Strange, strange goings-on today at the ol' house of Val.
Such oddities. Perhaps explainable, if only I could decipher the code. It started with a noise. Think of a teenage boy standing outside the undoored door of your dark basement lair, clacking two remote controls together. That's what it sounded like to me. So I called out, "Pony! What are you doing?" And he answered me. From the couch at the other end of the basement.
"Nothing! What are YOU doing?"
"Nothing! I thought you were making that noise."
"I thought YOU were making that noise."
We heard it again. Once. Twice. Seriously. WHAT WAS THAT? It was not outside on the porch. That's a thumping sound we hear from the wrasslin' dogs and the tread of delivery men. It was not inside my office. It was just outside the door. Just past the NASCAR bathroom. The Pony ran over. He stepped into my office.
"Are you SURE it wasn't you?"
"Yes! Are you sure it wasn't YOU?"
"Uh huh. I know it was over here." He walked around, looking for items that might have fallen off the shelves. "It didn't sound like it was inside here. Maybe it was these empty soda cans out here on the desk." He stepped back out, to the aluminum Coke cans awaiting crushing after waiting to be stashed in an old Walmart bag after waiting to dry out after rinsing. He squeezed one. "That's what I thought it might have been. These cans expanding due to a change in air pressure. But none of them have been bent. And listen, that's not the sound." He squeezed another.
"And even if it was, how come they have never, ever made a noise like that before? I don't know. Listen. There it was again!" By this time, The Pony had stepped back inside my office. We could clearly see that neither of us was doing anything to cause the sound.
I give up. I have no idea what it was. After that last one, it stopped. Quite odd. In broad daylight in my dark basement lair.
And the noises that used to occur overhead in Genius's room at night, right after he moved off to college...the ones that stopped about a month later? They returned this week. It sounds like someone is having a hoedown after hours.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Remember When Kids Built Snowmen in the Yard?
WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?
Oh, wait. That was yesterday's post. But it continues. I have been out of school due to snowfall since last Thursday. Hick drove me around on Saturday, and I ventured out yesterday and today. Ten plus inches of snow, and nowhere, NOWHERE, have I spied a single snowman.
Do the kids of today not sense that a snow day is a precious playday to be cherished? Are they tiny conspiracy theorists, avoiding that Fukushima-tainted snow like the plague? Do they lay about, clicking their keyboards and think pad notebook surface gadget thingies and smart phones? One would suppose a child would get tired of that after a six-day weekend, and head out into the yard with a two lumps of coal, a carrot, a scarf, a pork-pie hat and two dead branches ripped from a neighbor's tree. But there was ne'er a snowman to be found along all the roads of Backroads. However...
We saw a giant middle finger.
Yes, a snow sculpture of rather large proportions, four knuckles and the extended middle finger as high as a normal adult's waist. It would have been taller, but some unfortunate accident had amputated that digit at the second joint.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?
As soon as this snow melts, I shall renew my lackadaisical efforts to get my proposed handbasket factory up and running. It's the least I can do to save humanity.
Oh, wait. That was yesterday's post. But it continues. I have been out of school due to snowfall since last Thursday. Hick drove me around on Saturday, and I ventured out yesterday and today. Ten plus inches of snow, and nowhere, NOWHERE, have I spied a single snowman.
Do the kids of today not sense that a snow day is a precious playday to be cherished? Are they tiny conspiracy theorists, avoiding that Fukushima-tainted snow like the plague? Do they lay about, clicking their keyboards and think pad notebook surface gadget thingies and smart phones? One would suppose a child would get tired of that after a six-day weekend, and head out into the yard with a two lumps of coal, a carrot, a scarf, a pork-pie hat and two dead branches ripped from a neighbor's tree. But there was ne'er a snowman to be found along all the roads of Backroads. However...
We saw a giant middle finger.
Yes, a snow sculpture of rather large proportions, four knuckles and the extended middle finger as high as a normal adult's waist. It would have been taller, but some unfortunate accident had amputated that digit at the second joint.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?
As soon as this snow melts, I shall renew my lackadaisical efforts to get my proposed handbasket factory up and running. It's the least I can do to save humanity.
Monday, December 9, 2013
I Must Draw the Line at My Butt Cheeks
The nightmare continues! Postal People Problems! I swear, I could start a separate blog. Let's try to narrow the topic to a single post office, and two specific visits. There IS a common theme. And that theme is VAL'S PERSONAL SPACE HAS BEEN VIOLATED. Excuse me. Sometimes I have to let it out.
Last Tuesday, I had a sick day to let the phlebotomist bruise my arm. Of course, I still had to go to school and pick up The Pony. It takes about 35 minutes to get there from home at top speed. I generally allow 40 minutes, just to be comfortable. I knew I had to pick up a package at the dead-mouse-smelling post office on the way, so I left 10 minutes early. I pass right by.
The universe continues to thwart Val's every plan. Before I even got to the dead-mouse-smelling post office, I had to dodge a barreling UPS truck, weave around a county highway department wood chipper on the blind fluffy dog curve (uh, blind curve, not blind dog), and follow a car on the county road that drove slower than my mom. Still. I had no idea I would later be an inactive participant in seven school buses stopping. So I was sure I had time to dash in for my package.
