Val is Considering the Installation of a Moat Around Her Castle

Hey! Have you heard? I hurt my back on Sunday laughing at my mom. I may have been remiss in filling everyone in on that bit of news. I’ll try to do better next injury.

On my planned day off Monday, when I was laying around in the La-Z-Boy with my (non)broken back, trying to catch a breath, I was greeted by an intruder. Not so much greeted as startled.

There I was, nearly dozing off, or slipping in and out of consciousness after returning home from dropping The Pony off at school, when I was startled awake or into consciousness by a loud car. I saw it going up the gravel road, a red sports car leaving a trail of dust. And right behind it was a white pickup truck. The strange thing about the white pickup truck was that it turned into my driveway and proceeded to the house.

I was in no state to be answering the door. I had on my comfortable sweatpants with a hole on the left waist area (like mother, like daughter), and a pinstriped shirt that may or may not have been free of stains. And black socks. Besides, my aching back did not want to hoist itself out of the La-Z-Boy and cripple over to the door. I sat, mesmerized by the possibilities.

It could be someone lost and asking for directions, in which case I owed them nothing. This is a private enclave. Nobody should be in here unless they have the permission of a resident, in which case that’s their direction-giver.

It could be the package Genius was expecting. Except that UPS has a big brown truck, and FedEx has that white contraption that tears a trench in the yard because they won’t turn around on the gravel or the concrete carport behind the garage.

It could be a ne’er-do-well bent on robbing me blind. I would deal with that if I heard a door forced open.

It could be a salesman. Too bad, so sad. Signs say no soliciting. And no trespassing. I gave the World Book guy an earful one summer at 8:30 a.m. A salesman could knock on my door until the cows come home, and I would not get up to answer.

I was about ready to drag myself to the door to see what in tarnation was going on, but then the intruder saved me the trouble. Walked right across my front porch, past the living room picture window, past the porch pew, around the corner toward the doghouses. He was a big man. Burly. With long curly hair and a beard like that portly fellow on LOST, only blond. He did not glance left or right. Clomped right on past, as if on a mission. He made a return trip about two minutes later.

I can only surmise that he might have been the electric meter reader, though I thought that was all automatic now. Besides, he was not carrying a club to beat dogs off his shins, nor a gadget to scan meters, nor an ID tag around his neck. He DID favor the bright neon green plastic work vest favored by certain utility companies. His truck was not marked, but had a yellow light on top that could flash if needed.

If this was part of the universe’s conspiracy to spy on Val Thevictorian…I must say, the quality of spies is not all it’s cracked up to be. He was no 007, that’s for sure.

At least I remained untouched in my fortress, guarded by two non-barking dogs who did not give one whit about my safety in my weakened state.

I was a reclining duck, you know.

My Dorsal Region Mocks Me

I'm sure you all dropped by, ever hopeful, to find that I was miraculously healed, and writing about something more entertaining than my (non)broken back. Who are you people, Charlie Brown hoping to kick a football held by Lucy Van Pelt? This leopard is not about to change her spots.

I am running on four hours sleep. Here, let me reveal the details. They have nothing to do with a pea under the mattress.

5:15 p.m. to 6:15 p.m
A sound slumber in the basement recliner, awaking to a dream phone ringing. Which turned out to be the real phone, The Pony on the other end, saying his dad wanted him to call and see if I was all right, because I had not been feeling well when he left. The fleeting moments of pain-free-ness quickly turned to tear-evoking back spasms.

11:30 p.m. to 1:30 a.m.
I nodded off under my fleece blanket, all warm and toasty watching TV, again in the downstairs recliner. I woke up because it was time to go to bed. Which was one of the slowest trips up 13 stairs upon which I had ever embarked.

4:00 a.m. to 4:50 a.m.
Funny how I could not fall asleep at 1:30 in my flannel-sheeted queen-size. I tried laying on my side, in order to slip that dislocated spasm-generator back into place. Funny how my back quit hurting, but my neck started up. Oh, and not funny how every time Hick flopped over, I sailed up and down like a jolly good fellow in a blanket toss. I hadn't been that jolted since Hick drove me through the fields of my grandma's Christmas tree farm in his old pickup while I was in early labor with Genius, who was born at 9:24 the next morning.

Yes, that's ten minutes short. But I'd rather think of myself getting four hours sleep than three hours and fifty minutes of sleep.

I made it through work without any major sleepage incidents. The back held up. Seriously. This is public school with seven days left, testing over, only fun projects left to do. It's not like I was on the Boys' Town Wagon Train Train Ride.

