Genius is home for 36 hours.
Some might call it a day, or two days, or a day-and-a-half. But it's Genius we're talking about here. You're lucky I didn't calculate the seconds.
This morning I took The Pony to registration at the high school. We left at 8:15, way before Genius rolled out of bed. I stopped by Hardee's to get The Pony some breakfast. On the way back, I was planning to run in Save-A-Lot for a couple things. I tried to call Genius, but he didn't answer. Once we parked at Save-A-Lot, I tried again.
"I don't want anything. All I did yesterday was eat."
"Okay. Are you going to be home for supper? I thought about making meat loaf. I know you like it."
"No. I'm going to a movie at 1:00, then surprising my friend's parents. He's at work until 5:30, but they haven't seen me in a long time."
"All right." I went about my business. When The Pony and I unpacked the stuff at home, Genius started nosing around.
"I can't believe you didn't get me anything!"
"You didn't want anything!"
"Well, I got up, and went to look for a Little Debbie brownie, and THE BOX WAS EMPTY!"
"The Pony hasn't eaten them all summer. It was probably YOU who left the box empty last time you were here. I was going to get you some little donuts, but you didn't want anything."
"Oh, but you got HIM Hardee's!"
"That was three hours ago. I don't think you would have wanted me to get you any then."
"What's this?
"Some kind of sugar-free drink for your dad. There are three kinds. You can have some if you want. He'll never know.
"They are all the same color. Mmm...strawberry lemonade! That's pretty good. Here. Try it."
"No thanks, Mr. Ebola. You're not going to trick me. You've only been on antibiotics since Tuesday night. I don't want your disease."
"Oh, yeah. That's right. Hey, I wanted some Golden Oreos!"
"Do you think Save-A-Lot has brand names? They don't. But I DID get you these fake Girl Scout Thin Mints."
"Nom nom nom. I LOVE them!"
"So, you're not going to be home for supper?"
"I think I will."
"Too bad. There's nothing for you to eat. I got two pork steaks for Dad and me. Your brother is having corn dogs. I can make you super nachos, with fajita chicken, nacho cheese, sour cream, salsa, jalapenos, and black olives."
"I'll take corn dogs. What am I going to have for breakfast?"
"The Pony has cinnamon toast every day."
Genius rifled through the cabinets. "Hey! Are we BUYING our cinnamon sugar now?"
"No. That's an old shaker that your grandma gave you back when you were a kid. We just filled it up last week. What kind of millionaire do you think I am?"
"Not a very good one?"
"The kind of millionaire without much money. Get that toaster out from under the cabinets! You'll burn the house down!"
"Blah blah blah."
Genius busied himself watching Ridiculousness. I switched to Roseanne, to see a Halloween episode. "I hate that show! I'm making some eggs."
"I almost bought some bacon for you, but you said you didn't want anything."
"I would LOVE to have some bacon with my eggs. But YOU didn't buy any. Now I'll have to use oil. That's not as good."
"Your dad fries HIS bacon in oil."
"Yeah. That's so wrong. All you need is bacon grease. Not oil to thin it out."
"What's that noise? That popping?"
"Just my oil getting hot."
"That's TOO hot! It will get all over my stove and counter."
"Blah blah blah. I'm using the big pan. It's easier that way. Did you know your big pan is coming apart? The handle is half off."
"Well, I would tell you something, but I fear the consequences."
"Tell me."
"Um. It's coming apart? Huh. The bottom is all dirty now, too. I might just throw it away. But I'm afraid to tell you that, because I can picture you turning it over to look at the bottom, and spilling your eggs and oil all down the burner."
"You know, I probably would have done that. Where's the spatula?"
"Where do YOU think it is? It can only be three places. It's either clean in the drawer, dirty on the counter, or clean in the sink."
"What do I do with this used oil?"
"Take it out back and pour it off the back porch. WITHOUT spilling it all through the kitchen."
"Huh. If there's a chicken down on the ground, can I pour the hot oil on it? Fry it up right now, and miss a couple of steps?"
"No."
"Whoa! You missed it. There really WAS a chicken down there. I had to stop myself when I saw it."
Let the record show that Genius used a good glass plate to get all eggy with his three fried eggs. They were gone in less than three minutes.
"Make sure you put that in the sink to soak."
"I AM!"
"Too bad you lost my Stubs movie card. You could earn me points on your ticket, and get a discount on your movie snacks."
"I get in FREE. My friend works there. And I think we get snacks, too."
"What do you get?"
"Probably a small slushie and small popcorn."
"Oh. What they give the kids when they go on a field trip."
"Maybe. I've got to get going. Can I have your bank card? I need to get some shoes and school supplies."
"It's in the purse. Don't go overboard. Remember what kind of millionaire I am. Anyway, I'll take it out of your account."
"What do you mean, TAKE IT OUT OF MY ACCOUNT?"
"Your college savings. It's stuff for college."
"Oh. I thought you meant out of MY money."
Funny how it only works one way, isn't it? Genius grabbed the plastic money and took off. I was just taking a deep breath, getting back to my life, when I heard someone on the porch and say a tall head at the glass thingamabob on top of the door. Great. What kind of stranger was up in here now? I knew I did not have any packages coming from that crazy UPS label-picture-drawing dude. I smoothed down my hair and went to open the door.
It was Genius. "Lock yourself out?"
"Yes. You can open that knob from the inside, even when it's locked. That's the stupidest thing! You know, I could have died if I did this last night."
"I don't think so. It was 75 degrees. You could have slept on the back porch."
"Well, if it was winter, I could have died."
"You're the kind of Genius who isn't very smart.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
From the Small World and Revenge Departments
The Pony and I stopped for haircuts today after his dentist appointment. Yes, we went to Terrible Cuts. I had a coupon. If I was smart, which obviously I'm not, I would have used the coupon on me today, then taken The Pony back tomorrow to use the $2.00 off savings from my receipt. Too bad, so sad. Hindsight is worth $2.00.
The story today is not about our terrible cuts. They're actually presentable. The story is about the cutter. I had a new girl. That happens frequently at Terrible Cuts. In the middle of our haircuts, The Pony's gal asked if he was ready to go back to school. Of course he is. He's a Thevictorian, after all.