When did the dead-mouse-smelling post office turn into Walmart, where you are always tenth in line? I didn't get the memo. But since I was already stopped, and thought I had time, and had already counted the obstacles between me and the counter, I stayed. Send a package. Stamps. Registered letter. Package pick-up. Moving mail-forwarding form. Send a package. Stamps. Then the problem guy.
Problem Guy didn't know he was a problem. He had been minding his own business in line, scooting forward a thigh-high rectangular box with his foot. When he was next to next in line, he called somebody on his cell phone. "What's in here, anyway?" At the counter, he said he needed to ship it overseas in time for Christmas. The worker lady told him today was the last day. She put it on the scale, and told him it would cost $22. Did he want insurance? Yes. Contents worth $50. Then Worker Lady said, "Hold up. I think it's oversize." She whipped out her metal tape measure. Yep. Oversize. So it was going to cost $42. He did not complain. Just sighed and took out his wallet again. Worker Lady apologetically told him that if his package had weighed more, she wouldn't have needed to charge him for his package being oversize.
Here is the drama part. Yeah. People HAVE told me I have trouble getting to the point. There was only one lady between me and Problem Guy. But many other delayed customers had filed in after me. The old man directly behind me started heckling. "You mean if he put some rocks in that package, it would cost him less to mail?" Worker Lady agreed. "Yes. Unfortunately, the post office says that since they're not making money off your freight charge, they're going to make you pay more for taking up room." Huh. Problem Guy did not really engage. The box contained Christmas ornaments. Not good candidates for stowaway rocks.
But that's still not the theme of this story. The lady behind the Buttinsky guy would not stay in her place. From the minute she came in, she was a creeper. Buttinsky maintained the normal personal space that we older North Americans are accustomed to. Creeper was like a claim jumper. All at once she was between Buttinsky and me. Like she was going to jump on my back for a proper fireman's carry to the counter. The next minute she was under my left armpit. Then a step ahead of me. A regular Waldo. She was not stealthy, either. She kept popping up like a Whack-A-Mole. I only yearned for a mallet.
Problem Guy was shunted to the side to fill out paperwork. The lady ahead of me presented her orange postcard for a package. Worker Lady laid it on the counter and went to the back room. She returned with that package, and two for me, which she had to scan to show they hadn't lost them. She knows me on sight now. Worker Lady nodded at me as she handed over the previous lady's package. I laid my orange postcards on the counter next to the other one. THERE WAS CREEPER! She was in front of me. Craning her neck, looking at those cards like she was memorizing our addresses. WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?
In case anyone cares, I was ten minutes late to pick up The Pony. I only share that because I wanted to tie up that loose end before dwelling on the real issue here with my personal post office experience.
Today I had to pick up another two packages. The Pony was with me, but I had some jawing to do about a package missing since last Thursday, so I let him wait in the car. Perhaps I misspoke in comparing the dead-mouse-smelling post office to Walmart. Today I was only ninth in line. I can't even remember what the people head of me were doing, because I was so incensed about the man behind me.
Directly in front of me was a young mother with a baby in a basket, and a five-year-old. The baby was sweet, and the fiver didn't stare. Perfect. Except for that old man behind me. He kept sighing. I understood the need. But with every sigh, I felt the hair on the back of my neck part. Then he started doing the motorboat lip-flapping raspberry sound with each exhale. Like an old nag flapping its horse lips. I didn't want to turn. I moved forward as far as I could without setting the fiver to staring. Mr. Ed moved closer. I could feel the heat coming off his body. Except I was not Bear Grylls on the Irish moors, freezing my buttocks off, eating sheep eyeballs and stripping the hide for a makeshift sleeping bag. I was in no danger of hypothermia. I sighed. Half turned without looking. Hoping Mr. Ed would get the hint. He did not. I ran out of room to edge away from him. I turned my shoulders just a bit, to look out the window at T-Hoe. It couldn't have been more than a quarter turn. I didn't even move my feet. But that slight motion sent Mr. Ed's dangling hand, wrist, and forearm into the crack of my very buttocks! THE HORROR!
I heaved a heavy sigh of disapproval. Mr. Ed snorted. Not even an apology. I'm starting to think he was some kind of perv. I refused to turn my back to him again. I turned sideways, so he was at my shoulder. I hated that, because then his breath was on the side of my face. I wanted to grab his shoulders and shove him away. I sidled my way through the rest of the line. When my turn came at the counter, I moved off the the side. Right in the middle of the two stations. So it would have looked odd for him to ease up directly behind me again. WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?
I could never ride a train in India. Or even the New York subway.
Last Tuesday, I had a sick day to let the phlebotomist bruise my arm. Of course, I still had to go to school and pick up The Pony. It takes about 35 minutes to get there from home at top speed. I generally allow 40 minutes, just to be comfortable. I knew I had to pick up a package at the dead-mouse-smelling post office on the way, so I left 10 minutes early. I pass right by.
The universe continues to thwart Val's every plan. Before I even got to the dead-mouse-smelling post office, I had to dodge a barreling UPS truck, weave around a county highway department wood chipper on the blind fluffy dog curve (uh, blind curve, not blind dog), and follow a car on the county road that drove slower than my mom. Still. I had no idea I would later be an inactive participant in seven school buses stopping. So I was sure I had time to dash in for my package.
