The self-proclaimed ruler has returned to his kingdom. Genius is home from college.
He was done with finals Wednesday, but said he was staying until Saturday. Which led to the following exchange.
"What are you going to do for three days?"
"Work on the solar car."
"Normal people will be going home for Christmas."
"Normal people."
"When are you leaving?"
"I am checking out Saturday at noon."
"Oh. You're waiting until the very last minute allowed to vacate the premises?"
"Technically, I could wait until 6:00. So I'm actually leaving early."
Ah, the logic is warped in that one. Because of the impending sleet/freezing rain/snow storm, I asked him to call me before he left. I wanted to know if he was taking the city route for clear roads, or the country route to save time. This was after several texts advising him to use some futuristic phone app to check road conditions. And a reply in which he told me to disregard the smile emoticon, because it was an accident that he hit inadvertently. To which I had to ask, "What kind of kid can't even give his mom a smile?"
"Apparently, a kid like me."
Still, he agreed to call before he left. You never know how the country road is going to be cleared, and his phone is dead for about 60 miles through the middle of nowhere. And it could be a long walk to find a house if he ran off the road. By 12:45, I was getting a little anxious. So I called.
"Are you about ready to leave?"
"I am just now pulling onto the highway."
"I thought you were going to call me."
"I was. But I forgot."
"Do you have the 4WD on?"
"Well, seeing as how I'm driving 70 mph down the highway...no."
"Which way are you coming home?"
"I'm going the back roads. It's quicker."
"Put it in 4WD when you get off the highway. Just in case."
"Yeah, yeah."
He made it home. And reported that our road is terrible. Yeah. Tell us something we don't know. He also commanded, from 30 miles away, that I move my car from its rightful garage slot to Hick's garage slot. No mention of where Hick was supposed to park. His reasoning was that all of his stuff was near the passenger side, and he couldn't open his door with it against the garage wall that is too close because Hick wouldn't listen to me when building this house, and add a couple of feet to make it more spacious for big honkin' 4WD beasts. Oh, and since he has no garage door opener, he suggested that I make The Pony run out and open the garage door when he got to the driveway.
When asked, after opening his birthday presents from Wednesday, if it he was glad to be home, Genius replied, "Well, I'm glad that classes are over." Huh. He also made some crack about how he loved living in the dorm, because he cranked the heat up to 76, and that conditions around this place were barbaric. I'll toughen up that buttercup forthwith. Or tell him he will have to pay half of the electric bill for the month he's home. And, he complained that when he moved his truck out of the garage, there was no place to park, because Hick's $1000 Caravan was in his place!
Furthermore, he commandeered The Pony's corn dog that Hick brought him from town on the way home from work, for a snack before supper, then opened up the puppy chow mix that I won by NOT cheating at my niece's baby shower and ate about half, then decided he wanted part of the salad The Pony was having for supper along with some fish, then saw a hot dog on the pan next to the fish, and decided he also wanted that with his salad and fish and just-commenced-digesting puppy chow and corn dog.
Ha ha! The joke was on Genius. He fell asleep on the couch before finishing his plate. He was all done up like Bear Grylls in Antarctica, what with a hoodie pulled around his face, hands warming on bare belly under the hoodie pouch and shirt, socked feet dug down in the crack between cushion and couch arm.
I think his last words were, "I'm soooo coooold."
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Friday, December 13, 2013
Out Here, We Use a Swimming Pool For De-Icing Purposes
This is the reason I have had an 11-day weekend from school since last Thursday. Road conditions are bad in Backroads. Still. Oh, the main thoroughfares are clear enough. But the back roads of Backroads are not.
Hick has been driving on borrowed time, in a $1000 Caravan. He's not one to listen to the voice of reason, which we all know is Val's voice. Nope. Gotta drive the backroadsiest back roads in Backroads, that one. Thinks he's invincible. I must admit, he's never had a weather-related accident (knock on my laminated faux-wood butcher-block countertop laminate that Hick lovingly installed as a built-in desk in my dark basement lair). He refuses to take the highway all the way from work to town, then out the main drag to our county road. Hick takes a short cut. I don't know how he's made it so far.