My cutter asked what grade he is in. Seems that she has a brother in the same grade, at our same school. A brother who is one of The Pony's friends, who he competes with neck-and-neck in the math contest each year. Small world.
My mom called this afternoon. I don't know why. I can't remember anything urgent that needed telling, other than she had been out in the yard weed-eating this morning, cutting the heads off those weeds that sprout up. But she said she was disappointed that I had not called her after The Pony's dentist appointment to ask if she wanted to ride over to Culver's for some frozen custard. Can you believe the nerve of her? After not bringing me any free expired frozen custard only Monday! I guess I showed HER!
"We went to get haircuts after the dentist. You'll never guess who cut my hair. I'll give you 2001 guesses, though. We have plenty of time."
"Oh. I don't think I can guess."
"That's the easy way out. Give it a try. You have a lot of guesses."
"Do we know each other?"
"No."
"Well, I don't know how I can guess if I don't even know who it is!"
"If you knew who it was, you wouldn't have to guess!" Mom seems to find my interrogation techniques hilarious. She was already gasping for breath. "That's why I'm giving you so many chances. But all I can answer is YES or NO. You have 2000 guesses left."
"Is it a former student from your school?"
"No. But that is very close."
"Does this person have red hair?"
"No. That is not a very good guess. I gave you a major hint. What's next, 'Does this person have false teeth?' Try to use the hints!"
"Oh, you've got me tickled. I can't breathe. I was going to change clothes and run to town before it rains, but now I don't know if I have the strength."
"You shouldn't have been out in the yard weed-eating, using all your energy! Think of this game as me giving you exercise. Guess again."
"Is this person blond?"
"No."
"Brunette?"
"YES! I'm sure you'll guess it now that you've narrowed it down like that!"
"Oh, stop! Does this person go to my church?"
"No."
"Did this person talk about me?"
"No. This person doesn't know you, remember? You're not very good at this game. Hey! Pony! What's that game Genius had that was a little disc that answered whatever you were thinking about in twenty questions?"
"You mean TWENTY QUESTIONS?"
"Yeah. I guess that was it. Well, even that game would not be able to answer Grandma's guess in twenty questions. She's terrible at this! Okay, next question."
"Is it a male or a female?
"Um. That's not a yes or no question."
"Is it male?"
"No."
"Is it female?"
"Yes. That kind of wasted a question. But you have SO many more to go.You have not paid attention to your clues. What did I tell you in the beginning? That you were very close when you asked if it was a former student from my school."
"Was it a teacher from your school?"
"No. They already have jobs."
"Are they under 30?"
"Yes. I think so."
"Was it Mabel?"
"No. She is retired. Not under 30."
"Was it your secretary from school?"
"No. We already established no red hair. And she's not under 30."
"Oh, I am exhausted. I'll never guess!"
"Probably not. Next question? We've only been at this 15 minutes. We have a long way to go. Here's another hint. It has a connection to The Pony and his friends. The Pony is at the top of his class. What's next to the top of the class?"
"The bottom?"
"NO! The bottom of the class is not next to the top. The almost-top of the class is next to the top."
"Is it that math teacher's son?"
"No. He's in a different class. He's older. But it has something to do with the math contest every year."
"Was it that math teacher?"
"NO! Teachers already have jobs. They are not cutting hair the week before school starts."
"Oh...I give up."
"You just expect me to TELL you? After I've given you all of those hints?"
"Yes. I have to go to town."
"All right. You know that kid who sometimes beats The Pony in math competition, the one he raced to get the medal one year because they tied again, and The Pony didn't want to wait 12 weeks for the duplicate medal to come in this time? It was that kid's sister."
"Oh."
"I can't believe you didn't guess it! We're going to have to practice until you get better at this game."
Was that too rough on her? You know. For not bringing me that free expired frozen custard? I don't think it was. But I also don't think she will make the connection.
The story today is not about our terrible cuts. They're actually presentable. The story is about the cutter. I had a new girl. That happens frequently at Terrible Cuts. In the middle of our haircuts, The Pony's gal asked if he was ready to go back to school. Of course he is. He's a Thevictorian, after all.
My cutter asked what grade he is in. Seems that she has a brother in the same grade, at our same school. A brother who is one of The Pony's friends, who he competes with neck-and-neck in the math contest each year. Small world.
My mom called this afternoon. I don't know why. I can't remember anything urgent that needed telling, other than she had been out in the yard weed-eating this morning, cutting the heads off those weeds that sprout up. But she said she was disappointed that I had not called her after The Pony's dentist appointment to ask if she wanted to ride over to Culver's for some frozen custard. Can you believe the nerve of her? After not bringing me any free expired frozen custard only Monday! I guess I showed HER!
"We went to get haircuts after the dentist. You'll never guess who cut my hair. I'll give you 2001 guesses, though. We have plenty of time."
"Oh. I don't think I can guess."
"That's the easy way out. Give it a try. You have a lot of guesses."
"Do we know each other?"
"No."
"Well, I don't know how I can guess if I don't even know who it is!"
"If you knew who it was, you wouldn't have to guess!" Mom seems to find my interrogation techniques hilarious. She was already gasping for breath. "That's why I'm giving you so many chances. But all I can answer is YES or NO. You have 2000 guesses left."
"Is it a former student from your school?"
"No. But that is very close."
"Does this person have red hair?"
"No. That is not a very good guess. I gave you a major hint. What's next, 'Does this person have false teeth?' Try to use the hints!"
"Oh, you've got me tickled. I can't breathe. I was going to change clothes and run to town before it rains, but now I don't know if I have the strength."
"You shouldn't have been out in the yard weed-eating, using all your energy! Think of this game as me giving you exercise. Guess again."
"Is this person blond?"
"No."
"Brunette?"
"YES! I'm sure you'll guess it now that you've narrowed it down like that!"
"Oh, stop! Does this person go to my church?"
"No."
"Did this person talk about me?"
"No. This person doesn't know you, remember? You're not very good at this game. Hey! Pony! What's that game Genius had that was a little disc that answered whatever you were thinking about in twenty questions?"
"You mean TWENTY QUESTIONS?"
"Yeah. I guess that was it. Well, even that game would not be able to answer Grandma's guess in twenty questions. She's terrible at this! Okay, next question."
