Sunday, March 9, 2014

Every Pony Needs a Salt Lick

Saturday is bowling league day for The Pony. He's been a kegler since he was a little guy. It's part of our routine. The Pony has to be at the bowling alley at noon. That's when the doors are unlocked. His actual league doesn't start until 12:30, but he orders lunch and gets in a few practice rolls.

I thought there would be time to do the weekly shopping yesterday and still have The Pony ready for bowling league on time. We made a stop at Save A Lot, and headed on to Walmart. We made good progress, The Pony fetching outlying items while I combed the main food section. The Pony grabbed my tabloids as I chose a check-out, then left to spend his two-dollar bribe on one of the racing games. It was only 10:30 when we came out and loaded the back of T-Hoe with our provisions. A cold rain had begun to fall, and the temperature had dropped from 41 to 36. As I started to record my purchase on my checkbook register, The Pony, my back-up eyes, said, "I think this car is waiting for our parking spot."

It was a good one, too, the first parking spot after the three handicapped ones on our aisle. I dumped my receipt and debit card into the slight indentation on top of the console, and turned the ignition to back out. "I can see the car now. Let me know if any people get in the way. By the time I hear T-Hoe's warning sounds, they'll be flattened." The Pony assured me that my reverse path was clear of pedestrians. I hoped he was actually turned around looking, unlike that time he let me slow-speed collide with the front bumper of that agitated meth-beard dude at the bank drive-thru.

As we left the chaos of Walmart's parking lot, The Pony said that he would rather pick up some fast food than eat at the bowling alley. I took him through Burger King for a chicken sandwich combo. We were pulling into the gas-station chicken store to pick up my 44 oz. Diet Coke before the knowledge of my epic fail in shopping-day protocol hit me: I HAD FORGOTTEN OUR GERM-X CLEANSE.

"PONY! We forgot the Germ-X! Here! Give me your hand!" I flipped the top of my mini green-apple-scented squeeze bottle. "Here!"

"Ugh! I'm EATING now!"

"But you need Germ-X! What if you lick your fingers?"

"'s too late. I've already licked them so many times that Germ-X now won't matter."

"No! Do you know how many people have touched that steering wheel on you driving game? Who knows what kind of bacteria was on there? What if somebody drove it from a culture that wipes their butt with their bare hand? And you licked you fingers!"

"I'm safe. They use their LEFT hand."

"But they use both hands on the steering wheel, just like you."

"Well, since I only licked my RIGHT hand, it's okay."

The Pony can be downright stubborn sometimes. I think he gets it from his dad.


  1. Maybe you could--in your handbasket factory--fashion Germ-X lanyards, so everyone could wear a bottle around their neck?

  2. I think I saw on the 6 O'clock news once that they tested germ-x and it was positive for FECES!!

  3. How interesting. Our boy is stubborn, but he gets it from his MOTHER!

  4. My kid would have tried to gross me out by licking his hands. Your boy reasoned with you, at least.

  5. Sometimes the ten second rule can be extended to last well past the time when one is through licking fingers and shaking hands. Still--- video game steering wheels eeewwww!

  6. Sioux,
    You, Madam, are seriously campaigning for an upper-level position at my proposed handbasket factory. However, I fear that the lanyards might cause an allergic reaction on a customer's neck, or get caught on the ear of an errant horse-donkey, resulting in suffocation, or that some patrons might fancy themselves Saint Bernards and drink up their Germ-X faster than brandy in a mini-cask. Come back when you have passed the bar, and I will put you on retainer.

    That, sir, is preposterous! As ludicrous as cocktails made from dirty water instead of spirits! That must be someone's idea of disinfecting Germ-X containing the very substance it guards against.

    Or, perhaps, from his grandmother, which means it skipped a generation. You are still in the clear.

    Either way, I think a handbasket is in order.

    He IS the boy who, as a toddler, squeezed his granola bar too tightly until the top half fell on the garage floor. He cried until I picked it up and gave it to him. He would not be pacified by a whole new granola bar.