The main thorn in my side was the little dude at the register in Save A Lot on the way home. We went to pick up The Pony's new glasses, and I stopped at the lesser Save A Lot for some hamburger to add to the four-cheese tortellini that The Pony wanted for supper. While I was there, I tossed in some frozen garlic toast, and three individual packs of Soft Batch Chocolate Chip Cookies because The Pony asked for them. With my back still tender, I piled my items in the upper child seat area of the cart, so as to invoke no bending and lifting.

The cashier slid my foodstuffs over the scanner and tossed them in the waiting cart. There were only five items, people. How hard is it to attend to them properly? Apparently, the difficulty level is on par with herding a clowder of cats from Independence to Oregon City. He flung my purchases into the waiting child seat, which was more ready for a child, what with the flat red plastic seat flap down, not up against the handle. Two of the Soft Batch treats slammed to the tile floor at 98 meters per second squared.

That meant Val of the (non)broken back club had to bend over and retrieve them. It was not a pretty sight.

The words Val had for the cashier as she exited the establishment were not a pretty sound.

When You Have an Unbroken Back, You Have Everything

I took a day off from work today. Because 21 snow days is not enough.

I still have three days remaining of my allotted contract sick leave and personal days that will simply disappear on the last day of school like a burst soap bubble. Such a hardship to have accumulated the maximum.

This day had been planned for almost a week. It seems Val is scarily psychic about her days off. Who knew I would be laid up with a broken back on this very date? Okay. So my back has not been officially diagnosed as broken. The internet tells me it is a rib that popped out of its little socket, and now the surrounding muscles are rebelling, and perhaps keeping it from slipping right back where it belongs.

I saw a cohort on the school parking lot this morning when I dropped off The Pony. She had the same malady last week, and looked like death warmed over for three days. The difference is, she acquired her injury from working out. Mine was from...um...not working out. She laughed and told me she knew I was miserable, and that she hoped I would get over it quickly. Too bad laughing did not cause her a relapse. I asked how she got through it, and she replied, "Muscle relaxers and a trip to the chiropractor." Since I have neither, I will be toughing it out. She did recommend ice, which I applied around noon, and obtained some relief.

From school, I went by my mom's house to drop off The Pony's laptop. Mom was picking him up from school today, then Hick was getting him after work for an informational meeting in preparation for his Missouri Scholars Academy attendance this summer. I didn't get out to visit with Mom. I still had to make a trip to Walmart for a few items. Saving my energy was important. Of course Mom made me laugh, and that set off a renewed spasm of agony.

Thank goodness Walmart had a cart for me to lean on like a walker. Or so I thought. It seems that the Walmart floor-sweepers are not as conscientious as they might be, or that hooligans run amok on the makeup aisle. Believe me, I was not shopping for makeup, but merely taking what I believed to be a shortcut. One lady was blocking the aisle. She kind of huffed and hauled her cart over to the side. I'm pretty sure she's one of those drivers who take her half out of the middle as well.

So there I was, wheeling my walker cart up the makeup aisle, when IT SLAMMED TO A STOP LIKE I HAD COLLIDED WITH A BRICK WALL! Oh, my aching back. That set off a new spasm. It was all I could do not to scream. I didn't want that blocker woman to think I was challenging her to a fight. I pulled my cart back in an effort to lose whatever had acted like a tire wedge on my left front wheel. You won't believe what stopped me in my tracks and caused me such agony.

IT WAS A PINK PRESS-ON FINGERNAIL!

That definitely added insult to my injury. I need to stay home, wrap myself in roll of carded cotton, lay down on a mountain of memory foam, and heal. But I am needed at school, what with the end finally in sight, and the students having a whiff of freedom cross their nostrils every fifty minutes. Two days in a row out from under my iron-fisted thumb is not a pleasant scenario.

I really hope Hick does not put a pea under my mattress to test me tonight.

My Mom is Quite Generous With Her Gift

I'm down in my back. That's how my mom would say it. That means my back is hurtin' for certain. It also means I am getting old. I blame my mom. Not for me getting old, of course, though she did have a hand in it right from the beginning. No, I mean she is the reason I am down in my back.

I called Mom this morning before she left for church. As is her way (and not at all my own, of course) she got to telling me a story. I cranked Hick's La-Z-Boy back to get comfortable. I'm sure this is hard to believe, but Mom's stories sometimes take the scenic route.