"Is it a male or a female?
"Um. That's not a yes or no question."
"Is it male?"
"No."
"Is it female?"
"Yes. That kind of wasted a question. But you have SO many more to go.You have not paid attention to your clues. What did I tell you in the beginning? That you were very close when you asked if it was a former student from my school."
"Was it a teacher from your school?"
"No. They already have jobs."
"Are they under 30?"
"Yes. I think so."
"Was it Mabel?"
"No. She is retired. Not under 30."
"Was it your secretary from school?"
"No. We already established no red hair. And she's not under 30."
"Oh, I am exhausted. I'll never guess!"
"Probably not. Next question? We've only been at this 15 minutes. We have a long way to go. Here's another hint. It has a connection to The Pony and his friends. The Pony is at the top of his class. What's next to the top of the class?"
"The bottom?"
"NO! The bottom of the class is not next to the top. The almost-top of the class is next to the top."
"Is it that math teacher's son?"
"No. He's in a different class. He's older. But it has something to do with the math contest every year."
"Was it that math teacher?"
"NO! Teachers already have jobs. They are not cutting hair the week before school starts."
"Oh...I give up."
"You just expect me to TELL you? After I've given you all of those hints?"
"Yes. I have to go to town."
"All right. You know that kid who sometimes beats The Pony in math competition, the one he raced to get the medal one year because they tied again, and The Pony didn't want to wait 12 weeks for the duplicate medal to come in this time? It was that kid's sister."
"Oh."
"I can't believe you didn't guess it! We're going to have to practice until you get better at this game."
Was that too rough on her? You know. For not bringing me that free expired frozen custard? I don't think it was. But I also don't think she will make the connection.
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Facing the Cold Soft Truth
Sometimes, there are things you don't really want to hear. Like when my boys were in elementary school, and their third grade teacher chose to explain the ingredients in hot dogs. Genius has rarely eaten one since. The Pony got over it much quicker. He would stuff himself with hot dogs if it was socially acceptable.
Then there was the elementary art teacher who told the second graders all about Santa Claus. Every year. Like they weren't hearing it enough from the older kids on the bus.
Okay, I admit to giving out a little too much info one time. But it had to be done. This was ninth grade. A kid asked me what pickles looked like before they were picked. Um. She didn't want to know that pickles were cucumbers before they became pickles. Seems she really, really didn't like cucumbers. And vowed never to eat another pickle. So sorry. She should be glad that only nine other kids were in class to lecture her about pickles. Not the entire general population of high school students. I did her a favor, really. Saved her from future embarrassment.
My own unwanted awakening came out of the mouth of my cousin. She was three years older than me. We were spending a few days at my grandma's house over the summer. Grandma used to take all of us grandkids for two weeks solid every summer. What she was thinking I can't imagine. Perhaps how GOOD it felt to thrash us all at croquet. Anyhoo...as a special treat, instead of sleeping in the back bedroom, or on the hide-a-bed, or on a pallet on the floor, Grandma sometimes allowed us to sleep in the camper. To the best I remember, it looked like this:
That's a 1956 Southland Runabout, I think. And if I remember correctly, it had a bed in the back like this:
But my rude awakening came in the kitchen. At the table that had been my bed the night before:
Uh huh. My grandma's camper was nowhere near this grand. But I am happy to find a reasonable facsimile on the innernets.
So...my cousins and I had been running around in the yard, perhaps throwing hedgeapples down the sinkhole by the driveway while adults were busy snapping beans or husking corn. Grandma never let anyone leave without a box of fresh produce. Any time our parents came to visit, they left well-stocked with garden goods. Fresh tomatoes warm from the vine were not what was dancing in our heads, though. We were waiting on the most important food preparation: ice cream.
I couldn't find a picture that reminded me of our ice cream churn. I think it was blue, and had a silver piece in the middle, and an area to fill with ice and rock salt, and a crank on the side. The adults took turns cranking. And, by magic, ice cream was formed!
There I sat, across the camper table/bed from my cousin, clicking my metal spoon against my olive green Melmac bowl, stirring my ice cream until I had it good and smooth, the way I liked it. My cousin asked what I was doing. She had already eaten her portion.
"I'm stirring it. I like it kind of melty."
"Yuck. Not me. Then it turns into what it was before it was ice cream."
NOOOOO! I loved my ice cream melty. Smooth. Like cold cake batter. No lumps.
Now that's what I think about every time I let my frozen treat get soft and smooth.
STILL TASTES GREAT, THOUGH!
Then there was the elementary art teacher who told the second graders all about Santa Claus. Every year. Like they weren't hearing it enough from the older kids on the bus.
Okay, I admit to giving out a little too much info one time. But it had to be done. This was ninth grade. A kid asked me what pickles looked like before they were picked. Um. She didn't want to know that pickles were cucumbers before they became pickles. Seems she really, really didn't like cucumbers. And vowed never to eat another pickle. So sorry. She should be glad that only nine other kids were in class to lecture her about pickles. Not the entire general population of high school students. I did her a favor, really. Saved her from future embarrassment.
My own unwanted awakening came out of the mouth of my cousin. She was three years older than me. We were spending a few days at my grandma's house over the summer. Grandma used to take all of us grandkids for two weeks solid every summer. What she was thinking I can't imagine. Perhaps how GOOD it felt to thrash us all at croquet. Anyhoo...as a special treat, instead of sleeping in the back bedroom, or on the hide-a-bed, or on a pallet on the floor, Grandma sometimes allowed us to sleep in the camper. To the best I remember, it looked like this:
So...my cousins and I had been running around in the yard, perhaps throwing hedgeapples down the sinkhole by the driveway while adults were busy snapping beans or husking corn. Grandma never let anyone leave without a box of fresh produce. Any time our parents came to visit, they left well-stocked with garden goods. Fresh tomatoes warm from the vine were not what was dancing in our heads, though. We were waiting on the most important food preparation: ice cream.
I couldn't find a picture that reminded me of our ice cream churn. I think it was blue, and had a silver piece in the middle, and an area to fill with ice and rock salt, and a crank on the side. The adults took turns cranking. And, by magic, ice cream was formed!