When did the dead-mouse-smelling post office turn into Walmart, where you are always tenth in line? I didn't get the memo. But since I was already stopped, and thought I had time, and had already counted the obstacles between me and the counter, I stayed. Send a package. Stamps. Registered letter. Package pick-up. Moving mail-forwarding form. Send a package. Stamps. Then the problem guy.
Problem Guy didn't know he was a problem. He had been minding his own business in line, scooting forward a thigh-high rectangular box with his foot. When he was next to next in line, he called somebody on his cell phone. "What's in here, anyway?" At the counter, he said he needed to ship it overseas in time for Christmas. The worker lady told him today was the last day. She put it on the scale, and told him it would cost $22. Did he want insurance? Yes. Contents worth $50. Then Worker Lady said, "Hold up. I think it's oversize." She whipped out her metal tape measure. Yep. Oversize. So it was going to cost $42. He did not complain. Just sighed and took out his wallet again. Worker Lady apologetically told him that if his package had weighed more, she wouldn't have needed to charge him for his package being oversize.
Here is the drama part. Yeah. People HAVE told me I have trouble getting to the point. There was only one lady between me and Problem Guy. But many other delayed customers had filed in after me. The old man directly behind me started heckling. "You mean if he put some rocks in that package, it would cost him less to mail?" Worker Lady agreed. "Yes. Unfortunately, the post office says that since they're not making money off your freight charge, they're going to make you pay more for taking up room." Huh. Problem Guy did not really engage. The box contained Christmas ornaments. Not good candidates for stowaway rocks.
But that's still not the theme of this story. The lady behind the Buttinsky guy would not stay in her place. From the minute she came in, she was a creeper. Buttinsky maintained the normal personal space that we older North Americans are accustomed to. Creeper was like a claim jumper. All at once she was between Buttinsky and me. Like she was going to jump on my back for a proper fireman's carry to the counter. The next minute she was under my left armpit. Then a step ahead of me. A regular Waldo. She was not stealthy, either. She kept popping up like a Whack-A-Mole. I only yearned for a mallet.
Problem Guy was shunted to the side to fill out paperwork. The lady ahead of me presented her orange postcard for a package. Worker Lady laid it on the counter and went to the back room. She returned with that package, and two for me, which she had to scan to show they hadn't lost them. She knows me on sight now. Worker Lady nodded at me as she handed over the previous lady's package. I laid my orange postcards on the counter next to the other one. THERE WAS CREEPER! She was in front of me. Craning her neck, looking at those cards like she was memorizing our addresses. WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?
In case anyone cares, I was ten minutes late to pick up The Pony. I only share that because I wanted to tie up that loose end before dwelling on the real issue here with my personal post office experience.
Today I had to pick up another two packages. The Pony was with me, but I had some jawing to do about a package missing since last Thursday, so I let him wait in the car. Perhaps I misspoke in comparing the dead-mouse-smelling post office to Walmart. Today I was only ninth in line. I can't even remember what the people head of me were doing, because I was so incensed about the man behind me.
Directly in front of me was a young mother with a baby in a basket, and a five-year-old. The baby was sweet, and the fiver didn't stare. Perfect. Except for that old man behind me. He kept sighing. I understood the need. But with every sigh, I felt the hair on the back of my neck part. Then he started doing the motorboat lip-flapping raspberry sound with each exhale. Like an old nag flapping its horse lips. I didn't want to turn. I moved forward as far as I could without setting the fiver to staring. Mr. Ed moved closer. I could feel the heat coming off his body. Except I was not Bear Grylls on the Irish moors, freezing my buttocks off, eating sheep eyeballs and stripping the hide for a makeshift sleeping bag. I was in no danger of hypothermia. I sighed. Half turned without looking. Hoping Mr. Ed would get the hint. He did not. I ran out of room to edge away from him. I turned my shoulders just a bit, to look out the window at T-Hoe. It couldn't have been more than a quarter turn. I didn't even move my feet. But that slight motion sent Mr. Ed's dangling hand, wrist, and forearm into the crack of my very buttocks! THE HORROR!
I heaved a heavy sigh of disapproval. Mr. Ed snorted. Not even an apology. I'm starting to think he was some kind of perv. I refused to turn my back to him again. I turned sideways, so he was at my shoulder. I hated that, because then his breath was on the side of my face. I wanted to grab his shoulders and shove him away. I sidled my way through the rest of the line. When my turn came at the counter, I moved off the the side. Right in the middle of the two stations. So it would have looked odd for him to ease up directly behind me again. WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?
I could never ride a train in India. Or even the New York subway.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
So I Was Feeling a Little Down...
Come on in! Here. Let me take your coat. What's that? Oh, I'm not laying it across the bed in the back bedroom...I'm keeping it. Sorry. You should have asked sooner. Go pick your seat. Heh, heh. I never get tired of that one.
Thank you all for showing up for my event on such short notice. It's not every day one gets an invite to a pity party. I truly appreciate your support. Some days Val can take anything the old world throws her way, and other days she's a quivering glob of plain gelatin. Take last night, for instance. I was feeling especially vulnerable, what with my championship plastic-baby-thawing performance, and the subsequent accusation of cheating. You'd have though I took an icepick to that glacierized inanimate infant. That put my nose out of joint. Then I read comments on the reportage of my victory.
