one drug that I pay for out of pocket, since it's a brand name version that insurance doesn't like to pay for.

"It's always been a fight, no matter what insurance. So I just paid outright for it. I haven't tried using insurance since I switched over to [Old People Insurance] last year."

"Oh. I can submit it. Want me to do that?"

"Sure. It's worth a try."

As The Universe's shady circumstances would have it, my pharmacy was just bottling up those heart-slower meds when I pulled up to the drive-thru to get the only prescription I had called in for refills the day before.

"Oh. I don't really need that one right now. My doctor just put it in to see if the current insurance would cover it."

"Okay. We can wait. But it's almost ready. They're working on it right now."

"Well, I can take it. Then I won't have to call it in so soon."

"Just a minute, and we'll run it through insurance to see what it is."

Funny how I pay $53.52 for it every month without insurance. But WITH using the insurance, it will cost me $61.22. No thank you. I'll go back to paying out of pocket. 

Mrs. HM Hates Change

I went to the doctor nurse practitioner on Tuesday, for a yearly checkup. This was my first time in the new facility that they moved to in November. I hate going new places. I like to know the exact layout, so I can mentally prepare myself. I knew the old clinic on the upper floors of the hospital building. I knew where the bathrooms were located. How far I'd have to walk to get to my appointment. Where I would be sitting while waiting. The thought of this appointment gave me the jitters. Should I take my cane? Would there be any steps to navigate? What if I needed the bathroom while waiting? How would I find the right office?

At least I had Farmer H driving me over to Bill-Paying Town for this appointment. To drop me off at the door. He had refused neglected to drive by over the six weeks I had asked him to find the place. At that morning, he did not feel the need to look up the address on his phone. He was "pretty sure" the building would be located behind the hospital.

We left in plenty of time for my 9:30 appointment. Got over there at 8:53, for my arrival time of 9:15. Yet Farmer H drove right past the street. I calmly pointed out that he had just passed it. 

"Huh. I can get there this way, and go behind the hospital. But I'll turn around and go back."

Sure. He said that to save face. There was no road going to this facility from the hospital. He turned around in an apartment complex, and backtracked. Let me off at the front door, which had several yellow-painted concrete pillars to keep people from driving right through the double doors.

I'm no architect, but I think I could have designed a better entrance. Once through the two sets of double doors, there was a horizontal hallway. I stepped in to look at the sign on the wall listing the doctors and the suites where their offices were located. All I could gather was that my very own NP was on the ground floor. 

Hm. A dilemma. I chose to turn right, and walk into the large waiting area and ask for directions. The first desk was labeled LAB. Not what I was looking for. Past it was a counter with three receptionist-looking women seated behind it. I stopped at the first one. 

"I'm looking for [my NP's] office."

"Well, you found it!"

That gal was SO helpful. Cheerful. Looked up my appointment. Told me they had been "calling from both ends," so I might want to choose a seat in the middle of the room. Well. Easier said than done. That place was packed. I saw a wide seat under the front windows. That's always good. Nobody sick can sit right on top of you! I chose it. 

At 9:15, my name was called. Way down at the opposite end of that cattle corral. It took me a couple minutes to get to the gal who called me. She took me down a hall behind closed doors, to a scale. And then to an exam room, where she took my blood pressure, pulse, and oxygen level. Left me to wait (less than 5 minutes!) for the NP to come in.

We had a nice visit. I got my prescription refills. He listened to my lungs and belly. Didn't bother to stick that looky thing up my nostrils or in my ears. Complimented me on my weight loss, and asked my secret. PORTION CONTROL! Told me balance is one thing that can be practiced and improved. And not to wait too long if I was considering knee replacement surgery, as his mom almost did, but got it at 72 years old. Then he showed me the way to the lab area. Where a gal explained how it worked, and sent me back out to sign in for the LAB, and wait again in the cattle corral.

Sweet Gummi Mary! That corral was packed. No comfy wide seat as a buffer. I had to sit in a regular seat (not at all uncomfortable) in a row of three. The skinniest man in the world was sitting in my previous wide seat. AS IF he needed that! He was like Jack Sprat, having never eaten fat in his life. Oh, there was another wide seat across from me, with a little slip of a gal sitting there, all complainy, asking if she might have missed hearing her name, but the LAB receptionist told her no, they were just really busy. And get this! About 30 minutes later, when Slippy was called back, an old lady on a mobility scooter came in, and backed her scooter up in front of that wide bench, blocking its use by anybody else. Are you freakin' kidding me? She had a built-in seat on her scooter! She could have parked against a wall. No need to disable a perfectly good seat.

Anyhoo... after 45 minutes I finally got called back to give my blood sample. It was quite a hike into the inner sanctum, past three bays with curtains. In the old place, it was just a step inside the door.

Nobody waiting in this new clinic seem particularly happy to be there. In the old place, there were different groupings of chairs for the assorted doctors. Not one giant room where everybody had to wait together, eyeing each other for lack of anything better to do. Not a magazine in sight.

At least next time I'll know what to expect: an unpleasant experience.

Paying Bills Can Be Hazardous To Your Health

Sweet Gummi Mary! It's a good thing Mrs. HM is no longer taking blood-thinner medication! Six months of that was enough, back around 2014, after a bout of multiple bilateral pulmonary embolisms. Had I still been on that poison Xarelto, I could have exsanguinated last week!

I was going about my business, sitting at the kitchen table, writing out a check to pay the yearly insurance bill for our 4-wheeler that Farmer H never rides anymore. It's around $80 to insure that mechanical statue that resides under the back porch of the Mansion. 

Anyhoo... as I licked the envelope, I got a paper cut ON MY LIP! Yes. It WAS painful!

