Traveling Prescription Poo
Hillbilly Mom has issues, folks. People do not seem to realize that
life is all about ME. Can they not do things for the sole purpose of
pleasing ME? Why must they thwart my happiness? Cases in point:
THE SUITCASE
When my Hillbilly Husband and #1 son returned from the state
youth bowling tournament last weekend, a conflict arose concerning
the suitcase responsibility. I packed for the boy. Had I let him pack
for himself, he would have had to wear computer magazines, books,
CDs, a video camera, and a Nintendo DS.
How presumptuous of me to except the boy or his father to unpack.
Let's see...it involves unzipping the bag, gathering the clothing, and
dumping it into the laundry basket. Not exactly rocket science.
HH told #1 to unpack. #1 said "No." Here is where Hillbilly Mom
would have done things differently. But no. HH took the whole
suitcase to the laundry room, where he laid it in front of the washer
and unzipped it, exposing its soiled-clothing guts to the world.
HM was not pleased, folks. I had to move that suitcase to get
to the washer to finish a load I'd already started. I grudgingly put
the dirty clothes in the laundry basket. But I refused to move the
suitcase. I told HH and #1 daily to put it away. I moved it out of
my way and in front of the door to the porch, which HH must use
every morning to feed the dogs. Did he put the suitcase away? NO!
Every morning, he moved it back in front of the washer. Last night
I told him: "You can play this game for the next six months, but I
AM NOT GOING TO PUT THAT SUITCASE AWAY! After
a tantrum and some swearing, HH stalked into the laundry room
and removed the suitcase. Score: Hillbilly Mom, 1. HH, 578,935.
THE PRESCRIPTION
I called my automated pharmacy number to order a refill around
4:40 this morning. I had 4 pills left. Oh, it was nothing good, like
fake Vicodin. It was a blood pressure med. Whoop-ti-doo. No
street value on those puppies. That smart-a$$ed recording told
me: "It is too early for a refill. Please call back in 37 days." The
h*ll you say! I will be dead then, phoney-baloney!
I called the pharmacy on my lunch 20-minutes. Not a lunch hour,
mind you...a lunch 20-minutes. I explained that I had 4 pills left,
and that my prescription bottle said I had 2 refills left. Why, then,
was I told to call back in 37 days. I get 30 pills per month. The
pharmacy worker said, "Well, you just got 90 pills on March 14.
The insurance company will not authorize any more until after
37 days." Like that even made sense. I told her, no, that I only
got 30 on March 14. "Let me check on that," she said.
I was on hold for 5 minutes, listening to the worst Muzak on the
face of the earth. My lunch 20-minutes was ticking away. She
came back. "Somebody put the order in wrong. They said you
received 90 pills. But the pharmacy log shows we only gave you
30." Duh! Didn't I just say that? So again, I told her I needed
that refill. She said, "Well...we could call the insurance and
explain what happened, and see if they will authorize more."
Yes. You do that. Since it was YOUR freakin' mistake that
caused this snafu, and I can not quit this medicine cold turkey.
So I told her, "Yes. You need to do that. I will be there at
5:00 to pick them up." Don't get your hopes up. I am not
dying yet. They had my prescription ready. And in the 'refills'
section, it said: 3.3. Yes. That is 3.3 refills. Like THAT isn't
going to cause trouble when I go back next month!
Oh, and I pay $8.00 for this medication, because it is generic.
The insurance company (of which I have TWO, mind you) does
not pay a red cent. So why do the insurance companies have a
say in whether I can get it. I'M the one paying!!!
THE WAL*MART SKIDMARKS
This was disturbing. #2 son and I waited in line at Wal*Mart
because I ain't about to scan and bag my own groceries. We
were behind a man/wife/toddler girl with a cart of water and
soda and not too much else. The cart in front of them had
some issue, because the cashier turned on her flashing red-light
special kind of check-out lane number thingy. I was not about
to move to another line.
We crept forward. I had to argue with #2 son for 5 minutes
because he wanted a Push-Pop. No. I hate the slimy things.
Then he wanted a Baby Bottle Pop. No. They are slimy things
with the added bonus of powdery powder. Finally, he settled
on a mini can of Pringles. As I pushed the cart aside to get the mini
Pringley goodness off the shelf, my foot slipped in something.
Something dark brown. Something that had been tracked though
by feet and cart wheels. Something I did not want on the bottom
of my shoe. #2 wanted out of the cart to sit on a bench and cross
his legs like an old man and play his GameBoy. I told him no, he'd
step in that mess.
"Maybe it's icing, Mom." It did look a bit like fudge icing. I lifted the
boy out, after he swore he would not step in it. Then I got a whiff. It
was no icing I wanted on any cake of mine! It was POO!!! Right in
the Wal*Mart aisle! How freakin' nasty can people be? Did someone
change a diaper? Did a kid pull aside the underwear and drop a turd?
HOW did this nasty mess get here?
The cashier asked me to put a Lane Closed sign up for her. Another
blue-vested Wal*Mart clone called across the self-serve check-outs,
"What's that smell?" And my cashier said, "That's why I'm closed."
Eeewww! One more reason to hate Wal*Mart.