There I sat, across the camper table/bed from my cousin, clicking my metal spoon against my olive green Melmac bowl, stirring my ice cream until I had it good and smooth, the way I liked it. My cousin asked what I was doing. She had already eaten her portion.
"I'm stirring it. I like it kind of melty."
"Yuck. Not me. Then it turns into what it was before it was ice cream."
NOOOOO! I loved my ice cream melty. Smooth. Like cold cake batter. No lumps.
Now that's what I think about every time I let my frozen treat get soft and smooth.
STILL TASTES GREAT, THOUGH!
Monday, August 4, 2014
Val's Worth Continues to Erode
Seems like only yesterday that Val was the Five-Dollar Daughter.
Has she not faithfully driven her mother to doctor's appointments, cleaned and bandaged the incision on her face, advised her on how to interact with her handyman, Chatty Handy, and gotten her tickled against her wishes? Yes. The answer to all items in this question is YES!
The last time Val and Mom took a road trip, to pay bills, pick up Rally's fast food for The Pony, and indulge in a frozen custard treat...Mom gave Val five dollars.
Well. How the worm has turned!
Today, Mom wanted to go out for lunch and treat The Pony, Val, Val's sister the ex-mayor's wife, Val's niece, and Val's niece's baby daughter. Let the record show that the baby doesn't eat much. Fighting a headache since last night, unable to dose it with anything other than acetaminophen due to her blood-thinner regime, Val declined, but drove The Pony to Mom's house for the affair.
Mom and The Pony met up with the other three gals at Culver's in a nearby town. The Pony had never strapped on the feedbag at Culver's, and later gave a mixed review. Seems he couldn't taste the ketchup and mustard on his burger, and found his chocolate shake to be too thick. As if that's possible. Mom would accept no money, saying The Pony's meal was her treat. Let the record show that Mom had originally been willing to foot the bill for Val's lunch as well.
Oh, the things one finds out when one has a little Pony. Seems that Culver's was giving away frozen custard today. GIVING IT AWAY!
Mom: "I'm sorry The Pony didn't enjoy his food. Maybe next time. I ordered my vanilla cone first, and ate it before my meal. The others ate their regular food first."
Val: "That's why The Pony didn't like his shake. He was full of real food. Culver's has the best custard ever. I told him that the other day."
Pony: "They were giving some away."
Mom: "Uh huh. I was not embarrassed to sit there with my cone. They were giving away, what was it, Pony? Containers of custard. Was it pints?"
Pony: "Grandma didn't get any for you."
Mom: "Well, it was strawberry. I didn't think you liked strawberry. I thought you just liked chocolate." See what happens when Mom assumes? She makes a bitter custard-joneser out of Val.
Val: "I like strawberry. I would have LOVED to have some custard."
Mom: "Your sister said, 'It has REAL strawberries in it!' They were just giving it away. Isn't that right, Pony?"
Pony: "Yes. But it expired today."
Val: "LIKE THAT MEANS ANYTHING! Grandma gives me expired stuff all the time!"
Mom: "They said it was still good for 45 days."
Val: "Yet you didn't get any for me."
Mom: "Well, I didn't think you liked strawberry."
Val: "I would have liked VANILLA if it was frozen custard from Culver's, being given away for free!"
Mom: "I'll know that next time."
Uh huh. Val is not even worth free expired frozen custard.
HER PRICE IS FAR BELOW FREE EXPIRED FROZEN CUSTARD!
That's the title I wanted to use. But I think it might have given away my point far too soon.
Has she not faithfully driven her mother to doctor's appointments, cleaned and bandaged the incision on her face, advised her on how to interact with her handyman, Chatty Handy, and gotten her tickled against her wishes? Yes. The answer to all items in this question is YES!
The last time Val and Mom took a road trip, to pay bills, pick up Rally's fast food for The Pony, and indulge in a frozen custard treat...Mom gave Val five dollars.
Well. How the worm has turned!
Today, Mom wanted to go out for lunch and treat The Pony, Val, Val's sister the ex-mayor's wife, Val's niece, and Val's niece's baby daughter. Let the record show that the baby doesn't eat much. Fighting a headache since last night, unable to dose it with anything other than acetaminophen due to her blood-thinner regime, Val declined, but drove The Pony to Mom's house for the affair.
Mom and The Pony met up with the other three gals at Culver's in a nearby town. The Pony had never strapped on the feedbag at Culver's, and later gave a mixed review. Seems he couldn't taste the ketchup and mustard on his burger, and found his chocolate shake to be too thick. As if that's possible. Mom would accept no money, saying The Pony's meal was her treat. Let the record show that Mom had originally been willing to foot the bill for Val's lunch as well.
Oh, the things one finds out when one has a little Pony. Seems that Culver's was giving away frozen custard today. GIVING IT AWAY!
Mom: "I'm sorry The Pony didn't enjoy his food. Maybe next time. I ordered my vanilla cone first, and ate it before my meal. The others ate their regular food first."
Val: "That's why The Pony didn't like his shake. He was full of real food. Culver's has the best custard ever. I told him that the other day."
Pony: "They were giving some away."
Mom: "Uh huh. I was not embarrassed to sit there with my cone. They were giving away, what was it, Pony? Containers of custard. Was it pints?"
Pony: "Grandma didn't get any for you."
Mom: "Well, it was strawberry. I didn't think you liked strawberry. I thought you just liked chocolate." See what happens when Mom assumes? She makes a bitter custard-joneser out of Val.
Val: "I like strawberry. I would have LOVED to have some custard."
Mom: "Your sister said, 'It has REAL strawberries in it!' They were just giving it away. Isn't that right, Pony?"
Pony: "Yes. But it expired today."
Val: "LIKE THAT MEANS ANYTHING! Grandma gives me expired stuff all the time!"
Mom: "They said it was still good for 45 days."
Val: "Yet you didn't get any for me."
Mom: "Well, I didn't think you liked strawberry."
Val: "I would have liked VANILLA if it was frozen custard from Culver's, being given away for free!"
Mom: "I'll know that next time."
Uh huh. Val is not even worth free expired frozen custard.
HER PRICE IS FAR BELOW FREE EXPIRED FROZEN CUSTARD!
