The Latest Transgression

I've been having a mini vacation. A precious homebound staycation. Hick has been away on business for two days. TWO DAYS! Two days of mud not tracked in, poopy eggs not washed in my sink, the sheet not pulled from under me so he can wrap up like a burrito, the quilt not over my head, my stack of pillows undisturbed by alien armage before I retire, no trumpeting farts startling me from a sound sleep. It's been a little bit of paradise.

Of course Hick made sure to leave evidence of a couple of his shenanigans for me to discover while he was away. The first was that goose head mounted on the garage wall. The second was the replacement of a living room light with a bathroom light. Nobody bothered to tell me, though his little partner in crime was well aware of the act.

I turned on the living room lights Tuesday evening to read a couple of bills. Huh. Seemed like the light was dark. Darker than normal. I thought, perhaps, it was due to the shades I'd closed to keep the setting sun out of the living room. But the next morning, I was still in the dark. I made that comment to The Pony as we got ready to leave for school. "It sure seems dark in here this morning. Something is different."

"Oh. It must be that light Dad put in. He made me do it on a stool from the kitchen. There weren't any of the living room lights, so he got one of the bathroom lights. The one that goes over the tub. It's a different size."

Indeed. And a different wattage. Seems like about a 20-watt. Not an indoor flood. Since Hick never reads, he does not see the need to be able to actually SEE inside one's own home.

There are none so blind as those who try to read by a tiny dim bathroom light.

With No Offense to Stephen King's Tom Cullen as Played by Bill Fagerbakke in The Stand

Living with Hick is like living in a box of Forrest Gump's chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get.

The Pony and I rushed out the door this morning. Tuesday is trash day. The Pony has to pull the big green dumpster up to the end of the driveway, where I pick him up in T-Hoe. First he has to pack all of our daily stuff into the garage. Lunch, backpack, Kindle, my teacher bag, and any extras that need transporting. He holds the kitchen door open for me, then locks it and closes it. His speedy boyhooves pass me on the porch, so he's the first one to the garage door while I pet Juno briefly before entering. No lovefest in the morning. No cat kibble. It's a businesslike parting.

This morning, as I stroked Juno's silky head, I heard a sharp intake of breath from The Pony. "OH!" I looked left, and saw that he was gazing up at the garage wall near the door jamb. "I did NOT expect that!"

Did he see a spider? A snake? A possum or raccoon eating the Meow Mix from the large black-with-white-spots roaster pan on the porch shelf? No. He saw this:

Of course it came from the auction. Of course it was installed without consulting the lady who runs this place. I have no idea what it's for. To hang a hat? Loop a halter rope from a minipony? Act as a scarecrow for silky black dogs who have considered egg-eating when the cat kibble isn't enough? Maybe some of you crafty crafters know what these things are used for. I do not.

Hick was away on business today. He texted me during my plan time. "How did you like the duck?"

"The Pony calls it a goose. I call it hideous."

I swear. It's like living in a house decorated by Tom Cullen. Yes. M-O-O-N. THAT Tom Cullen.

In the Spring, an Old Man's Fancy Lightly Turns to Thoughts of Chicks

Hick made a discovery this evening.

The first baby out of a set of duodecaplets! Isn't he breathtaking? Fresh out of the shell! There's nothing wrong with him. His neck is supposed to be like that. Because he's a turken. That's a chicken that looks like a turkey. We have several of them. They grow on you. I can only imagine those other eggs vibrating like jumping beans, their inhabitants ready to make their grand exit and entrance.

Don't you worry about these chicks getting eaten by a marauder (NOT sweet, sweet Juno) overnight. They're put up in an old rabbit hutch. That's the nursery. Babies and momma can get to know each other in privacy. The water source is not the deadly swimming pool type where the young 'uns could become unbalanced with their top-heavy heads and fall in and drown. In a few days, the brood will be ready to hit the ground cheeping.

Yes. There's not much Hick likes better than free stuff. And he sees these chicks as free chickens. If, by free, you don't have to account for all that feed he's been buying.

I can't wait to see what other hues and patterns these chicks will have. You never know whose eggs that black hen is sitting on.

He's a Yapper, He's a Scrapper, He's an (alleged) Sweet-Dog-napper...