This afternoon, Hick called at 4:24. I assumed he was just leaving work. There's a wide window of departure time, Hick not being one to punch a time clock. But no. He was calling from the bottom of our hill, a scant half-mile from home. "I can't get up the hill. Neighbor lady is here, too. And she just lives at the top of the hill. We're stuck. It's solid ice. Some guy has gone to get ashes. He said he'd be right back."
"I don't know what I can do for you." That did not mean I couldn't drive almost a half-mile and bring him home. There was the matter of the $1000 Caravan. After 15 minutes, I called him back. "Do you want me to drive down and pick you up? Or have The Pony throw a bale of hay into T-Hoe?" Hay. I saw that yesterday when I went to town to get one of Hick's presents. The farm and home center had thoughtfully broken open a bale of hay and scattered it over the ice spots on the parking lot. No salt for them. Of course I couldn't mention to Hick how I knew this might work, because then he would know that I went to buy the only gift he has requested.
"No. I'm getting ready to try it now." About ten minutes later he arrived home. Then I got the full story.
Neighbor Lady had tried to get up that hill in her four-door sedan. She drives it all the time. We've both been getting in and out with no trouble, up and down that solid sheet of hill ice. That's because we're used to it. Plus, I have four-wheel drive. Then today's storm rolled in around noon. It was 34 degrees when we left, and 31 degrees when we got back. I told The Pony I was worried about freezing rain, because that will zap our power. Anyhoo...back to the story of the ice hill.
Neighbor Lady had driven to the city to pick up her son from college. He's Genius's age. She also had her other son, The Pony's age, with her. They had done the grocery shopping, and were just getting home. Almost. She got her sedan kind of sideways on the winding gravel ice hill. Hick came along, and decided he would just go around her. He only made it halfway up. His trusty $1000 Caravan with its two-year-old snow tires started to slide backwards down the hill. As Hick said, "So I put it in the ditch and parked it. Then I walked up to the top, with her boys, who were supposed to get some salt. When we walked back down, the ash guy was there. He had a kid's swimming pool full of ashes from his outside wood furnace. They were still hot. He scattered them, and the boys spread out salt. Neighbor Lady's husband was there by then, and he was walking up to get his truck. I rolled the Caravan back down, and made it to the top."
Seriously. They should have sold tickets. Strewn about on that little section of road were a four-door sedan, a $1000 Caravan, a truck with a swimming pool full of ashes, and a panel work van. All they needed was a clown car.
Three to five inches tonight. I hope Genius makes it home tomorrow. It would be so sad if he got within a half mile, and had to live in a van down by the river until time to leave for spring semester.
Hick has been driving on borrowed time, in a $1000 Caravan. He's not one to listen to the voice of reason, which we all know is Val's voice. Nope. Gotta drive the backroadsiest back roads in Backroads, that one. Thinks he's invincible. I must admit, he's never had a weather-related accident (knock on my laminated faux-wood butcher-block countertop laminate that Hick lovingly installed as a built-in desk in my dark basement lair). He refuses to take the highway all the way from work to town, then out the main drag to our county road. Hick takes a short cut. I don't know how he's made it so far.
This afternoon, Hick called at 4:24. I assumed he was just leaving work. There's a wide window of departure time, Hick not being one to punch a time clock. But no. He was calling from the bottom of our hill, a scant half-mile from home. "I can't get up the hill. Neighbor lady is here, too. And she just lives at the top of the hill. We're stuck. It's solid ice. Some guy has gone to get ashes. He said he'd be right back."