The magic of ordinary days would have seen me viewing those comments through my rose-colored glasses (assuming I had them back from The Charlatans Optical Delusions Emporium and Professional Prevaricators Shoppe), taking such jibes in stride, like Jackie Joyner-Kersee over hurdles in her heyday, acknowledging the typewritten banter as a case of ganderfying the goose, giving Val a taste of her own medicine, fair play in a turnabout. However...I was still smarting from the announcement in front of the entire baby shower crowd that since I win everything, I must have cheated! I swear. That proclamation was as shocking as the time Ellen DeGeneres leaned over that sitcom airport microphone and BLARED to the sitcom airport and TV viewing audience, "I'm gay!" It took me by surprise. Probably more than Ellen's announcement took anyone by surprise.
So I was smarting, you see. My virtual 44 oz. Diet Coke cup was half empty, not half full. I started grousing about my image. How I am perceived by the masses of baby shower attendees and blog readers. A quick scroll through past comment sections seemed to point to an unavoidable fact. Val is a bragging, win-at-all-costs, husband-wood-chipping, menopausal, insane-asylum-bound, pencil-wielding eyeball-stabber who wears clothing made from dinner napkins, releases enough gaseous emissions to single-handedly warm the globe, cares not enough about her pets to let them reside inside, with an identity that is very hard to be. No wonder that tooth-sucker who works at The Charlatans Optical Delusions Emporium and Professional Prevaricators Shoppe looked at me like I was something she scraped off her shoe, that looked like a chunk of mystery meat filler that fell out of her Walmart Chicken Chimichanga, that resembled a cooked version of the blob that comes out of a patient's midriff during psychic surgery.
Let's all grab our Walmart stuck-together paper plates and move to the serving table. Do NOT take an extra fork! We have the main course all respectable pity parties, fried worms, along with a bit of crow, some humble pie for dessert, and a choice of Val's salty tears or hemlock tea (sweetened and unsweetened) for the beverage.
"What about games?" you ask. We will have the 44 oz. Diet Coke Chugging contest. The Thaw Val's Cold, Cold Heart contest (no fair removing Val's heart for heating). The Putting On Big Girl Panties contest, where participants must dress themselves in 10 pairs of granny panties and run across the room without picking their seat. The Soup-Stacking contest. And the Spin Juno And See Who Chews Her Nose contest. Prizes will be awarded at the discretion of Val, consisting of various and sundry treasures collected over the years by Hick at auctions and flea markets. Sorry, the Department of Health prohibits the dispensation of Auction Meat.
I hope you all enjoy my little soiree. I think it will be good for what ails me. Tomorrow Val will be back to her Mother Teresa/Pollyanna/Mary Poppins self, writing about fluffy kittens, gamboling puppies, silky unicorns, rainbows, and lollipops.
Like a post-apocalyptic roach, Val is a survivor.
Thank you all for showing up for my event on such short notice. It's not every day one gets an invite to a pity party. I truly appreciate your support. Some days Val can take anything the old world throws her way, and other days she's a quivering glob of plain gelatin. Take last night, for instance. I was feeling especially vulnerable, what with my championship plastic-baby-thawing performance, and the subsequent accusation of cheating. You'd have though I took an icepick to that glacierized inanimate infant. That put my nose out of joint. Then I read comments on the reportage of my victory.
The magic of ordinary days would have seen me viewing those comments through my rose-colored glasses (assuming I had them back from The Charlatans Optical Delusions Emporium and Professional Prevaricators Shoppe), taking such jibes in stride, like Jackie Joyner-Kersee over hurdles in her heyday, acknowledging the typewritten banter as a case of ganderfying the goose, giving Val a taste of her own medicine, fair play in a turnabout. However...I was still smarting from the announcement in front of the entire baby shower crowd that since I win everything, I must have cheated! I swear. That proclamation was as shocking as the time Ellen DeGeneres leaned over that sitcom airport microphone and BLARED to the sitcom airport and TV viewing audience, "I'm gay!" It took me by surprise. Probably more than Ellen's announcement took anyone by surprise.
So I was smarting, you see. My virtual 44 oz. Diet Coke cup was half empty, not half full. I started grousing about my image. How I am perceived by the masses of baby shower attendees and blog readers. A quick scroll through past comment sections seemed to point to an unavoidable fact. Val is a bragging, win-at-all-costs, husband-wood-chipping, menopausal, insane-asylum-bound, pencil-wielding eyeball-stabber who wears clothing made from dinner napkins, releases enough gaseous emissions to single-handedly warm the globe, cares not enough about her pets to let them reside inside, with an identity that is very hard to be. No wonder that tooth-sucker who works at The Charlatans Optical Delusions Emporium and Professional Prevaricators Shoppe looked at me like I was something she scraped off her shoe, that looked like a chunk of mystery meat filler that fell out of her Walmart Chicken Chimichanga, that resembled a cooked version of the blob that comes out of a patient's midriff during psychic surgery.
Let's all grab our Walmart stuck-together paper plates and move to the serving table. Do NOT take an extra fork! We have the main course all respectable pity parties, fried worms, along with a bit of crow, some humble pie for dessert, and a choice of Val's salty tears or hemlock tea (sweetened and unsweetened) for the beverage.