"I went by the credit union to pay my Christmas Club, and that friend of Genius was working. I know you told me about him the last time you went. How you were surprised he had that job when he's going to school to be an engineer. He was actually at the other teller window, but he came over to mine and started to talk." Let the record show that those teller windows are covered with bulletproof glass, and have a small metal scoop at the bottom for feeding in transactions and receiving receipts. Not that it's in the high crime area of Backroads. We don't have one.

"You're Genius's grandma, aren't you? The next time you see Genius, tell him I said 'Hi'."

"So I told him, 'I'm surprised you're working here. I know you're going to college. What are you majoring in?' And he said, 'Accounting.' Then I asked if he was working full time, and he said no, that he was just working two days a week until college was out, and then he'd probably work more. Is he not going to college with Genius when he gets out of junior college? I thought he had the same plan for a degree."

"I thought so too. I'll ask Genius. He doesn't really keep up with his high school friends anymore."

"So I said to him, 'I'm surprised to see you in here. I thought they were looking for a girl.' And he said, 'Yeah, I think they were.' Was that the wrong thing to say?"

"Well...he is one of the most chauvinistic of Genius's friends. He used to tell his girlfriend, 'Shut up, woman, and go make me a sammich.' He was teasing. But not completely."

"Oh. You know how I can't keep my mouth shut. I kept talking to him, and he was being friendly, and then he said, 'Well...it's time for my lunch break. I have to go.' I guess I talk too much. Did I tell you about buying the donuts?"

"Yes, Mom. I know you got free donuts. Maybe that was THAT guy's way of telling you it was time for his lunch."

"I told a man at church that story, and how I felt guilty about getting free donuts, and he said he might just try that, because he would LOVE to get free donuts."

"Sorry, Mom. It's time for my breakfast now."

"Okay. You have a nice...wait a minute. I know what you're doing!"

"Uh huh. I'll talk to you tonight. I'm sure you've got a lot of people to talk to at church."

My mom has a gift. The gift of gab. In sharing her gift with me this morning, she also gave me something else. A strained muscle in my back. Or a rib out of place, if that's possible. I was leaning sideways on the armrest of the La-Z-Boy, and when she said how that boy told her it was time for his lunch, I snorted. And chuckled. Kind of at the same time, so you might say I snuckled. That's the exact moment I felt a stabbing sensation behind my liver.

The pain goes around the side, and is sensitive to touch. It's kind of a bad pain. I can't get a deep breath. Sneezing and coughing are agony. It's not gallstone bad, or childbirth bad, or broken-bone bad, or migraine bad. But it's bad.

I don't think I ever hurt myself laughing when I was younger. For anyone who thought Val was a spring chicken, born yesterday...here's the anecdotal evidence she was not.

We So Brawny

It may come as a surprise to you that the Thevictorian family is quite strong. Muscular. Burly. I will stop short of claiming that we can each rip a telephone book in half. Though we probably could if it was a Backroads telephone book and not a New York City telephone book. And for those of you who are asking, "What in tarnation is a telephone book?" I say, "Go to bed, you wily whippersnappers! You're too young to be up this late."

Yes, we Thevictorians are musclebound. We don't know our own strength. We could beat Popeye in an arm-wresting contest. AFTER he had downed a can of spinach! We'd make Paul Bunyan appear to be a wormy pantywaist in need of a good dose of cod liver oil. BamBam Rubble would have looked like a mewling newborn kitten next to our strapping lads.

You know how it is. You become comfortable with your abilities, and think nothing of them. You go about your daily life on automatic pilot. Until a precipitating event jolts you back to reality.

My culinary prowess, discussed far and wide, from one corner of Backroads to another to another to another...seems to have been my undoing. Perhaps you've heard that Val does not so much "cook" as she warms foods in the microwave, or heats them in the oven. My repertoire has been hacked in half.

Thursday morning, I packed up the lunches and reached for the microwave handle to warm my two mini sausage biscuits. Imagine my surprise when it popped out like a pump handle on the upswing. With a loud CRACK, to boot! Huh. My long black plastic microwave door handle, shaped like a bow, attached at top and bottom...was now only attached at the top. Val is nothing if not resourceful. And hungry for mini sausage biscuits in the morning. I grasped the top attachment area of the microwave handle. Pinched it between thumb and forefinger. I could still get the door open.

Fortified by my mini sausage biscuits, I shot off a text to Hick so he would know that the microwave door handle was broken. He texted back, "Okay." Like he had a say in the matter, giving me permission after the fact. I hate it when he does that.

