Hear That Siren? It's a Five-Alarm Gift!

Mark your calendar!

You have one, right? Surely you got a calendar for Christmas. With lighthouses or beaches or things you don't particularly have an affinity for (not you, Blog Buddy Linda, beach-lover extraordinaire) that was, perhaps, given to you by your sister the ex-mayor's wife's husband?

Mark it, I tell you, on the date of May 5, 2017! Because Hick bought a present for Val. Here! Let me waft these smelling salts under your nose. There. You seem to be coming around. If you don't get a knot on your head, you'd better go to the ER for a cat-scan, just in case you have bleeding inside your head. Here. Sit up. Do you have your wits about you again? Listen to this...

Hick bought me a present at Goodwill for $4.00. When he first sent me the text, he said it cost 400. So, remembering The Good Feet Store faux pas, I made sure to clarify the price. Take a gander at THIS:

It's a FIRE TRUCK, by cracky! Okay. It's a REPLICA. Of a TOY fire truck. But it's like the one I had as a kid. Almost.

As a kid, my sister (the little future ex-mayor's wife) and I had a pedal fire truck. I think ours was a bit more squared-off than this one, and I don't remember our windshield being like that. But it had two ladders on the back just like this one has one ladder (should have two, but the other is missing, and Hick says he's going to make one).

We used to ride our fire engine down the sidewalk in front of our house. Which was a 50-foot mobile home, parked on the lot beside our grandpa's house. Let the record show that we grew up in the 1960s, in a small town that still had ditches between the road and sidewalk that may or may not have been used for sewer purposes. Kids were hardier back in those days, I'm sure you all will attest.

Anyhoo...the hill started up past Grandpa's house, and ran down in front of ours, and our neighbor's house, and then crossed over a culvert that was about 6 feet deep where a creek ran under the road. The sidewalk had fallen into disrepair as it flattened out by the neighbors' yard. You know how concrete sidewalks do. The squares get kind of cattywompus to each other. Unlevel. They develop shallow craters that fill with gravel particles. The sidewalkular decay was even worse on the part that crossed over the creek. With NO rails or curb on the side.

Yes. Val's childhood street. A humid summer evening, Grandpa in blue Dickies, lug-soled black work shoes, and a white t-shirt, crouched with the green garden hose to water a tiny tulip tree sectioned off from the yard with a round metal mini-fence. Change in his pocket ready for for the first sounds of the bells of the Tastee Freeze truck. 

Picture Li'l Val and her sister (the little future ex-mayor's wife), bludgeoning the bejeebers out of each other with those wooden ladders to see who got to drive, then hanging them back on the fire engine, and barreling down that broken sidewalk, with Val's (in the driver's seat, of course) pixie-cut brunette hair blowing off her forehead, Li'l Sis standing on the back holding the ladder rails, her orangey-red, fine, shoulder-length tresses whipping themselves into a matted mess that would need the silver rat-tailed comb...flying across the culvert onto the better-maintained sidewalk section in front of the last house on the block, that belonging to the spinster Fanny Hugg.

Thanks, Hick, my Sweet Baboo, for buying me a memory.

Catching Up With Thevictorian Young 'uns

Both Thevictorian boys are preparing themselves for finals week.

Genius sent me a text a few minutes ago.

"Just submitted my last assignment and taking the evening off before suffering starts tomorrow."

"I typed STUDYING but got autocorrected to SUFFERING. Seemed apt."

Heh, heh. That demon Autocorrect will get you every time.

Also, Genius's solar car fundraiser http://bit.ly/2nxOVeh is now at $12,775. Their original goal was $3000, and they were able to set a new goal several times. So far, they have received 60 donations. There are 3 or 4 days left.

The Pony has been incommunicado much of the week, but DID send me a picture:

I hope that's not an omen!

For finals, OR for Casinopalooza 2, which starts the weekend after.

Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday #59 "Pulling Myself Up by My Own Crocs Straps: The Story of Nick Thethicktorian"

Blog buddy Sioux is hosting Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday. I have 150 words to convince you to fake-buy my fake book. Is is time for a biography? Let me answer for you. "YES!" Val's latest fake book reveals the life of Nick Thethicktorian, a small-town kid with big-time plans. If you like a rags to riches story, you'll half-way enjoy Val's latest fake book. Get your copy now, before they're packed off to flea markets, consignment shops, and Goodwill!