"What about games?" you ask. We will have the 44 oz. Diet Coke Chugging contest. The Thaw Val's Cold, Cold Heart contest (no fair removing Val's heart for heating). The Putting On Big Girl Panties contest, where participants must dress themselves in 10 pairs of granny panties and run across the room without picking their seat. The Soup-Stacking contest. And the Spin Juno And See Who Chews Her Nose contest. Prizes will be awarded at the discretion of Val, consisting of various and sundry treasures collected over the years by Hick at auctions and flea markets. Sorry, the Department of Health prohibits the dispensation of Auction Meat.
I hope you all enjoy my little soiree. I think it will be good for what ails me. Tomorrow Val will be back to her Mother Teresa/Pollyanna/Mary Poppins self, writing about fluffy kittens, gamboling puppies, silky unicorns, rainbows, and lollipops.
Like a post-apocalyptic roach, Val is a survivor.
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Val Thevictorian, Infant Dispatcher
Val is a woman of many talents. Why, just this evening, she delivered a baby. Oh, not only did she deliver that baby, Val delivered that baby faster than all the other baby deliverers, relying on her old standby of spouting hot air, without even using her hands, without dropping the baby as some butterfingered deliverers did, and without licking the baby's buttocks.
Okay. I went to my niece's baby shower. All attendees were given a plastic shot glass containing a Mardi Gras cake type plastic baby frozen in an ice cube. The first person to get the baby out of the ice cube, without using hands, sticking anything in the glass, taking the ice cube out of the glass, or submerging that shot glass in hot coffee, was the winner. Here is my prize:
It's a hermetically-sealed jar of chocolate-covered cereal, powdered-sugar-coated Puppy Chow. That's what my sister the ex-mayor's wife calls it, anyway. Oh, and there's the bouncing baby of indeterminate gender that I delivered. I can't believe the rest of the faux midwives were not happier for my victory. It kind of hurt my feelings that there was such a sigh of resignation, and several shouts of disbelief. Let's see...I think the glowing lady of honor's exact words were: "I should have known you'd win. You win everything. You must have cheated." So hurtful. I'm of half a mind not to participate in the Christmas contests at her mother's house this year. I'll show them! I won't win a thing.
Here's my baby-delivery strategy. First of all, when the tray of frozen babies is paraded around the room for selection, and you grab one with a big fat ice cube, hand it immediately to Hick, and take another one. Then start breathing. Yeah. Right into that little plastic shot glass. Nothing melts the ice like a blow-hard. Don't follow the tactics of the poor clueless males on either side of you. Much as he thinks he has cracked the code of baby delivery, The Pony's method of banging the cup on a plastic plate REPEATEDLY does not work. I suppose he was trying to crack it open like an egg. Nor do you want to adopt Hick's mode of putting that plastic shot glass containing an ice cube with a baby frozen inside down the neck of your long-sleeved gray T-shirt and into your hairy armpit. If you feel lightheaded from all that exhaling, don't take a chance on hyperventilating and losing valuable baby-thawing time. Swirl that shot glass so the baby's newly-exposed parts are bathed in the melt-water. That helps free the baby from the ice. When you hear the baby clinking against the cube, raise your glass high and shout, "My baby is loose!" Then nod and say, "Uh huh!" when those in charge say they don't think so.
The Pony's favorite part was the foot cookies. I kind of enjoyed the centerpieces. Yes. She's expecting a girl.
We left before the next game, and the drawing for the grand prize for those who also brought a package of Huggies. Our roads are ice-covered, and we didn't want to be out too late. Besides, if Hick had won the diaper drawing, I fear that the mob might have come after us with flaming torches.
Val. Always the victorian.
Okay. I went to my niece's baby shower. All attendees were given a plastic shot glass containing a Mardi Gras cake type plastic baby frozen in an ice cube. The first person to get the baby out of the ice cube, without using hands, sticking anything in the glass, taking the ice cube out of the glass, or submerging that shot glass in hot coffee, was the winner. Here is my prize:
It's a hermetically-sealed jar of chocolate-covered cereal, powdered-sugar-coated Puppy Chow. That's what my sister the ex-mayor's wife calls it, anyway. Oh, and there's the bouncing baby of indeterminate gender that I delivered. I can't believe the rest of the faux midwives were not happier for my victory. It kind of hurt my feelings that there was such a sigh of resignation, and several shouts of disbelief. Let's see...I think the glowing lady of honor's exact words were: "I should have known you'd win. You win everything. You must have cheated." So hurtful. I'm of half a mind not to participate in the Christmas contests at her mother's house this year. I'll show them! I won't win a thing.
Here's my baby-delivery strategy. First of all, when the tray of frozen babies is paraded around the room for selection, and you grab one with a big fat ice cube, hand it immediately to Hick, and take another one. Then start breathing. Yeah. Right into that little plastic shot glass. Nothing melts the ice like a blow-hard. Don't follow the tactics of the poor clueless males on either side of you. Much as he thinks he has cracked the code of baby delivery, The Pony's method of banging the cup on a plastic plate REPEATEDLY does not work. I suppose he was trying to crack it open like an egg. Nor do you want to adopt Hick's mode of putting that plastic shot glass containing an ice cube with a baby frozen inside down the neck of your long-sleeved gray T-shirt and into your hairy armpit. If you feel lightheaded from all that exhaling, don't take a chance on hyperventilating and losing valuable baby-thawing time. Swirl that shot glass so the baby's newly-exposed parts are bathed in the melt-water. That helps free the baby from the ice. When you hear the baby clinking against the cube, raise your glass high and shout, "My baby is loose!" Then nod and say, "Uh huh!" when those in charge say they don't think so.