That's the title I wanted to use. But I think it might have given away my point far too soon.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
The Crazies Get In, the Crazies Get Out, Next They'll Play Pinochle On My Snout
I would have sworn the full moon was tonight. But it's not. Don't bother checking. August 10 is the next lunar bloating. You'd never have guessed that if you experienced the morning I had. My weirdo magnet was obviously operating on a full charge. Let me share my angst with you. I'm a giver like that. I will present three vignettes in reverse chronological order, by descending comfort level.
The Yardy Pooper.
I parked T-Hoe down at the end of The Voice of the Village to get a 44 oz. beverage. First I busied myself with recording my Walmart purchase in my check register. We'll get to the reason for that momentarily. Remember, these tales are in reverse chronological order, like that Seinfeld episode everybody hates where the gang ends up at a wedding in India, but actually starts out there.
A lady walked past T-Hoe from the gas pumps, across the parking lot, up over the sidewalk, onto a grassy area about the size of half a basketball court. She had a sweet little Sheltie on a leash. She proceeded to let her Sheltie do her business on that grass. Not out at the end by the sidewalk where there's extra parking, but up against the building. Where the staff squats to smoke in the shade during break time.
Seriously! Why do people assume any grassy area is a dog toilet? This swatch of lawn is more suited to let toddlers run off some energy during long highway trips. Not for dogs to leave their excrement. That lady could just have easily, MORE easily, in fact, led her little dog to the state-maintained right-of-way between the pumps and the road. The area where I saw a big fat rat dashing across the street. There's a ditch by it. The doggie doodoo could wash down in there if we ever have some rain.
The Sideswiper.
On our way to The Voice of the Village, right beside the concrete plant that makes giant thick beams which hold up bridge decks, I heard a siren approaching from behind. I pulled over to the right and stopped. Much like one would do for a funeral, you know. Except this area has no shoulders. The road goes right up against the sidewalk, then a fence. In my rearview mirror, and my driver's side mirror, I saw a black truck bearing down on me at a rapid rate. Blue lights flashed on the dash. That means volunteer fireman around these parts. Not red for police or ambulance or the actual fire rescue squad. This guy was headed for the firehouse.
I understand that speed is of the essence. I also understand that if there is no traffic in the oncoming lane, with a clear view for a quarter of a mile, and with an empty parking lot on the other side of that oncoming lane...there is no need for a vehicle to come within inches of my T-Hoe while passing me. The whole oncoming lane was available. No need to nearly strip me of my one good door-mirror just to show off. He did the same thing to the car in front of me. Came near to scraping it. All for naught. Surely it would have been faster to race up the other lane, much like passing a car on a divided highway, rather than carefully control the trajectory to skim past cars that were stationary, allowing quick passage.
Unfortunately, I am familiar with those who like to play fireman, and understand the self-importance and the shoulder-chip that goes along with carrying that radio. Like a physician's creed should be first, do no harm...a fireman's creed should be first, do not cause an accident going to an accident.
The 'Christopher-Walken-Crazy' Man.
My nerves were still on high alert when the volunteer fireman swooped in for a near-kill. I had just pulled onto the road after cutting through by the dead-mouse-smelling post office, having gone past the lake, headed home from the weekly Walmart trip. Walmart is not a safe haven for man nor beast nor Val nor Pony these days.
We came out through the exit door, you know, the one most people walk into and shoulder you out of the way, pushing our cart full of purchases. I handed The Pony the keys so he could push the clicker and open the back hatch while I wheeled the cart up to it. We were fortunate this morning, my friends, to find a spot a mere three spaces up the row. There was handicapped, a red van, and us. But when we came out, a silver sedan had taken the van's place. More on that later.
A white Yukon had let us across the people-walk with our cart. As we rolled up to T-Hoe's rear, that Yukon followed. It stopped. And stayed. Obviously waiting for our spot. It was, after all, the first weekend of the month. Busy time for Walmart, parking places at a premium. Obviously, White Yukon had never seen The Pony unload a cart before. I hope the power windows worked, for the driver to unfurl the long white beard she would grow while waiting for the spot.
The Pony took the cart to the rack, and I got in. Normally, I fish the receipt out of my pocket, put my debit card back in the checkbook, write the amount of purchase in the checkbook register, and douse The Pony and my own hands with Germ-X. Then we are ready to start up T-Hoe and hit the road. Today, however, I had White Yukon waiting. I turned on the ignition. Looked over my shoulder. And saw a couple of people walking past. T-Hoe's beeper went off. I waited until they were clear.
Then another guy crossed the people-walk and strode alongside White Yukon. He glared! At White Yukon! He was not a Ward-Cleaver-looking guy. He was creepy. Dark hair, combed back, a little below earlobe length, probably late 40s, wearing a black leather jacket. Let the record show that the temperature was 85 degrees. I waited for him to cross behind me, but he came in between. He fiddled around with the door of the silver sedan.
Let's remember that T-Hoe was running. I was getting a crick in my neck looking over my shoulder. I said to The Pony, "Well, if this doofus ever gets out of the way, we'll go." I do not like to back my large SUV out of a parking space with a person standing between me and the next car. Even though I had already folded in my passenger-side non-mirror when I parked, to allow people easier access to walk between cars. Because, I think we've established, I'm a giver. As I looked over my shoulder, waiting to make my escape, Crazy Man looked in. Also let the record show that there is no way he could have heard me call him a doofus. This was not a case where The Pony says to me later, "Um. You know your windows were down, right?" Uh uh. They were up, sealed tighter than a drum, with the air conditioner blasting, and T-Hoe and White Yukon both idling.
Crazy Man opened the door of his silver sedan. He put his Walmart bag in. Sat down behind the wheel. Closed the door. THEN GOT OUT! HE TAPPED ON T-HOE'S BACK PASSENGER WINDOW! Yeah, um...NO! No way was I rolling down that window! The Pony and I both refused to look at him. I faced the front. I saw The Pony tuck his chin down to look at his laptop. We waited. Finally, Crazy Man opened up his silver sedan door again, and got in.