"I don't know what I can do for you." That did not mean I couldn't drive almost a half-mile and bring him home. There was the matter of the $1000 Caravan. After 15 minutes, I called him back. "Do you want me to drive down and pick you up? Or have The Pony throw a bale of hay into T-Hoe?" Hay. I saw that yesterday when I went to town to get one of Hick's presents. The farm and home center had thoughtfully broken open a bale of hay and scattered it over the ice spots on the parking lot. No salt for them. Of course I couldn't mention to Hick how I knew this might work, because then he would know that I went to buy the only gift he has requested.
"No. I'm getting ready to try it now." About ten minutes later he arrived home. Then I got the full story.
Neighbor Lady had tried to get up that hill in her four-door sedan. She drives it all the time. We've both been getting in and out with no trouble, up and down that solid sheet of hill ice. That's because we're used to it. Plus, I have four-wheel drive. Then today's storm rolled in around noon. It was 34 degrees when we left, and 31 degrees when we got back. I told The Pony I was worried about freezing rain, because that will zap our power. Anyhoo...back to the story of the ice hill.
Neighbor Lady had driven to the city to pick up her son from college. He's Genius's age. She also had her other son, The Pony's age, with her. They had done the grocery shopping, and were just getting home. Almost. She got her sedan kind of sideways on the winding gravel ice hill. Hick came along, and decided he would just go around her. He only made it halfway up. His trusty $1000 Caravan with its two-year-old snow tires started to slide backwards down the hill. As Hick said, "So I put it in the ditch and parked it. Then I walked up to the top, with her boys, who were supposed to get some salt. When we walked back down, the ash guy was there. He had a kid's swimming pool full of ashes from his outside wood furnace. They were still hot. He scattered them, and the boys spread out salt. Neighbor Lady's husband was there by then, and he was walking up to get his truck. I rolled the Caravan back down, and made it to the top."
Seriously. They should have sold tickets. Strewn about on that little section of road were a four-door sedan, a $1000 Caravan, a truck with a swimming pool full of ashes, and a panel work van. All they needed was a clown car.
Three to five inches tonight. I hope Genius makes it home tomorrow. It would be so sad if he got within a half mile, and had to live in a van down by the river until time to leave for spring semester.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
What an Ambitious Three-Dollar Daughter Does On a Day Off
In case any of you have been wondering about how my mom and her holey gray sweatpants are getting along in this slaw-forsaken frozen landscape...I'm here to fill you in. Just one more service Val offers her future proposed-handbasket-factory customers.
Mom has not left her house since last Wednesday, when the forecast called for 4-6 inches of sleet and snow. After the 10+ inches covered her homestead, she has remained indoors, except for venturing to her roadside mailbox yesterday, with the aid of crampons and an ice axe. Okay. So it was a set of strap-on YakTrax shoe cleat springy things, and a yellow-handled angled kitchen broom. She makes do. She's a regular MacGyver, my mom.
Today I had to go to Walmart without my trusty helper, in order to pick up a few Christmas items, and I called Mom to see if she wanted to ride along, or if I could bring her anything. We've been dropping off chili and pulled pork and shower cake and slaw and honey-roasted nuts and Diet Coke, and yesterday Mom received a package of fruity goodness from Harry and David, or Larry and David, or somebody else and David, the mail-order folks. All the major food groups have been accounted for, unless you want to count vegetables and grains. But here's what Mom said she needed, in case tomorrow's storm traps her for another week: Little Debbie Swiss Rolls, and ripe bananas. I added them to my list. On the way to town, I had a horrible thought. What if Mom was running low on slaw? I called her from the parking lot, just in case.
"Oh! I never even thought about the slaw! Yes. Get me some more slaw while you're there." See? For those of you who believe in using foreshadowing while crafting your stories...perhaps Val is about to rise above Three-Dollar Daughterdom. I told Mom I would call her when I came out, and run by her house. Perhaps she might like to join me for a ride to the bank to put money in Genius's account so he can make it home from college.