Pulling Myself Up by My Own Crocs Straps: 

The Story of Nick Thethicktorian

Nick Thethicktorian can give you the business like nobody's business! He's a man with a plan. And an entrepreneur full of manure. Nick's main moneymaker is his theme park, Nick's Sheddytown and Used Gewgaw Emporium. Besides giving tours, swapping antiques/junk, and concessioning his wife Sal's tasty creations (try the Broccocaulipeppot* if you dare)...Nick also sells unattended children to the circus, shirts and shoes** to those without who wish to be served, and takes bribes from those he refuses service to.

Read about Nick's humble upbringing and even humbler career in "Pulling Myself Up by My Own Crocs Straps: The Story of Nick Thethicktorian."

*A tasty Styrofoam bowl of broccoli, cauliflower, sweet banana pepper rings, baked potato, and Velveeta cheese, microwaved just enough to melt it. The cheese. Not the Styrofoam bowl. Hopefully.

**Get your own pair of camouflage Crocs and strap in your heels, baby! (145 words)

__________________________________________________________________

Fake Reviews for Val’s Fake Book

Burma Shave Sign...
"They oughta burn
This fake book.
And throw in jail
Thevictorian. CROOK!" 

Tahoe Side Mirror..."Fake books written by Thevictorian are worser than they appear."

Stop Sign..."I'm pretty sure I speak for myself, no wordy review needed. If you feel the urge to fake-buy Thevictorian's fake book...take my heed."

Slippery When Wet Sign..."Right now the publisher is planning a new print run with ME on the cover, in order to avoid lawsuits. Except I say 'Gibberish You Get.'"

Railroad Crossing Sign..."I wish I could be on the cover of Thevictorian's fake book. You think these two Rs stand for railroad? Nope. In Thevictorian's case, they represent Rotten Reading."

Right Shoulder Closed Sign..."The Road Sign Store called. They're all out of ME. People are buying me because their shoulders need time to dry out, since their friends who fake-read Thevictorian's fake book bawled and slobbered all over them after throwing away their fake money."

Blue and White Lodging Sign..."People used to think I represented a highway exit where you could find a room to sleep overnight. Now they associate me with the comatose state that people fall into when trying to finish Thevictorian's fake book."

The Hollywood Sign..."It's all I can do to keep from jumping, after hearing that Thevictorian's fake book has been fake-optioned for a fake movie."

Las Vegas Welcome Sign ..."Right now, my bottom (heh, heh, I said bottom) is being painted with the additional phrase 'EXCEPT FOR YOU, THEVICTORIAN!'"  
Myrtle Beach Welcome Sign..."I hear ya, Bro!"

U.S. Route 66 Sign..."If anyone ever needed to get kicks, it's Val Thevictorian for fake-writing this fake book. And I don't mean the kind of kicks that express entertainment."

Val Pushes Her Envelope

Every now and then, I have to vary my routine. How else am I going to find things to blog about? Last Thursday, I headed over to Bill-Paying Town to shop at their Walmart. I'd been planning the trip all week. To get some delicious Black Market (okay, I know that's not the name of it, but it's close) BBQ Chicken Wraps that I like to have for lunch. And some Pinwheel thingies. All the regular Walmart nearer to Backroads has is Chicken Bacon Ranch. And they always seem to forget the bacon. Of course, I was also going to pick up some of the new lottery tickets at different locations, and get my 44 oz Diet Coke on the way home.

As I put T-Hoe into gear to back out of the garage, I saw that the warning light said to check tire pressure. Well. There are always three or four warning lights going off, since Hick doesn't seem to get T-Hoe completely fixed, even when we pay over $500 to have him supposedly fixed. The tire sensors haven't worked right for at least 3 years. And the back-up and side beepers don't work. And the service suspension thingy is always on. So I don't pay a lot of attention to those warnings.

Still, since I hadn't noticed the flat tire symbol before, I figured I'd check the sensor thingy. Huh. As I was going down Neighbor Barn Hill, I saw that my left front tire had 38 pounds of pressure, and the right front tire had 9 pounds of pressure. Still better than the rear tires, which had, respectively, --- pounds, and --- pounds of pressure. I told you the sensor doesn't work!

Just to be safe, I pulled off at the first gravel offshoot, where many years ago I came home to find the road blocked by the county sheriff's posse, due to the discovery of an abandoned portable meth lab. Yeah. It was several years before they found the headless body in a septic tank a little farther up our road. I got out and walked around. I figured it the tire was flat, I'd go back home and get A-Cad for my shopping trip.