After a late night at the board meeting for a student recognition ceremony, the Thevictorian family once again convened at home. Hick stopped on his way back to pick up some epoxy. He took out the top and bottom screws, slathered that handle in glue, then reattached it. "There. We will order a new one anyway, because we're probably going to need it down the line." I don't know about your definition of down the line, but I somehow expected it to be longer than ten hours.

Friday morning, when I reached for the microwave handle to warm up my mini sausage biscuits, the entire assembly came off in my hand. So close. But yet so far. I had mini sausage biscuits waiting. So I stuck my fingernails up under the bottom of the door, and pried it open. Nothing comes between Val and her mini sausage biscuits. Oh, and I made sure to send a text to Hick. "Good job. Now the whole handle broke off." As you might imagine, Hick replied. "Okay."

Friday night, Hick headed to his basement workshop. I heard him rummaging, but was not invested enough to check on his progress. It was still twelve hours until I needed mini sausage biscuits. The Pony ran upstairs for some ice water, and came back with news from the microwave front. "You won't have to worry about the microwave anymore! Dad put TWO handles on the door!"

Of course this news set off an alarm bell in the back of my head. A microwave door should not need two handles. When I went upstairs, this is what I found.

I don't mean to brag, but I think I'm the only woman in Backroads with drawer knobs for her microwave handle(s).

Paging Doctor Genius!

I have reached a temporary solution to my internet problems. I shall only use the desktop in my dark basement lair. My desktop has a name you know, it’s D E S K Y. No. That’s not true. Desky is the name of Genius’s desktop. It was his idea to name all of our electronics. Yes. The odd duck does not fall far from the nest. My desktop is New Delly. That’s because it’s a Dell, and when I got it, it was new. My laptop upstairs is named Shiba. Short for Toshiba. That’s the one that’s sick. She has come down with the .dll flu. Something has gone corrupt with her XPCOM file. Not only is Firefox unoperational, but so are my blogs, even when I try Internet Explorer as the browser. No gmail, no Blogger. I can’t even open my Sprint connect card thingy.

Downstairs, however, I can open the connect card. Just as long as I turn on the laptop and hang that connector in the window upstairs, the internet connection runs.

Yes, New Delly is hale and hearty. Robust. He’s the workhorse. The Percheron, the Clydesdale, the Belgian. Shiba, however, is listless. Languid. Anemic. She’s the swaybacked old nag with an appointment at the glue factory on Monday.

Whereas New Delly is a Charles Atlas, a Jack LaLane, an Izzy Mandelbaum capable of out-powerlifting Jerry Seinfeld…Shiba is the 98-pound weakling getting sand kicked in her face, standing on the sidelines in a back brace and headgear, holding an inhaler and an epi-pen, a mini pack of tissues strapped to her wrist, wearing a T-shirt that says, “I Brake For Peanuts.”

The invalid will rest on her perch on a wooden TV tray in the front living room window until Dr. Genius has time to do a workup. The patient may require surgery, may require a transplant, and will probably benefit from a good wiping.

The doctor is in, but I fear the patient will not be seen until morning rounds.

Advantages and Disadvantages of the Backroads Life

My internet woes continue. I can’t hold a connection long enough to type a comment and get it published. I have to copy the witty masterpieces, then paste and submit immediately when I get a glimmer of a connection. My regular posts are typed elsewhere and copied and pasted. So…I may or may not be able to keep up with my regular daily schedule until I get better internet service. Funny how it works for months, then when you are accustomed to paying more for faster speed, it suddenly becomes sluggish.

Living along the back roads has its minuses.

In the plus column…I can tease your brain with a little game called Dead or Alive. Is that too macabre? Is that frowned upon? Because if it is, I will not play it. Since I hear no complaints, put on your Sherlock Holmes detective hats. Fire up the meerschaum pipes.

Here are ten things I have seen this week from the safety of T-Hoe’s cabin. All were on the road or parking lot. Your challenge is to sort them into Dead and Alive. I’ll make it easy for you. There are five of each. Don’t go putting all in one category, to assure yourself a whopping score of 50%. I’m onto that trick. I’m a teacher, you know.

Armadillo

Caterpillar

Cow

Deer

Goose

Rabbit

Skunk

Snake

Squirrel

Worm

They are listed in alphabetical order so as not to tip you off or confuse you. Good luck. When I next have an internet connection, I will reveal the answers in the comments.