In the checkout line, my phone rang. "Are you all right? I was getting worried. I thought you'd be done by now. I was afraid you might have fallen on the ice and hit your head."
"No, Mom. I'm fine. I'm checking out. Then I'll be there."
"Oh. I didn't mean to bother you. I was just worried."
That little call threw a monkey wrench into my plan to secretly drive through Burger King and get Mom those one-dollar pork sandwiches she forgot last week. At least I had the surprise of mini-cupcakes with buttercream icing. Mom loves buttercream icing. Just like my best old ex-teaching buddy, Mabel.
When I pulled into her driveway (only allowed because the ex-mayor went down it without permission, and made a couple of icy compacted ruts a few days ago) Mom came out with her arctic gear. Coat, scarf, sunglasses, crampons, and that ice-axe broom. I had suggested the broom several days ago, in case she wanted to walk to her mailbox through the yard. I thought it could act as a walking stick. You know, upside down, with the handle stabbing down into the snow. Of course Mom was holding the handle, pushing the angled synthetic straws into the snow. I called her on it. "Well, I just feel like I get better traction with that end."
Mom was worried that her snowy crampons would wreck T-Hoe's floor. Um. No. T-Hoe does not go about naked. He is outfitted with proper floor mats. Then Mom worried that she has not had a bath lately, because she wasn't going anywhere (who is she now, Beaver Cleaver?), and that her odor might be offensive. "Mom! I teach freshmen. I think I can handle it." We took off for the bank. Mom shielded her sunglassed eyes. She was like a mole just emerged from the tunnels in her yard.
After the bank, I drove her by to see the middle finger. "Oh, no! Somebody put that in the yard? That is terrible." She laughed a little too much. She must have thought I was pulling her non-gray-holey-sweatpantsed leg. When we arrived at the intersection, that big bird had flown. Or else it was blocked by a car on the street, and a truck in the driveway. I looked right at where it had been, but it was not in evidence. Mom was disappointed.
"Well, we're already halfway to Burger King. I'm going to take you to get what was supposed to be your surprise: three pork sandwiches."
"Oh! You don't have to do that. I finally figured out how to open those little containers of BBQ sauce your sister brought with the pulled pork. I can have that."
"We could get you a Diet Coke..."
"Oh. A Diet Coke? Where were you going to get that?"
"Burger King, I thought. But I know how you like McDonald's Diet Coke, so we can go across the street and get your soda there."
"That's too much trouble. You are SO good to me. I don't want to take up all your time. We could just go to McDonald's, and I can get three of those grilled onion cheddar burgers along with my Diet Coke. If it's not too much trouble."
"Nope. That's where we'll go." I figured she can freeze two burgers as easily as two pork sandwiches. Though I don't see the attraction in reheated fast food myself. She held that bag on her lap the rest of the way home. I hope she's one of those weathered, apple-headed, pipe-smoking, yogurt-eating 115-year-olds one of these days, attributing her longevity to grilled onion cheddar burgers and Little Debbie cakes. AND SLAW!
It takes so little to make Mom happy. I obviously take after my dad. And for the record, Mom gave me $15 for her purchases, and said to keep what was left over. My status is climbing.
Mom has not left her house since last Wednesday, when the forecast called for 4-6 inches of sleet and snow. After the 10+ inches covered her homestead, she has remained indoors, except for venturing to her roadside mailbox yesterday, with the aid of crampons and an ice axe. Okay. So it was a set of strap-on YakTrax shoe cleat springy things, and a yellow-handled angled kitchen broom. She makes do. She's a regular MacGyver, my mom.
Today I had to go to Walmart without my trusty helper, in order to pick up a few Christmas items, and I called Mom to see if she wanted to ride along, or if I could bring her anything. We've been dropping off chili and pulled pork and shower cake and slaw and honey-roasted nuts and Diet Coke, and yesterday Mom received a package of fruity goodness from Harry and David, or Larry and David, or somebody else and David, the mail-order folks. All the major food groups have been accounted for, unless you want to count vegetables and grains. But here's what Mom said she needed, in case tomorrow's storm traps her for another week: Little Debbie Swiss Rolls, and ripe bananas. I added them to my list. On the way to town, I had a horrible thought. What if Mom was running low on slaw? I called her from the parking lot, just in case.