The tire looked good. As good as the driver's side tire. So I figured it was just the bad sensors, and continued to town. Or at least to the mailboxes. The mail has been getting here earlier now. It was 10:30. So I stopped to check. When I stepped out of T-Hoe down by the mailboxes, I almost stepped on THIS:

It's a dime. Dime, dime, dime. No pennies from heaven. Dime.

That's right. A dime, all dusty in the gravel. What in tarnation a dime was doing there, I don't know. It's not like the three pennies I found earlier in the week in Orb K, by the register. I don't think anybody's whipping out money down on the gravel road. Anyhoo...because I have been thinking about my dad lately, the dime made me remember how we found dimes all over our house for month or two after he died.

So...I picked up this dime, and thought about my tire troubles, and how my dad was the one who taught me to check things on my car (the yellow Chevy Vega hatchback and the yellow Chevy Chevette hatchback) like the tire pressure and the oil and the washer fluid and the radiator and how to change an air filter and fuses and a flat tire. So after looking for the not-yet-delivered mail, I went back to look at the tire again. And it was just fine. Same as the driver's side tire. So I went to town.

I stopped at Orb K to cash in a $50 lottery winner, and get a new $5 ticket. When I came out, I thought about checking my tire again, but I was parked up against the sidewalk curb, and it wasn't convenient, so I didn't. I went over to Country Mart, to get a new ticket out of their machine. Somebody was parked in my rightful space down at the end by the building's exit door, where I ENTER, so I had to park out in the middle part of the lot. When I came back out, I decided to look at the tire again. Finding that dime made me leery. I couldn't get that whole 9 POUNDS OF AIR thing out of my head, even though T-Hoe drove just fine to town, and didn't pull sideways in the least.

I walked behind the back of the car, because there was a light pole in a big yellow concrete barrier at the front. As I rounded T-Hoe's rear to look at the front passenger tire, I saw that T-Hoe's REAR passenger tire INDEED HAD 9 POUNDS OF AIR in it! That tire was FLAT! But only on the bottom, heh, heh!

Then I remembered that those sensors were messed up, and Hick didn't want to pay to fix them. Huh. Like HE's the one earning the money around here! Yep. Those sensors have been messed up since he bought two new tires and had the back ones moved to the front. When it says the back tires each have --- pounds of air in them, it's actually meaning the FRONT tires! And when it says the front tires, it actually means the REAR tires.

I hopped in T-Hoe and rushed two blocks over to the gas station chicken store to use their free air. Here's a picture of the rear tire, taken from beside the back bumper.

It was way flatter than this picture looks. I had a bad angle on it. It was FLAT, by cracky!

Here's the front one that was okay.

Of course the valve stem was near the bottom when I parked, and if that air hose was a snake, it would have bit me, because I couldn't find the end of it until I grabbed a loop and pulled hand over hand until I got to the metal air-shooter part. I stood almost on my head and pumped in A LOT of air. And then some more air. And started to put the hose back, but pumped in a little more air. Just to be safe. When I got back in T-Hoe, I saw that I now had exactly 38 pounds of air in THAT tire, too! Thanks, Even Steven.

I decided to scrap my trip to Bill-Paying Town. I could go to the closer Walmart. But I didn't WANT TO! I went to Casey's for one of the new $5 lottery tickets. Then to mail four bills. Then to the next town over. Where I noticed that I had lost a pound of air from that right rear tire in 15 minutes. I calculated my ETA at Bill-Paying Town Walmart, and then the time it would take to get home, and decided that I could make it there and back. There was another free air hose on the way in case I needed it on the way back.

Yep! Val threw caution to the wind! She pushed the envelope! And made it just fine.

Let the record show that two days later, Hick took T-Hoe to get the tire fixed. It only cost $10. AND he said that the tire-fixer told him all he needed to do was hold in the button thing on the dash to switch the tire sensors so they read the right tires. And that he did it for me.

Let the record further show that Hick said the tire-fixer only put 31 pounds in that tire to start with, so I might (yeah, that I might) want to put a little in. So when I was out in town the next day, I again stopped at the gas station chicken store and put in some air for the right rear tire.

Only to find out that when I checked T-Hoe's sensors, the sensors had NOT changed, and I now had 40 pounds of air in the right rear and 31 in the right front.