The Pony's favorite part was the foot cookies. I kind of enjoyed the centerpieces. Yes. She's expecting a girl.
We left before the next game, and the drawing for the grand prize for those who also brought a package of Huggies. Our roads are ice-covered, and we didn't want to be out too late. Besides, if Hick had won the diaper drawing, I fear that the mob might have come after us with flaming torches.
Val. Always the victorian.
Friday, December 6, 2013
Some Days, the Non-Existent Sun Even Shines On Val's Ample...
You know that alarm horn thingy that goes off on a submarine just before it dives? Sure you do. Even if you've never been on a diving sub, you've surely seen and heard such a situation in the movies. That's what was playing in my head this morning when I opened the shades and looked out at 10 inches of snow. Oh, yes. I was alarmed. When I saw my dire situation, I realized that such a layer of fluffy precipitation mean only one thing:
NO 44 OZ. DIET COKE!
Yes, it was Val's own personal nightmare. A day off work, and no magical elixir to keep her company. Woe was Val. By 11:30, she had pulled herself up by her own bootstraps, turned her frown upside down, and taken matters into her own hands.
"Hey! Pony! Do we have any Diet Coke?" The soda is housed in the basement, right across from the ancient mini-fridge in the alcove under the stairwell, theoretically to be stocked for cool consumption by The Pony.
"I think so. Let me check. Yes. We have two."
"You'd better mean two cold, not two total. You're good about saying we have soda, and then admitting after the shopping trip that you meant we had two left, so we had soda."
"No, there are more in the box. I'll put some in now."
"When you come up to put away your laundry, bring those two cold ones."
Of course this was a simple task. I even told him to set them aside so there was no doubt as to which two cans were cold. The Pony galloped up the stairs and stashed his folded clothing. I saw him bring the two cans of Diet Coke with him. I gave him a few more chores. Carry the laundry basket back to the laundry room. Put the washed clothes in the dryer. Hang fresh towels. I went to whip him up some lunch. Put away the clean silverware, which included five spoons and 21 forks. Yeah. Gasp along with me. TWENTY-ONE FORKS! Apparently, forks are used around this house in a ratio of 4:1 where spoons are concerned. Sure, there's the matter of that remainder. But we won't count that. What do you think I am, an algebra teacher? Of course nobody admits to the excessive use of forks. It seems as if the dudes in my house march to the tune of their very own poetry:
Forks, forks, the magical utensil.
The more you use, the more Val wants your eye as a target for her pencil.
But we're not fighting the Battle of Excessive Forks today. We're talking about the weather becoming a disabler for my 44 oz. Diet Coke addiction. And The Pony acting as an accomplice. I turned to get those two cold Diet Coke cans out of Frig. I saw The Pony bring them up. And so he did. There they sat. On the cutting block. Three feet away from Frig.
After sighing heavily, hoping The Pony could hear me all the way down in the basement while playing with his Wii, I gathered those two cans and the rest of my makings. I detest the taste of Diet Coke in a can. So I scouted the kitchen for extra ingredients. There was a time when I loved me some Cherry Diet Coke from Sonic. Then it closed. I also developed a citrus tooth for Diet Coke with lime. But all I had was canned Diet Coke. I grabbed a 44 oz. cup normally reserved for my refills. Set Frig to 'crush' and filled the bottom compartment of the cup. Then added a few half-moon cubes. I knew I had no cherries. No limes. No lemons. Nothing to spice up metal-tasting Diet Coke. Wait a minute! What was that over on the table by the window? A tall rectangular plastic canister. TWO! Aha! Powdered drink mix. Hmm...cherry. And cherry limeade! That's right. Great Value Sugar Free Cherry Limeade Drink Mix.
I sprinkled some of that powder on top of my ice. Added the first can of Diet Coke. Let it foam down. Added the second can. Let it foam down. Stuck a straw in it. Mmm! Tasty! Just right. Now I have a backup drink when the weather conspires against me.
Thanks, Genius, for asking for that drink mix way back in the summer. Thanks, Hick, for not drinking the mix that you stashed in your special treat area.
I think I can ride out this storm just fine.
NO 44 OZ. DIET COKE!
Yes, it was Val's own personal nightmare. A day off work, and no magical elixir to keep her company. Woe was Val. By 11:30, she had pulled herself up by her own bootstraps, turned her frown upside down, and taken matters into her own hands.
"Hey! Pony! Do we have any Diet Coke?" The soda is housed in the basement, right across from the ancient mini-fridge in the alcove under the stairwell, theoretically to be stocked for cool consumption by The Pony.
"I think so. Let me check. Yes. We have two."
"You'd better mean two cold, not two total. You're good about saying we have soda, and then admitting after the shopping trip that you meant we had two left, so we had soda."
"No, there are more in the box. I'll put some in now."
"When you come up to put away your laundry, bring those two cold ones."