"Oh! I never even thought about the slaw! Yes. Get me some more slaw while you're there." See? For those of you who believe in using foreshadowing while crafting your stories...perhaps Val is about to rise above Three-Dollar Daughterdom. I told Mom I would call her when I came out, and run by her house. Perhaps she might like to join me for a ride to the bank to put money in Genius's account so he can make it home from college.
In the checkout line, my phone rang. "Are you all right? I was getting worried. I thought you'd be done by now. I was afraid you might have fallen on the ice and hit your head."
"No, Mom. I'm fine. I'm checking out. Then I'll be there."
"Oh. I didn't mean to bother you. I was just worried."
That little call threw a monkey wrench into my plan to secretly drive through Burger King and get Mom those one-dollar pork sandwiches she forgot last week. At least I had the surprise of mini-cupcakes with buttercream icing. Mom loves buttercream icing. Just like my best old ex-teaching buddy, Mabel.
When I pulled into her driveway (only allowed because the ex-mayor went down it without permission, and made a couple of icy compacted ruts a few days ago) Mom came out with her arctic gear. Coat, scarf, sunglasses, crampons, and that ice-axe broom. I had suggested the broom several days ago, in case she wanted to walk to her mailbox through the yard. I thought it could act as a walking stick. You know, upside down, with the handle stabbing down into the snow. Of course Mom was holding the handle, pushing the angled synthetic straws into the snow. I called her on it. "Well, I just feel like I get better traction with that end."
Mom was worried that her snowy crampons would wreck T-Hoe's floor. Um. No. T-Hoe does not go about naked. He is outfitted with proper floor mats. Then Mom worried that she has not had a bath lately, because she wasn't going anywhere (who is she now, Beaver Cleaver?), and that her odor might be offensive. "Mom! I teach freshmen. I think I can handle it." We took off for the bank. Mom shielded her sunglassed eyes. She was like a mole just emerged from the tunnels in her yard.
After the bank, I drove her by to see the middle finger. "Oh, no! Somebody put that in the yard? That is terrible." She laughed a little too much. She must have thought I was pulling her non-gray-holey-sweatpantsed leg. When we arrived at the intersection, that big bird had flown. Or else it was blocked by a car on the street, and a truck in the driveway. I looked right at where it had been, but it was not in evidence. Mom was disappointed.
"Well, we're already halfway to Burger King. I'm going to take you to get what was supposed to be your surprise: three pork sandwiches."
"Oh! You don't have to do that. I finally figured out how to open those little containers of BBQ sauce your sister brought with the pulled pork. I can have that."
"We could get you a Diet Coke..."
"Oh. A Diet Coke? Where were you going to get that?"
"Burger King, I thought. But I know how you like McDonald's Diet Coke, so we can go across the street and get your soda there."
"That's too much trouble. You are SO good to me. I don't want to take up all your time. We could just go to McDonald's, and I can get three of those grilled onion cheddar burgers along with my Diet Coke. If it's not too much trouble."
"Nope. That's where we'll go." I figured she can freeze two burgers as easily as two pork sandwiches. Though I don't see the attraction in reheated fast food myself. She held that bag on her lap the rest of the way home. I hope she's one of those weathered, apple-headed, pipe-smoking, yogurt-eating 115-year-olds one of these days, attributing her longevity to grilled onion cheddar burgers and Little Debbie cakes. AND SLAW!
It takes so little to make Mom happy. I obviously take after my dad. And for the record, Mom gave me $15 for her purchases, and said to keep what was left over. My status is climbing.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
What's Up Downstairs?
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.
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.
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.
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