He might have been an esteemed church deacon running into Walmart to buy PoliGrip for old widow-women parishioners. But to me, he looked like a psycho perv bent on revenge because I had the nerve not to squish him between our autos. Oh. And because I dared to utter a private comment inside the confines of my private vehicle that there is no way he could have heard, and could have only lip-read if he had superhuman vision through my tinted windows. Maybe he was mad because White Yukon was behind his car, blocking him from backing out. Any fool could clearly see that I had that White Yukon waiting for my spot, with my car running, and I was just waiting for a clear path to back up.
WTF? I have no clue what his intentions were.
Val refuses to be on the local evening news as another parking lot statistic.
The Yardy Pooper.
I parked T-Hoe down at the end of The Voice of the Village to get a 44 oz. beverage. First I busied myself with recording my Walmart purchase in my check register. We'll get to the reason for that momentarily. Remember, these tales are in reverse chronological order, like that Seinfeld episode everybody hates where the gang ends up at a wedding in India, but actually starts out there.
A lady walked past T-Hoe from the gas pumps, across the parking lot, up over the sidewalk, onto a grassy area about the size of half a basketball court. She had a sweet little Sheltie on a leash. She proceeded to let her Sheltie do her business on that grass. Not out at the end by the sidewalk where there's extra parking, but up against the building. Where the staff squats to smoke in the shade during break time.
Seriously! Why do people assume any grassy area is a dog toilet? This swatch of lawn is more suited to let toddlers run off some energy during long highway trips. Not for dogs to leave their excrement. That lady could just have easily, MORE easily, in fact, led her little dog to the state-maintained right-of-way between the pumps and the road. The area where I saw a big fat rat dashing across the street. There's a ditch by it. The doggie doodoo could wash down in there if we ever have some rain.
The Sideswiper.
On our way to The Voice of the Village, right beside the concrete plant that makes giant thick beams which hold up bridge decks, I heard a siren approaching from behind. I pulled over to the right and stopped. Much like one would do for a funeral, you know. Except this area has no shoulders. The road goes right up against the sidewalk, then a fence. In my rearview mirror, and my driver's side mirror, I saw a black truck bearing down on me at a rapid rate. Blue lights flashed on the dash. That means volunteer fireman around these parts. Not red for police or ambulance or the actual fire rescue squad. This guy was headed for the firehouse.
I understand that speed is of the essence. I also understand that if there is no traffic in the oncoming lane, with a clear view for a quarter of a mile, and with an empty parking lot on the other side of that oncoming lane...there is no need for a vehicle to come within inches of my T-Hoe while passing me. The whole oncoming lane was available. No need to nearly strip me of my one good door-mirror just to show off. He did the same thing to the car in front of me. Came near to scraping it. All for naught. Surely it would have been faster to race up the other lane, much like passing a car on a divided highway, rather than carefully control the trajectory to skim past cars that were stationary, allowing quick passage.
Unfortunately, I am familiar with those who like to play fireman, and understand the self-importance and the shoulder-chip that goes along with carrying that radio. Like a physician's creed should be first, do no harm...a fireman's creed should be first, do not cause an accident going to an accident.
The 'Christopher-Walken-Crazy' Man.
My nerves were still on high alert when the volunteer fireman swooped in for a near-kill. I had just pulled onto the road after cutting through by the dead-mouse-smelling post office, having gone past the lake, headed home from the weekly Walmart trip. Walmart is not a safe haven for man nor beast nor Val nor Pony these days.
We came out through the exit door, you know, the one most people walk into and shoulder you out of the way, pushing our cart full of purchases. I handed The Pony the keys so he could push the clicker and open the back hatch while I wheeled the cart up to it. We were fortunate this morning, my friends, to find a spot a mere three spaces up the row. There was handicapped, a red van, and us. But when we came out, a silver sedan had taken the van's place. More on that later.
A white Yukon had let us across the people-walk with our cart. As we rolled up to T-Hoe's rear, that Yukon followed. It stopped. And stayed. Obviously waiting for our spot. It was, after all, the first weekend of the month. Busy time for Walmart, parking places at a premium. Obviously, White Yukon had never seen The Pony unload a cart before. I hope the power windows worked, for the driver to unfurl the long white beard she would grow while waiting for the spot.
The Pony took the cart to the rack, and I got in. Normally, I fish the receipt out of my pocket, put my debit card back in the checkbook, write the amount of purchase in the checkbook register, and douse The Pony and my own hands with Germ-X. Then we are ready to start up T-Hoe and hit the road. Today, however, I had White Yukon waiting. I turned on the ignition. Looked over my shoulder. And saw a couple of people walking past. T-Hoe's beeper went off. I waited until they were clear.
Then another guy crossed the people-walk and strode alongside White Yukon. He glared! At White Yukon! He was not a Ward-Cleaver-looking guy. He was creepy. Dark hair, combed back, a little below earlobe length, probably late 40s, wearing a black leather jacket. Let the record show that the temperature was 85 degrees. I waited for him to cross behind me, but he came in between. He fiddled around with the door of the silver sedan.
Let's remember that T-Hoe was running. I was getting a crick in my neck looking over my shoulder. I said to The Pony, "Well, if this doofus ever gets out of the way, we'll go." I do not like to back my large SUV out of a parking space with a person standing between me and the next car. Even though I had already folded in my passenger-side non-mirror when I parked, to allow people easier access to walk between cars. Because, I think we've established, I'm a giver. As I looked over my shoulder, waiting to make my escape, Crazy Man looked in. Also let the record show that there is no way he could have heard me call him a doofus. This was not a case where The Pony says to me later, "Um. You know your windows were down, right?" Uh uh. They were up, sealed tighter than a drum, with the air conditioner blasting, and T-Hoe and White Yukon both idling.
Crazy Man opened the door of his silver sedan. He put his Walmart bag in. Sat down behind the wheel. Closed the door. THEN GOT OUT! HE TAPPED ON T-HOE'S BACK PASSENGER WINDOW! Yeah, um...NO! No way was I rolling down that window! The Pony and I both refused to look at him. I faced the front. I saw The Pony tuck his chin down to look at his laptop. We waited. Finally, Crazy Man opened up his silver sedan door again, and got in.