Of course this was a simple task. I even told him to set them aside so there was no doubt as to which two cans were cold. The Pony galloped up the stairs and stashed his folded clothing. I saw him bring the two cans of Diet Coke with him. I gave him a few more chores. Carry the laundry basket back to the laundry room. Put the washed clothes in the dryer. Hang fresh towels. I went to whip him up some lunch. Put away the clean silverware, which included five spoons and 21 forks. Yeah. Gasp along with me. TWENTY-ONE FORKS! Apparently, forks are used around this house in a ratio of 4:1 where spoons are concerned. Sure, there's the matter of that remainder. But we won't count that. What do you think I am, an algebra teacher? Of course nobody admits to the excessive use of forks. It seems as if the dudes in my house march to the tune of their very own poetry:
Forks, forks, the magical utensil.
The more you use, the more Val wants your eye as a target for her pencil.
But we're not fighting the Battle of Excessive Forks today. We're talking about the weather becoming a disabler for my 44 oz. Diet Coke addiction. And The Pony acting as an accomplice. I turned to get those two cold Diet Coke cans out of Frig. I saw The Pony bring them up. And so he did. There they sat. On the cutting block. Three feet away from Frig.
After sighing heavily, hoping The Pony could hear me all the way down in the basement while playing with his Wii, I gathered those two cans and the rest of my makings. I detest the taste of Diet Coke in a can. So I scouted the kitchen for extra ingredients. There was a time when I loved me some Cherry Diet Coke from Sonic. Then it closed. I also developed a citrus tooth for Diet Coke with lime. But all I had was canned Diet Coke. I grabbed a 44 oz. cup normally reserved for my refills. Set Frig to 'crush' and filled the bottom compartment of the cup. Then added a few half-moon cubes. I knew I had no cherries. No limes. No lemons. Nothing to spice up metal-tasting Diet Coke. Wait a minute! What was that over on the table by the window? A tall rectangular plastic canister. TWO! Aha! Powdered drink mix. Hmm...cherry. And cherry limeade! That's right. Great Value Sugar Free Cherry Limeade Drink Mix.
I sprinkled some of that powder on top of my ice. Added the first can of Diet Coke. Let it foam down. Added the second can. Let it foam down. Stuck a straw in it. Mmm! Tasty! Just right. Now I have a backup drink when the weather conspires against me.
Thanks, Genius, for asking for that drink mix way back in the summer. Thanks, Hick, for not drinking the mix that you stashed in your special treat area.
I think I can ride out this storm just fine.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
There Are None So Blind as Those Who Patronize The Charlatans Optical Delusions Emporium and Professional Prevaricators Shoppe
I know this might be hard to fathom...but Val has an issue.
You might recall that I had an optometrist appointment on November 15th, and ordered two new pairs of lenses. I am still waiting for a working pair of bifocals. Since NOVEMBER 15th.
Let's see. I had that appointment, then went in the next week to have my lenses put into my frames, since The Charlatans Optical Delusions Emporium and Professional Prevaricators Shoppe left me a message that they were ready. Wrongo. Only the distance lenses were ready.
I received another call when the bifocal lenses came in. I went to the Shoppe and had them put in. I told the lady I couldn't see, and she said my eyes had to adjust. I called the next day and took them back. I was chastised for not telling the Doc that I use them for computer viewing. Which I don't. I just wanted to see my gradebook laying on my desk. That gal said I needed them switched from a 12-inch distance to 14 or 16. I told her I didn't think that was enough to read material on the desk. She said she'd fix me up, even called in the newest opto kid doc.
Today I braved life and limb in a sleet storm to get those bifocals before becoming housebound. You guessed it. I still could not see with those bifocals. Here's the gist of the interaction. Keep in mind that I was the only customer in the whole establishment. The same quack technician that messed it up the last two times serviced me. Also remember that in my many visits, I overheard THREE other people proclaim that they could not see out of their new glasses.
Quacky is one of those older women who make a statement and suck their teeth. Smich. That's what it sounds like. I kind of had the urge to smack her right in the smicher. But that would not have been a ladylike thing to do. I might as well sit with my beskirted knees splayed wide, wear white after Labor Day, or belch the Star Spangled Banner.
"Here. Do you need something to read to try them out?"
"Can't see. It's like I'm underwater."
"Oh, we don't want that. Smich. Maybe you need time for your eyes to adjust to them. Smich. They're new, and you're not used to them. Smich."
"That's what you said last time."
"Well. Smich. We've adjusted them from a 12-inch reading distance to 14 inches."
"I told you last time that wouldn't be enough. It goes from my head to the top of my desk. That's more than 14 inches."
"Oh. Smich. I know you're frustrated. Smich. Do you want to take them and try them at work?"
"No. I did that the first time. I know right now they're not going to work for me. My two-year-old bifocals are better than this. I've been using them for three weeks now."
"Do you have them with you?"
"I'll go get them out of the car." Yes. Through the sleet, on their slick sidewalk and parking lot.
"Let me see. Smich. I'll take them back and measure how we have them set. Smich." She took my black frames while I experienced a minor panic attack. No good comes of giving those people your frames with working lenses. "Huh. Smich. The new ones are the same as these. Minus one, plus two. Smich."
"I can't explain that. All I know is that I can't see. This has been going on for three weeks."