Come on people. It's not hard to please Hillbilly Mom. Unpack your
own suitcase. Refill my legal prescription medication so I don't die.
Allow me to shop for groceries without stepping in sh*t.
Is that too much to ask?
life is all about ME. Can they not do things for the sole purpose of
pleasing ME? Why must they thwart my happiness? Cases in point:
THE SUITCASE
When my Hillbilly Husband and #1 son returned from the state
youth bowling tournament last weekend, a conflict arose concerning
the suitcase responsibility. I packed for the boy. Had I let him pack
for himself, he would have had to wear computer magazines, books,
CDs, a video camera, and a Nintendo DS.
How presumptuous of me to except the boy or his father to unpack.
Let's see...it involves unzipping the bag, gathering the clothing, and
dumping it into the laundry basket. Not exactly rocket science.
HH told #1 to unpack. #1 said "No." Here is where Hillbilly Mom
would have done things differently. But no. HH took the whole
suitcase to the laundry room, where he laid it in front of the washer
and unzipped it, exposing its soiled-clothing guts to the world.
HM was not pleased, folks. I had to move that suitcase to get
to the washer to finish a load I'd already started. I grudgingly put
the dirty clothes in the laundry basket. But I refused to move the
suitcase. I told HH and #1 daily to put it away. I moved it out of
my way and in front of the door to the porch, which HH must use
every morning to feed the dogs. Did he put the suitcase away? NO!
Every morning, he moved it back in front of the washer. Last night
I told him: "You can play this game for the next six months, but I
AM NOT GOING TO PUT THAT SUITCASE AWAY! After
a tantrum and some swearing, HH stalked into the laundry room
and removed the suitcase. Score: Hillbilly Mom, 1. HH, 578,935.
THE PRESCRIPTION
I called my automated pharmacy number to order a refill around
4:40 this morning. I had 4 pills left. Oh, it was nothing good, like
fake Vicodin. It was a blood pressure med. Whoop-ti-doo. No
street value on those puppies. That smart-a$$ed recording told
me: "It is too early for a refill. Please call back in 37 days." The
h*ll you say! I will be dead then, phoney-baloney!
I called the pharmacy on my lunch 20-minutes. Not a lunch hour,
mind you...a lunch 20-minutes. I explained that I had 4 pills left,
and that my prescription bottle said I had 2 refills left. Why, then,
was I told to call back in 37 days. I get 30 pills per month. The
pharmacy worker said, "Well, you just got 90 pills on March 14.
The insurance company will not authorize any more until after
37 days." Like that even made sense. I told her, no, that I only
got 30 on March 14. "Let me check on that," she said.
I was on hold for 5 minutes, listening to the worst Muzak on the
face of the earth. My lunch 20-minutes was ticking away. She
came back. "Somebody put the order in wrong. They said you
received 90 pills. But the pharmacy log shows we only gave you
30." Duh! Didn't I just say that? So again, I told her I needed
that refill. She said, "Well...we could call the insurance and
explain what happened, and see if they will authorize more."
Yes. You do that. Since it was YOUR freakin' mistake that
caused this snafu, and I can not quit this medicine cold turkey.
So I told her, "Yes. You need to do that. I will be there at
5:00 to pick them up." Don't get your hopes up. I am not
dying yet. They had my prescription ready. And in the 'refills'
section, it said: 3.3. Yes. That is 3.3 refills. Like THAT isn't
going to cause trouble when I go back next month!
Oh, and I pay $8.00 for this medication, because it is generic.
The insurance company (of which I have TWO, mind you) does
not pay a red cent. So why do the insurance companies have a
say in whether I can get it. I'M the one paying!!!
THE WAL*MART SKIDMARKS
This was disturbing. #2 son and I waited in line at Wal*Mart
because I ain't about to scan and bag my own groceries. We
were behind a man/wife/toddler girl with a cart of water and
soda and not too much else. The cart in front of them had
some issue, because the cashier turned on her flashing red-light
special kind of check-out lane number thingy. I was not about
to move to another line.
We crept forward. I had to argue with #2 son for 5 minutes
because he wanted a Push-Pop. No. I hate the slimy things.
Then he wanted a Baby Bottle Pop. No. They are slimy things
with the added bonus of powdery powder. Finally, he settled
on a mini can of Pringles. As I pushed the cart aside to get the mini
Pringley goodness off the shelf, my foot slipped in something.
Something dark brown. Something that had been tracked though
by feet and cart wheels. Something I did not want on the bottom
of my shoe. #2 wanted out of the cart to sit on a bench and cross
his legs like an old man and play his GameBoy. I told him no, he'd
step in that mess.
"Maybe it's icing, Mom." It did look a bit like fudge icing. I lifted the
boy out, after he swore he would not step in it. Then I got a whiff. It
was no icing I wanted on any cake of mine! It was POO!!! Right in
the Wal*Mart aisle! How freakin' nasty can people be? Did someone
change a diaper? Did a kid pull aside the underwear and drop a turd?
HOW did this nasty mess get here?
The cashier asked me to put a Lane Closed sign up for her. Another
blue-vested Wal*Mart clone called across the self-serve check-outs,
"What's that smell?" And my cashier said, "That's why I'm closed."