I really wish T-Hoe's tires would completely air themselves to the exact proper air pressure, like Hick tried to argue with me about A-Cad's tires!

Songs, Songs, Everywhere Were Songs

Tuesday I took off for Bill-Paying Town to dance with(in) their Devil('s Playground). Or, as some people innocently word it...to shop in their Walmart.

After all the rain we've had here in Backroads, the cloudless sky and bright sun were a welcome change. It was one of those days that give people on the interstates the leadfoot. Not that Val drove on the interstate, mind you.

It was shaping up to be a good day. First cat out of the bag...I stopped to pick up the mail. EmBee was loaded with Oklahoma casino offers. Okay. So she was harboring four of them. And three were for Hick. It's still exciting, people! Even though we can't use any of those offers, because one is the casino in The Pony's college town, and we're not driving an extra five hours for that. Two of them gave Hick and me each four coupons for $10 free play...except they're not good on Sunday or Monday, the days we will be there. And the other one, for Hick, offered $5 free match play for...you guessed it...the three weeks in May that we will NOT be there.

Still it was fun to read about what we COULD have had!

I was leafing through that cardboard gold as I went back to T-Hoe, parked at the end of our gravel road, ready to hit the blacktop. I had my head down looking at the gravel. First of all, because I am not as sure-footed as I once was. Wouldn't want to stumble and lay there until a heavily loaded rock truck came along. Seeing as how cell phone reception is nonexistent down there.

Also, my head was down looking. Looking, because last week, I found a treasure there. Not a valuable treasure. A sentimental treasure. But that's a story of another time. Anyhoo...I was looking, and as I opened up T-Hoe's door and prepared to turn and step in...I saw something behind T-Hoe.

See it there?

I rushed back up front and grabbed my phone to take a picture. No...it was NOT a flat frog.

It was a DOLLAR, by cracky!

Let the record show that I did NOT turn it in. It's not like we have a Private Drive Clerk to oversee things around here.

Anyhoo...I went on to town, making a stop by the cemetery for a short visit with my mom. I even turned the music to HER station, even though one of MY favorites had just started playing on 106.5 The Arch. Fat Bottomed Girls, by Queen. I'm sure that was not significant in the least! Just a random play of a song that I have saved in the music on my computer, but that I never hear on the radio. I know my sweet mother would never have referred to me as fat-bottomed! Never! And she would most certainly not approve of these lyrics!

No particularly significant songs played on Prime Country for this visit. I only stayed two songs worth. I think they were Reba McEntire and Clint Black. So with nothing blogworthy from that escapade, I went forward on my journey.

It was a good song day on the radio! It's been a LONG time since my random station-hopping has yielded such ear candy for Val. When I hit the road after the cemetery, I heard Every Rose Has It's Thorn, by Poison.

And throughout my journey, I also chanced upon

Video Killed the Radio Star, by The Buggles
Dust on the Bottle, by David Lee Murphy
December 1963 (Oh, What a Night), by The Four Seasons
White Wedding, by Billy Idol
And When I Die, by Blood, Sweat, and Tears

Yes. As a matter of fact, Val does have eclectic musical tastes. And they don't include anything from this century.

I was jammin' and car-singing to beat the band! Even though my plans hit a little snag when I stopped by the Waterside Mart for scratchers and a 44 oz Diet Coke. I had planned my route, you see, so that it didn't take me past the gas station chicken store, so I could get my frozen foods home quicker. But what to my horror should I find at the Waterside Mart than a cup dispenser bereft of 44 oz containers!

Well! No way was I settling for 32 oz. No siree, Bob! I bought my tickets and resigned myself to a stop at the gas station chicken store. Their Diet Coke is better, anyway. And while I was there, you know, I figured I might as well pick up a ticket from them, too. Which won me $30, while the Waterside Mart tickets were duds!

Anyhoo...the point I set out to make...I think...was that my route was serendipitously thrown off by the lack of 44 oz cups at Waterside Mart. When I would have been unloading groceries in the garage, I was instead tooling down the main street in Backroads, approaching the turn to the gas station chicken store. I continued clicking for tunes, and wouldn't you know it?

How Can I Help You Say Goodbye, by Patty Loveless.

If you're a regular reader, you know that Val and this song have a history.

Let the record show that I waited for it to end before I went in to get my 44 oz Diet Coke. Val appreciates her messages, and knows how to show proper respect.