He might have been an esteemed church deacon running into Walmart to buy PoliGrip for old widow-women parishioners. But to me, he looked like a psycho perv bent on revenge because I had the nerve not to squish him between our autos. Oh. And because I dared to utter a private comment inside the confines of my private vehicle that there is no way he could have heard, and could have only lip-read if he had superhuman vision through my tinted windows. Maybe he was mad because White Yukon was behind his car, blocking him from backing out. Any fool could clearly see that I had that White Yukon waiting for my spot, with my car running, and I was just waiting for a clear path to back up.
WTF? I have no clue what his intentions were.
Val refuses to be on the local evening news as another parking lot statistic.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid
Sometimes I have current happenings to write about, sometimes I have follow-up stories, sometimes I beat a dead horse for nigh unto a week. But today, I have a companion piece. I think you'll be able to match it up by the time you get to the end.
Years ago, soon after we moved into our new school building, my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel and I met up after classes every day for a workout. This was back in the day, when students were not appropriated to hang around after school for various programs funded by grant money. When the only people who stayed after were athletes practicing in the gym, and teachers working in their rooms. You could look down our long, long hallway and perhaps imagine a tumbleweed bouncing across the vast emptiness. A pin dropped at Mabel's end could be heard an eighth of a mile away at my end. We pretty much had the place to ourselves.
It was our habit to walk the hallowed halls, catching up on daily gossip while exercising our legs and lungs. Because we were so involved in current events, we had to tally our trips with post-it notes made by Mabel. Each trip down and back, she would move a post-it so we knew when our regimen was fini. It was a peaceful time, the only obstacle to our exercise being the occasional blockade caused by faculty standing smack-dab in the middle of the hall for a vital conversation. Yeah. You'd think they could have found a better place to rendezvous than the middle of our workout path.
I think, way back then, Mabel had 7th hour plan time, but I'm not sure. For whatever reason, she was already dressed and rarin' to go by the time the bell rang. So I would hurry and change my socks and shoes as soon as kids were out of the hall. I kept my stuff in my wooden cabinet by the door. All I had to do was get them out, prop my foot up on the chair of the desk right across from the cabinet, and switch into white socks and New Balance. Mabel arrived as I was tying the laces, and our odyssey began.
My boys rode the bus from their buildings over to mine. They finished homework, had snacks stored in the bottom drawer of my file cabinet, and watched videos. Every now and then a power struggle erupted, and one or the other would seek me out for justice. Genius would merely step outside the door and wait until we passed by. The Pony trotted down the hall to meet me, his persecution much more urgent, and in need of immediate intervention.
Once our mileage was completed, Mabel gathered her post-its for another day, and I stuffed my school shoes and socks into a Walmart bag and gathered up my progeny for the ride home. It was the perfect workout system. Cool in the heat of Indian Summer, warm in the throes of winter.
Back in those days, I was in charge of the at-risk program. I worked with students who did not qualify for special programs, but were falling through the cracks. Our goal was to keep them from dropping out, and to help them stay on track to earn their credits and graduate on time. I mainly had freshmen and sophomores, no more than 10-12 students per class. I relate well to that type of student, and these were some of the most rewarding times of my teaching career. As you might imagine, the dynamics in such a classroom are a bit different than those in a regular core class course. My students often spoke without thinking, made mountains out of molehills, or tried to smooth mountains into molehills, depending on their personal agenda.
One morning, a fairly quiet student had a meltdown. She came in late for 1st hour, asked to go see a teacher about a missing assignment, and flounced out with an air of shoulder-chip-ness. As soon as she left, one boy turned to me and the others, mostly guys, and said, "Did you see her HEAD? I thought she had a THIRD EYE!" He was not so much poking fun as showing his awe at her unsightly facial blemish. Another chimed in, "I think that thing had a HEARTBEAT!" We heard something in the hall. They gasped and faced the front. Another dude said, "Shh! Whatever you do, don't say anything to HER about it!"
That was a false alarm, but Girly came back a few minutes later. She flung her folder on her desk. Slammed her purse down on top of it. "I can't take much more! I've got to get this assignment done THIS HOUR! I got a tardy because I missed the bus! I have this giant pimple that makes me look like a cyclops! And every morning when I come in here, I see that the last person who sat in this chair has been eating crackers again! THERE ARE ALWAYS CRUMBS IN MY CHAIR!"
Oh, dear. I went over and brushed off her chair. "I'll have a talk with that kid. There. Now you can get started."
She sighed and sat down. Deflated.
I never told her that what she thought was cracker crumbs was just the dry flakes of skin from my legs when I changed socks every day with my foot on her chair.
Years ago, soon after we moved into our new school building, my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel and I met up after classes every day for a workout. This was back in the day, when students were not appropriated to hang around after school for various programs funded by grant money. When the only people who stayed after were athletes practicing in the gym, and teachers working in their rooms. You could look down our long, long hallway and perhaps imagine a tumbleweed bouncing across the vast emptiness. A pin dropped at Mabel's end could be heard an eighth of a mile away at my end. We pretty much had the place to ourselves.
It was our habit to walk the hallowed halls, catching up on daily gossip while exercising our legs and lungs. Because we were so involved in current events, we had to tally our trips with post-it notes made by Mabel. Each trip down and back, she would move a post-it so we knew when our regimen was fini. It was a peaceful time, the only obstacle to our exercise being the occasional blockade caused by faculty standing smack-dab in the middle of the hall for a vital conversation. Yeah. You'd think they could have found a better place to rendezvous than the middle of our workout path.
I think, way back then, Mabel had 7th hour plan time, but I'm not sure. For whatever reason, she was already dressed and rarin' to go by the time the bell rang. So I would hurry and change my socks and shoes as soon as kids were out of the hall. I kept my stuff in my wooden cabinet by the door. All I had to do was get them out, prop my foot up on the chair of the desk right across from the cabinet, and switch into white socks and New Balance. Mabel arrived as I was tying the laces, and our odyssey began.
My boys rode the bus from their buildings over to mine. They finished homework, had snacks stored in the bottom drawer of my file cabinet, and watched videos. Every now and then a power struggle erupted, and one or the other would seek me out for justice. Genius would merely step outside the door and wait until we passed by. The Pony trotted down the hall to meet me, his persecution much more urgent, and in need of immediate intervention.
Once our mileage was completed, Mabel gathered her post-its for another day, and I stuffed my school shoes and socks into a Walmart bag and gathered up my progeny for the ride home. It was the perfect workout system. Cool in the heat of Indian Summer, warm in the throes of winter.