Only a couple days later, I re-opened the large manila-sized white envelope that held our tax bills for 2024. Yes. It required such a large envelope, because it contained 11 bills. We're apparently land barons. 

Anyhoo... as I pulled those bills out to separate the payment stub portion from the bigger portion, I got a paper cut on my left index finger. Right in the crease between the pointer tip and the middle section. It hurts like fire, even now, when I first step under the shower water. Don't get me started on washing dishes.

As if the bill-paying chore wasn't enough to (thankfully-not) kill me, Jack jumped up as I was going down the porch steps to pet him, and gouged a hole in the next-to-knuckle section of that very same left index finger. That gaping wound dripped all through the garage, and I had to bind a Puffs With Lotion around it to spare T-Hoe's leather seats on the way to down. Jack has some mighty sturdy diggin' claws from his dachshund half.

Most of you will be happy to learn that I have survived these injuries to type again. 

You Be The Bagger

Once again, Mrs. HM is nonplussed after a trip through the checkout line at Country Mart. The logic there escapes me.

No matter how I arrange my items on the conveyor, the cashiers there use their own questionable judgment when putting my groceries in their bags.

Today, I'll let YOU be the judge of how my purchases should have been grouped. At the end, I'll tell you what I would have done. Don't cheat! There's no right answer, I suppose, except MY solution, heh, heh! I'm just curious how you would have liked your bags filled if these were items you were taking home.

First of all, let's establish that they used three bags. So that's what you have to work with. One gal was ringing them up, and a second gal stepped up to put them in the bags. They were both probably late teens/early 20s.

I only bought five items. Okay, it was seven, but two were 12-packs of Shasta Diet Cola, and they remained in the cart to be scanned with the handheld thingy.

* clear square plastic container of fried chicken from the deli

* clear rectangular container of chicken tenders from the deli 

(half the size of the square container)

* bunch of six large bananas (about 3 pounds)

* bag of onions (3 pounds)

* large bag of Ruffles potato chips

That's the groceries. Think for a moment how you might bag them, lest you be swayed by what those checkers did with them. Got it? Here's some blank space, and then their solution.

###############################################################

###############################################################

###############################################################

Bag 1: onions with potato chips on top

Bag 2: bananas with chicken tenders container on top

Bag 3: fried chicken container by itself

At least they didn't put the bananas and onions in the same bag, so it was too heavy to lift, and bruising to my bananas. That's an improvement. However, the plastic container of chicken tenders had sharp edges suitable for gouging my bananas. And why leave the fried chicken by itself?

Here's how I re-bagged them in the rain at T-Hoe's rear:

Bag 1: onions

Bag 2: bananas with potato chips on top

Bag 3: fried chicken container with chicken tenders container on top

To me, that's the logical combinations. The chips on top of the onions wasn't too bad, but the onions were the heaviest bag, slightly, over the bananas.

A Pupsie Update

Our newest pet is still elusive. I don't remember what was happening last time I mentioned him. I've decided his name will be Buddy. There have been a couple of breakthroughs in his "taming." Meaning he doesn't always disappear when we are in his sight. We're still nowhere near to catching him for a vet visit.

This week has been encouraging. Buddy is running around with Scarlett and Jack. Like he realizes this is his pack, and not just using Scarlett as a surrogate mother. Also, Buddy stays on the porch where I can see him as I leave for town. No more hiding around the front corner of the porch.

Friday when I got home and was doling out treats of a slice of bread that had been wiped through the skillet after Farmer H had scrambled eggs... Buddy came running around the corner of the porch, and grabbed at Scarlett's bread slice. Pulled on it, trying to steal it. And she let him have it! So I tossed her another piece.

Saturday, Buddy came running over to the side porch with Scarlett and Jack as I left. He stood still while I tossed HIM a scrap of bread after occupying them with their usual scrap. I've been working on this for a couple weeks, tossing a piece that way. Usually Scarlett would gobble hers up, and run eat Buddy's as well. I even tried chucking it under the generator that sits there, where Scarlett can't get her big head. Hard to tell if Buddy or Jack eventually ate it.

Saturday around noon, I was able to get a couple pictures. Oh, they're not GOOD pictures. If I open the kitchen door, Buddy scampers away. But I got a picture through the window shades and screen. Don't strain your eyes. Maybe squint and the picture will look clearer!

They like this patch of sun at the corner of the porch. Scarlett relaxing, Buddy on alert, because he could hear me pecking at the keyboard.

Jack joined them, and Buddy got in between, just like a child in the middle of his Moms and Pops. Something got their attention, as all three stretched their necks to look toward the front yard. Probably Copper Jack. Poor thing! He's being shunned since he returned from being tethered during deer season. It seems as if Buddy has taken his place. I feel bad for him. Scarlett barks at him constantly, and he doesn't come up on the porch for treats any more.

You can't really tell through the shades, but Jack and Buddy were rubbing noses, snuggling a bit. A happy little family.

Farmer H says all three of them sleep over by the old goat pen, in square bales of hay piled under a camper shell. Jack has preferred that place for years, rather than a house on the porch. He has dug a little hole down in those bales. They are under a roof, and out of the wind from any direction. And have the snuggle heat of all three bodies. There are cedar shavings in the two dog houses at the bedroom end of the porch, but I imagine a hay hole is more cozy than having a large house with empty space above, and a door where a draft could come in.

I am happy they're all getting along, but I wish Buddy would come for petting. He sits ever closer and watches, and tilts his head when I make that kissy noise to get his attention. Still not ready for petting.

Farmer H says, "I don't think that little dog likes me. He runs off every time I try to pet him."

To which I replied, "Wait until you catch him and take him to get his balls cut off. Then he REALLY won't like you!"