Eeewww! One more reason to hate Wal*Mart.
Come on people. It's not hard to please Hillbilly Mom. Unpack your
own suitcase. Refill my legal prescription medication so I don't die.
Allow me to shop for groceries without stepping in sh*t.
Is that too much to ask?
posted by Hillbilly Mom at 6:45 PM
10 Comments:
I can't believe HH went through the trouble of taking the frickin' suitcase back to the laundry room after you put it by the door. He could have saved that effort and put it away the first time. And WHY was putting the suitcase away YOUR responisbility???
Maybe YOU should be the one to go up on a roof and hold your own strike. You have good reason to go on a strike. Maybe then you would be appreciated. Hmph.
And that Wal*Mart thing...what is wrong with people these days? We're human beings, not a bunch of chimpanzees, though I'm beginning to wonder about some of the people in the world today.
http://www.danno.org/blogs
Ewww! Ewwwwww! Crap in store flashback!!!! (It figures I would have one...)
A few lifetimes ago I worked for the IT dept in a large (now gone) grocery chain. One of our local stores was about a mile from our office, and I had gone to help some of the POS support people with a problem. While we were all at the store, we heard a commotion a couple of aisles over. We poked our heads around as a very large woman being helped by a couple of clerks. There was much conversation among them, but all I could make out clearly was her yelling "Ah caint make it!" over and over. Curiously, one of the clerks grabbed the empty bottom of a case of canned drinks and threw it on the floor. To our surprise (among other things) the woman proceeded to evacuate her bowel upon the box - or partially, at least. I had officially had it, at that point. I went back to the office and told my tale. No one beleived me until the rest of the POS gang returned to verify.
So my point (as horrible as it may be) is - this could be one of your choices as well.
I heartily recommend incinerating your shoes, as well as everything you and #1 were wearing, your car and the Wal Mart.
Once there was a pair of jeans and a shirt that I had hung in the door facing of the utility room. I asked Mr. Diva to put them away before one of the kids' birthday party. He didn't. They hung there for the entire party. And for two weeks after. I had the same standoff with my oldest daughter's pair of dirty underwear in the bathroom floor. I won. I usually do. Hang in there, sister. You'll prevail - you're OH SO PRETTY. The pretty ones always prevail.
Mere weeks after Buffalo Run Casino opened housekeeping got a call out onto the floor. A customer had seen a pile of poo in the aisle. The head housekeeping guy didn't believe it, thought it was a prank. But no....pile. of. poop. in. the. casino. They ran the tapes and some little ol' lady on a HoveRound had been riding along, stopped mid-aisle, scooted her hiney off the seat, raised her skirt and dropped a turd in the aisle, flipped her skirt down, scooted back into place and hovered off. When I'm an old lady, screw wearing purple, I wanna crap in the floors of public buildings.
Chick,
Why is it my responsibility to remind him of his doctor's appointments, or to breathe in and breathe out? It's one of the mysteries of my universe.
Ooh! A roof vacation! I'll have to be careful or the mansion will crumble under my feet. It can not run without me.
Mr.,
Eeewww! I used to work in an insurance salvage store, where once a week someone would crap in the aisle between the racks of wallpaper. But I never saw it happen LIVE! What a worldly fellow you are, Mr.
I can not torch the Wal*Mart. Some Humpty Dumpty with a melon head might elbow me out of the way to escape.
Come on people. It's not hard to please Hillbilly Mom. Unpack your own suitcase. Refill my legal prescription medication so I don't die. Allow me to shop for groceries without stepping in sh*t.
Sometimes it IS too much to ask, I guess!
Diva,
I think our husbands were separated at birth. They are OH SO SIMILAR.
Eeeww. Old lady poo! I BET she had waist boobs, too. (Heh heh! I said 'bet' about casino poo! And boobs! I'm in 8th grade emotionally.)
Miss Ann,
Apparently, it IS. I'm so glad you gave us the term "Waist Boobs". That was you, wasn't it? I think the Diva had some dealings with Waist Boobs, but I believe you coined the term.
Hope you didn't mind my little "Fitty" comment on your lake house. It was just my attempt at some stalker humor.
Yes, it was Ann that gave us the term WaistBoobs, but it was I that blogged about the emotional scarring that Tater has from seeing our stepgrandmother's. *shudder*
Yes, I am still traumatized from that story. I thought Ann was the one who called them 'waist boobs', but I wasn't sure, because somehow that term was associated with 'Diva' in my mind. Not that you HAVE waist boobs, mind you...I KNOW you are the one with the uniboob.
You are correct - I will never have WaistBoobs because they are forever encased in the Great Bra of Uniboobedness. (Yes, I just made up that word. Like you couldn't tell, huh.)
Citygurl,
Ha! That's a good one on poopy Wal*Mart. Wish I'd thought of it. I'm sure we could find drugs at school anytime--out in the parking lot where the drug dog can't search.
Diva,
Quit puttin' on airs, you pirate-y wordsmith! Maybe you'll have a WaistBoob. That elastic can't hold out forever, you know.
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