"Well. Smich. I don't know how to say this...smich. But, smich, as we get...smich...older...our eyes change, smich, and get more nearsighted...and don't adjust. Smich."
"That's funny. These glasses from two years ago seem just fine. My older eyes don't have a problem with them."
"Oh, honey. Smich. I know it's hard to have this problem. Smich. We'll get them fixed. Smich. I'll talk to your doctor. Smich. He's not in today. Smich. Because of the weather. I'll check with him and see what we need to do. Smich. I'll call you."
"If you don't get it straightened out this time, I'm done with it. I've been here too many times, and you can't get it right."
"I know how you feel, sweetie. Smich. We'll fix it. Smich. Do you want to take your frames?"
"No. Then it will take longer when I come back to get them. I wish I'd never had new bifocals put in. At least with the old ones I could see. And better than with these two-year-old glasses. I just want the old ones back now."
"We'll get it fixed. Smich. I'll call you when they come in."
Let's tally my trip count, shall we?
1-Initial appointment
2-Pick up distance lenses only
3-Pick up bifocal lenses
4-Return bifocal lenses
5-Pick up new bifocal lenses
When I go back to pick them up after the next adjustment, it will be trip number SIX.
WHO DO YOU HAVE TO WINK AT IN THIS TOWN TO GET A FUNCTIONAL PAIR OF BIFOCALS?
You might recall that I had an optometrist appointment on November 15th, and ordered two new pairs of lenses. I am still waiting for a working pair of bifocals. Since NOVEMBER 15th.
Let's see. I had that appointment, then went in the next week to have my lenses put into my frames, since The Charlatans Optical Delusions Emporium and Professional Prevaricators Shoppe left me a message that they were ready. Wrongo. Only the distance lenses were ready.
I received another call when the bifocal lenses came in. I went to the Shoppe and had them put in. I told the lady I couldn't see, and she said my eyes had to adjust. I called the next day and took them back. I was chastised for not telling the Doc that I use them for computer viewing. Which I don't. I just wanted to see my gradebook laying on my desk. That gal said I needed them switched from a 12-inch distance to 14 or 16. I told her I didn't think that was enough to read material on the desk. She said she'd fix me up, even called in the newest opto kid doc.
Today I braved life and limb in a sleet storm to get those bifocals before becoming housebound. You guessed it. I still could not see with those bifocals. Here's the gist of the interaction. Keep in mind that I was the only customer in the whole establishment. The same quack technician that messed it up the last two times serviced me. Also remember that in my many visits, I overheard THREE other people proclaim that they could not see out of their new glasses.
Quacky is one of those older women who make a statement and suck their teeth. Smich. That's what it sounds like. I kind of had the urge to smack her right in the smicher. But that would not have been a ladylike thing to do. I might as well sit with my beskirted knees splayed wide, wear white after Labor Day, or belch the Star Spangled Banner.
"Here. Do you need something to read to try them out?"
"Can't see. It's like I'm underwater."
"Oh, we don't want that. Smich. Maybe you need time for your eyes to adjust to them. Smich. They're new, and you're not used to them. Smich."
"That's what you said last time."
"Well. Smich. We've adjusted them from a 12-inch reading distance to 14 inches."
"I told you last time that wouldn't be enough. It goes from my head to the top of my desk. That's more than 14 inches."
"Oh. Smich. I know you're frustrated. Smich. Do you want to take them and try them at work?"
"No. I did that the first time. I know right now they're not going to work for me. My two-year-old bifocals are better than this. I've been using them for three weeks now."
"Do you have them with you?"
"I'll go get them out of the car." Yes. Through the sleet, on their slick sidewalk and parking lot.
"Let me see. Smich. I'll take them back and measure how we have them set. Smich." She took my black frames while I experienced a minor panic attack. No good comes of giving those people your frames with working lenses. "Huh. Smich. The new ones are the same as these. Minus one, plus two. Smich."
"I can't explain that. All I know is that I can't see. This has been going on for three weeks."
"Well. Smich. I don't know how to say this...smich. But, smich, as we get...smich...older...our eyes change, smich, and get more nearsighted...and don't adjust. Smich."
"That's funny. These glasses from two years ago seem just fine. My older eyes don't have a problem with them."
"Oh, honey. Smich. I know it's hard to have this problem. Smich. We'll get them fixed. Smich. I'll talk to your doctor. Smich. He's not in today. Smich. Because of the weather. I'll check with him and see what we need to do. Smich. I'll call you."
"If you don't get it straightened out this time, I'm done with it. I've been here too many times, and you can't get it right."
"I know how you feel, sweetie. Smich. We'll fix it. Smich. Do you want to take your frames?"
"No. Then it will take longer when I come back to get them. I wish I'd never had new bifocals put in. At least with the old ones I could see. And better than with these two-year-old glasses. I just want the old ones back now."
"We'll get it fixed. Smich. I'll call you when they come in."
Let's tally my trip count, shall we?
1-Initial appointment
2-Pick up distance lenses only
3-Pick up bifocal lenses
4-Return bifocal lenses
5-Pick up new bifocal lenses
When I go back to pick them up after the next adjustment, it will be trip number SIX.
WHO DO YOU HAVE TO WINK AT IN THIS TOWN TO GET A FUNCTIONAL PAIR OF BIFOCALS?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)