Back in those days, I was in charge of the at-risk program. I worked with students who did not qualify for special programs, but were falling through the cracks. Our goal was to keep them from dropping out, and to help them stay on track to earn their credits and graduate on time. I mainly had freshmen and sophomores, no more than 10-12 students per class. I relate well to that type of student, and these were some of the most rewarding times of my teaching career. As you might imagine, the dynamics in such a classroom are a bit different than those in a regular core class course. My students often spoke without thinking, made mountains out of molehills, or tried to smooth mountains into molehills, depending on their personal agenda.
One morning, a fairly quiet student had a meltdown. She came in late for 1st hour, asked to go see a teacher about a missing assignment, and flounced out with an air of shoulder-chip-ness. As soon as she left, one boy turned to me and the others, mostly guys, and said, "Did you see her HEAD? I thought she had a THIRD EYE!" He was not so much poking fun as showing his awe at her unsightly facial blemish. Another chimed in, "I think that thing had a HEARTBEAT!" We heard something in the hall. They gasped and faced the front. Another dude said, "Shh! Whatever you do, don't say anything to HER about it!"
That was a false alarm, but Girly came back a few minutes later. She flung her folder on her desk. Slammed her purse down on top of it. "I can't take much more! I've got to get this assignment done THIS HOUR! I got a tardy because I missed the bus! I have this giant pimple that makes me look like a cyclops! And every morning when I come in here, I see that the last person who sat in this chair has been eating crackers again! THERE ARE ALWAYS CRUMBS IN MY CHAIR!"
Oh, dear. I went over and brushed off her chair. "I'll have a talk with that kid. There. Now you can get started."
She sighed and sat down. Deflated.
I never told her that what she thought was cracker crumbs was just the dry flakes of skin from my legs when I changed socks every day with my foot on her chair.
Friday, August 1, 2014
Hick Could Be a Low Fashion Model
Only a handful of you have seen my husband Hick, my sweet baboo, my dedicated, if not exactly proficient, driver of T-Hoe to various appointments I have in the city. Just this morning, he called to tell me that he finally found a mirror to replace the one he broke while backing T-Hoe out of the garage on the first day of my unfortunate hospitalization in May. Uh huh. Three months of driving without a passenger-side mirror is enough! Never mind that instead of the $350 that Hick initially said it would cost, he has found one for $82. No, he didn't find it at the auction. I think he called it "down market" or "back market," but definitely not "black market." That means it's not exactly manufactured and sold as a Chevrolet part. I can't wait to see what it looks like. I'll probably be the only Backroadsian driving a black Tahoe with a cherry-red fold-in passenger-side mirror.
But we're not here today to sing the praises of my sweaving, scavenging, mirror-breaking better half. Nope. We're here to discuss his questionable fashion sense. Whoa! I'm not shaming Hick because he's not GQ material. He can hop into his overalls (though I DO prefer that he not wear them backwards like that one morning when he couldn't figure out why it was so hard to fasten those shoulder straps) and lace up his Jed Clampett boots as long as he leaves his straw hat with the green visor brim behind. My issue is with him dressing a bit younger than his age.
Tuesday, Hickswove drove me to the hospital for some outpatient surgery. I did not fixate on his attire. After all, I was undergoing the knife, and in no mood for nitpicking. Besides, I had to get up at 3:00 a.m. in order for us to leave by 4:00, so Hick could have been wearing a black Hefty trash bag and silver duct tape prom dress for all I noticed.
Once I was checked in, waiting for the doomcryer to announce my name to go back for surgery, the full effect of Hick's ensemble hit me.
Have you seen those Kia car commercials with the fat hamsters? That was my first thought. Hick had dressed himself in a pair of baggy cargo shorts, the color best described as canvas watermelon dusty rose. For a shirt, he had chosen a polo with the hue several shades off from the shorts, more like an overly-ripe tomato red. In his mind, and his one good eye, I think the colors matched. His feet were shod with black New Balance running shoes, showing just a bit of white ankle-sock.
He caught me looking at him. I didn't want to disparage my driver to his face. Not before he got me home, all groggy, able to fend for myself.
"What?"
"Oh. Nothing. You just have some crumbs there on your shirt, by the pocket. You must have spilled some of those Ritz Bits crackers that you tilted your head back to swallow while you were driving."
"That? Oh, that's just dry skin. From my beard." Hick brushed off the flakes, then gave his goatee a scruffing, resulting in more flakes, which he again brushed off his chest.
Sometimes, the idea of surgery is not the true horror that consumes one's waiting-room thoughts.
But we're not here today to sing the praises of my sweaving, scavenging, mirror-breaking better half. Nope. We're here to discuss his questionable fashion sense. Whoa! I'm not shaming Hick because he's not GQ material. He can hop into his overalls (though I DO prefer that he not wear them backwards like that one morning when he couldn't figure out why it was so hard to fasten those shoulder straps) and lace up his Jed Clampett boots as long as he leaves his straw hat with the green visor brim behind. My issue is with him dressing a bit younger than his age.
Tuesday, Hick
Once I was checked in, waiting for the doomcryer to announce my name to go back for surgery, the full effect of Hick's ensemble hit me.
Have you seen those Kia car commercials with the fat hamsters? That was my first thought. Hick had dressed himself in a pair of baggy cargo shorts, the color best described as canvas watermelon dusty rose. For a shirt, he had chosen a polo with the hue several shades off from the shorts, more like an overly-ripe tomato red. In his mind, and his one good eye, I think the colors matched. His feet were shod with black New Balance running shoes, showing just a bit of white ankle-sock.
He caught me looking at him. I didn't want to disparage my driver to his face. Not before he got me home, all groggy, able to fend for myself.
"What?"
"Oh. Nothing. You just have some crumbs there on your shirt, by the pocket. You must have spilled some of those Ritz Bits crackers that you tilted your head back to swallow while you were driving."
"That? Oh, that's just dry skin. From my beard." Hick brushed off the flakes, then gave his goatee a scruffing, resulting in more flakes, which he again brushed off his chest.
Sometimes, the idea of surgery is not the true horror that consumes one's waiting-room thoughts.
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