Comeuppance Is Not Just a Literary Plot Element

Last night, as I was catching up on my reading and commenting, I saw that blog buddy Joe H had a minor crisis with a lost credit card.

Always the helpful blogfriend, Val was just warming up her fingers to type smugly that SHE always leaves HER credit card laying on the speaker next to her New Delly. Yes. Val IS so old that she has an ancient desktop computer, with actual speakers hooked up to it.

Anyhoo...as I was readying my words in my head, I glanced over to reaffirm my smugness by casting eyes upon my own credit card, that little blue piece of plastic for some reason labeled slate...and found NOTHING! Nothing but the dusty top of my speaker with the six flash drives lounging atop it like post-carcass-feast lions lurking without their pride-leader, my credit card!

CRAP!

What in the Not-Heaven? I never take it upstairs. Unless we're going on a trip. And Casinopalooza 2 is still two weeks off. Wait! That's it! Seven hours ago, I called to make reservations. That's another story entirely! It may have to wait and be pre-programmed to run while I'm away. Not sure I'm taking Shiba with me on this trip.

Anyhoo...I started to think about how that reservation transpired...and recalled how I wrote down my information on my lunch plate (all about being a friend to the environment here in the dark basement lair) and then set it aside with the pertinent details. So my credit card would probably be with that plate...

Aha! There it was. With my important papers, on top of my New Delly computer tower. The tower that Genius built. Uh huh. There was the plate. And on top of the plate, the oversize postcard thingy I need to take when I check in. And the booklet of offers that I was discussing with my sister the ex-mayor's wife over the phone.

I picked up the plate. WHAT? No credit card! I looked under the oversize postcard. Under the booklet. NO! I lifted that plate down to desk level to look again, and my sneaky credit card did a double flip and bounced off my belly and then did a full gainer off my left thigh and ended up on the floor, up against the wall under my desktop, behind my electric heater, in a nest of dust bunnies and assorted gas station chicken crumbs.

Sigh.

The good news is...I found my credit card.

The bad news is...I had to pick up my credit card. From way under the desk. Out of the dust bunnies and gas station chicken crumbs.

It took a red plastic ruler from the early 1980s (Missouri School Measure Up!), and a heavily-suppressed gag reflex to rescue my precious plastic from its temporary resting place.

Smugness goeth before the credit card falls, I guess.

Wouldn't You Know It!

Sunday morning, while waiting for the closest floodwaters to recede so I could make it to town for my 44 oz Diet Coke and lottery tickets...I frittered away some time by putting away the gift bag of Christmas swag that has been sitting on the kitchen stool underneath Hick's cuckoo clock.

Since that took all of five minutes, I decided to put away the Chex Mix makin's that were in a box on the kitchen counter. Let the record show that if an archaeological study was ordered, the Chex Mix makin's box would predate the bag of Christmas swag, because I made my Chex Mix so that I would have some to take TO the Christmas Eve party at the house of my sister the ex-mayor's wife. I had some partial bags of Cheerios and Corn Chex left, and a few Bugles, and some cashews, and some mixed nuts, and part of a bag of pretzel sticks. I put it all in a cardboard box, meaning to put it up, but then I though I might make another batch of Chex, so left the ingredients together.

I didn't make the extra Chex, but I left that box of ingredients sitting on a kitchen chair. We don't need all four chairs now, you know. Then I put something else on that kitchen chair, when making Easter packages for The Pony and Genius, and moved that box to the table. Then I needed the room on the table and moved it to the counter, and...well...I've been meaning to put away that Chex stuff all week. Sunday was as good a time as any, especially with Hick in the house and me having time to kill before I could get away.

It was shortly after 11:00 when I started going through the Chex box, saving the nuts, trashing the five or so Bugles left in the bag that obviously Hick had been sneaking, and tossing the cereal out for the five remaining chickens. The last thing I pulled out of that box was the partial bag of pretzel sticks, which I saved as a snack for myself, 53 sticks a serving, people!

I lifted that bag of pretzels, and saw, in the bottom of the cardboard box, THIS:

Yes, I know that's not an actual ladybug, but a similar beetle. But it's the kind we always find, and call it a ladybug. The kind Mom had in her ceiling.

It's my mom's original handwritten recipe that I use for making Chex Mix, you know.

Just for Joe H, I looked at the time on the microwave clock when I found the ladybug. Oops! It was 11:16. Not 11:11.

I guess I was a little behind schedule, but still on track with my life.