It's Sunday. So Hick parked his butt on a church pew. Oh, he didn't go to church. He parked it on the church pew he got at an auction, and put on the front porch. He was on his lunch break from mowing the yard. I asked if he'd seen my sweet, sweet Juno. She was mysteriously absent all morning. Hick declared that he had seen her, and that he had given her a treat. He bought some dog biscuits and stashed them in the red Igloo cooler on the side porch by the garage. I guess that was his way of telling me that I should cease and desist with the kitty kibble snacks every evening.

Anyway, that did not solve the problem of Juno. Hick said he didn't want to see her, because she'd be a pest while he was eating his lunch on the front porch church pew. At first, when he'd mentioned the treat, I though he might have torn off a crust of bread to give her. She would have run around to the back porch and into her very special dog house with her treat, because she would not want Ann the black german shepherd to get a crumb of it. Then Hick mentioned the dog biscuits.

"So you didn't JUST giver her a treat."

"No. That was earlier. She's around here somewhere."

"I didn't see her when I left for town, or when I came back. She always greets me. You were on the lawnmower, so I knew she wasn't with you."

"I don't know where she is. Unless she snuck into the BARn while I was over there. She might be closed up in the BARn. I'll check later."

Does anybody else catch a whiff of conspiracy? Or smell a rat?

Epilogue:
Five hours later. Sweet, sweet Juno has reared her black silky (non-egg-stealing) head.

"So, did you find Juno?"

"Yeah."

"Where was she?"

"In her house, I think."

"What do you mean, YOU THINK? Did you see her in her house?"

"No. She came around the porch while I was grilling the steaks."

I doubt that my sweet, sweet Juno received a treat upon her reappearance.

How Teachers File Away the Years

Today we went to The Pony's last parade. He and his trombone marched around the town, kicking off the annual school carnival. Next year, The Pony won't be able to fit band into his college prep schedule. It's a shame. That's one activity that brought The Pony out of his shell.

Hick had to work, so I picked up my mom to accompany me. We had to drop The Pony off on time, and stake out our viewing spot. Hick planned to meet us by parade time. He didn't feel comfortable leaving work early, because the plant had experienced a theft recently.

"The guys heard a thump out back, and went to check it out. There were two women stealing our scrap. In broad daylight, during a shift! They had a car backed right up to the loading dock. One was in the dumpster, throwing stuff out to the other one to load in the vehicle. They were in their forties! I don't even know how that one got up in the dumpster. They said a guy in a gray car gave them permission. Said they could have whatever they wanted out of the dumpster, because the plant was shutting down. Huh! I have a gray car, and another supervisor has a gray car, and the boss has a gray car. None of us told anyone they could take our scrap! We got the license number, and called the police. Those gals came back, but then left. I guess they were going to ask us not to press charges. The police tracked them down to a town about 15 miles away."

"But. It was scrap. So why do you care what happens to it? It was in a dumpster. You were throwing it away."

"That dumpster is on wheels. We have it hauled off. We get $150 a ton for that scrap! It belongs to the plant, not to anybody who wants to dig it out of the dumpster."

I told my mom that tale on the way to the parade. Of course she had a story to tell. Let the record show that Mom is a former 4th grade teacher.

"That reminds me of the year I had a room mother who spent the students' money and dug around in dumpsters. I could hardly stand to watch the kids lick their fingers when she brought them a box of donuts. That was not a good year as far as snacks were concerned."

My mom. Master of the understatement.

Look Out Below!

Val has a bee in her bonnet tonight. More like a chicken in her gizzard. A wadded-up mess of poultry skin in her craw. A thorn in her side would be welcome, to dislodge the offending blockage.

The Thevictorian family enjoys an occasional meal of Chinese takeout. The Pony is partial to sweet-and-sour chicken, Hick prefers Hunan chicken, and Val fluctuates between hot-and-sour soup in cold weather, and various disappointments in warm. Our Chinese storefront of choice is generally a tasty alternative to the one preferred by the Backroads High faculty on parent conference night. That other place serves up what seems to be fried rice swimming in the oil it was fried in. Every item I have ever received has been surrounded by a moat of shiny liquid. I don't care how much others rave about it, that place is not for me. That food goes through me like grease through a goose.

Now we have issues with Our Chinese. That place is going downhill faster than a rock that Sisyphus has just pushed to the top of the hill.

The issue is chicken. I don't like their cashew chicken because I can't find the chicken. Just like Glen Campell as LaBeouf in the original True Grit was warned by that squirrel-headed bastard at The Monarch Boarding House that he would hurt his eyes looking for the chicken in the chicken and dumplings...I must warn others that looking for the chicken under those three cashews and assorted vegetables (meaning flat strips of carrot and celery and a few water chestnut discs) might cause blindness. If you have eagle eyes, you might find several cubes similar to those found in a generic chicken pot pie, or in Campbell's Chicken and Noodle Soup.

I have tried the Hunan chicken, but since Hick also partakes of this delicacy, it means they whip it up as one batch, and I invariably get all the vegetables in my container with white rice, while Hick gets all the meat in his container with fried rice. And you don't go taking meat away from Hick unless you are prepared to lose a hand. It would be safer to tug on Superman's cape, spit into the wind, and pull the mask off that ol' Lone Ranger.

The hot braised chicken and General Tso's chicken present a bonnet bee of the first order. The chicken is fried and soaked in sauce. The soaking, I assume, is to soften it until it appears edible. It used to be actual pieces of white meat chicken in a batter. I would even settle for dark meat chicken in a batter. But lately I get chicken skin in a batter, fried, soaked in sauce. That's all I can imagine this substance to be. There's no visible meat if you can manage to cut it open. It chews like a piece of rawhide. I would like to challenge them to find the chicken. Recent blindness is not an excuse.

Hope springs eternal every time Hick calls on his way home and asks if we want him to pick up Chinese. Every time, I think I will give them one more chance. Tonight, their chance ran out. I could not finish what I put on my plate, even though I risk losing my membership in the Clean Plate Club. My sweet, sweet Juno is in for a treat. I hope these fried skins are not any more dangerous than chicken bones.

It's back to soup for me. At least I can see the tofu.

Dreamcrushers, Realists, and Joysuckers

Let’s talk about dreamcrushers. Though Val herself has been accused of being such a villian, she prefers to think of herself as a realist. For example, one of my classes inquired, “What does The Pony want to do when he grows up, Mrs. Thevictorian?”

“Well, he wants to be a writer. But his dad and I have told him that he needs to have a steady income with benefits, and he can write in his spare time, and if he starts making money at it, he can quit his day job. We’ve been discussing the field of chemical engineering. Chemistry is a subject he finds easy.”

“Oh. So you’re a dreamcrusher.”

No. Realist. If I was a dreamcrusher, I would tell him, “You can’t write. You might as well give that up right now. You’ll never be a famous author. You’ll never sell any books. Nobody wants to read anything you write.” THAT is a dreamcrusher.

Then there are the joysuckers. They appear after the fact. Those people who won’t let you experience one moment of joy. They must bring you down, right in the middle of a celebration.

Yesterday morning, I showed a few people at school pictures of my newest pet. This little guy:

Yes. He’s cute as a bug’s ear. Hick traded four goats for him. Most people oohed and aahed over his cuteness. Except one. Who didn’t even see the picture from my own hand, but had it carried on my cell phone to her classroom, by a colleague who gushed, “Oh! We’ve GOT to show it to her.”

So…I was showing another associate that minipony, and Joysucker walked past us and said, “But what are you going to DO with him?” Not in a joking manner. With a kind of a scowl. Like she is the Minipony Police.

Hmpf! I have as much right to a pet minipony as any other person on earth. More, maybe, because I have a place to keep him. What did she THINK I was going to do with him?

Did she think, perhaps, that I might…

Shut him up in a ramshackle shed?
Travel the county fair circuit and charge people to ride him?
Send delicious cuts of him to France?
Put the cart before him?
Use his tiny teacup hooves to make a glue stick?

No. I will love him and pet him and brush his lovely mane and maybe even his long flowing tail if he’s not quick with his hooves, and keep him in a four-acre pen with goat buddies and let him out to graze on a rope in the front field.

What would she SUGGEST I do with him?

Some people are just joysuckers. Plain and simple. She made me feel almost ashamed to have a minipony. Apologetic.

I didn't ask for a minipony. Fate in the form of my husband Hick brought me one. And I shall enjoy him to the hilt.