Shortly after I met Hick, I bought my first house. Perhaps you've heard me speak of it. Or read my writing about it. The $17,000 house. Uh huh. Now you understand how Hick knew a good thing when he saw it. A woman with a $17,000 house was too good a deal to let her slip through his fingers.
My $17,000 house was not in Backroads, but in a neighboring town, on a corner double lot, two blocks behind the movie theater, and three blocks the other direction from where I would eventually be working for the unemployment office. As with most towns in these parts, it was not laid out on a grid. "You can't get there from here" was more often the rule than the exception.
Within a year of purchasing my home, I made Hick the happiest man in the world by becoming his little woman. Hick loves being handy, and I had a $17,000 house. It was better than a match made on Married At First Sight. He revamped the walkout basement into a little living room and a bedroom for his boys when they visited on the weekends. They never once complained about sharing their bedroom with my washer and dryer. Not many 7- to 9-year-olds had their very own living room in which to cut up and be loud with battery-operated police cars with wailing sirens, with a TV to watch their shows and play video games on uninterrupted.
In the years before Baby Genius was thought of, conceived, and born, Hick and I occupied the only bedroom upstairs. He would later build a new bedroom onto the back of the house, but at this point, he was busy replacing the cabinets in the kitchen, remodeling the bathroom, enlarging the front porch, and adding a bump-out computer nook in the living room. Because how great do you think a $17,000 house is, anyway?
I took it upon myself to mow the double yard. After all, Hick was busy with the house projects. And I had the summer off to do it. I am a push mower kind of gal. None of those fancy riding mowers for me. I still don't understand how some of them turn by pushing separately-acting right and left handlebars forward. Hick, on the other hand, is a gadget guru. He wanted a riding mower. I'm sure he found it at an auction or a second-hand shop, because we were not all that rich, despite the fancy mansion I provided for us to live in. We kept my push mower, a Sears Craftsman bought for me by my dad when I lived far away, in the old shed attached by the back porch roof, with a rotten board floor that Hick put a foot through. (The lawnmower, that is. I did not live in the old shed.) The riding mower, used by Hick on occasional weekends when he just really wanted to be outdoors and show off for the neighbors, was parked behind the house, under the air conditioning unit in the kitchen window. Hick put a random piece of corrugated tin on top of it to keep the rain off.
I was driving an hour each way to work at a school in what was once the population center of the U.S. Hick was driving an hour each way to the city. By nightfall, we were tired. A quick supper and perhaps an episode of Beverly Hills 90210, and we were ready to hit the sack. Technically, the waterbed. Hick was a swinger.
So there we were one night, snug as a slug in a water jug, all cozy and warm on our flotation mattress, Hick sawing logs, Val snoozing like a princess with nary a pea on the horizon...when there came a pounding on the front door. We both startled awake. Hick grabbed some shorts (because, you see, he was a swinger) and stumped to the living room. I could hear his conversation with a policeman. I was only15 feet away. How big do you think a $17,000 house is, anyway?
"Are you Hick Thevictorian?"
"That's me."
"Do you have a riding lawnmower?"
"Yes."
"Do you know where it is right now?"
"Behind the house. Under the kitchen window."
"Do you mind checking to see if it's there?"
"No. Let's go look."
I didn't hear the rest. A $17,000 house DOES have walls, you know. When Hick returned, he told me the lawnmower was missing. That the policeman knew where it was, though. It had made a trip across the swinging bridge that spanned the river two blocks over. The bridge that you had go through the woods to get to, or take a detour a couple of blocks left, then backtrack to the steps leading UP to the swinging bridge, cross over the wood planks on cables, then DOWN the steps on the other side of the swinging bridge, assuming it didn't swing too wildly and toss you off. Which wouldn't matter, really, because the river wasn't wild or deep unless there was a couple of inches of rainfall in 24 hours. In fact, it was kind of a flat river.
Seems that two teenage boys, one unknown to me, one a former student who had no idea I lived there, had stolen our riding lawnmower, and PUSHED it down the street, and CARRIED it across the swinging bridge, and were in the act of pushing it down another street when the policeman in his cruiser came upon them, and figured something just wasn't right. They confessed that they had stolen the riding mower from our house, because they were really tired of pushing it.
Hick dived back into bed, nearly tossing me overboard on a tidal wave. "I don't know why they didn't just ride it. The key was in the ignition."
Sunday, December 6, 2015
Saturday, December 5, 2015
Val Ham-Handedly Questions The Pony's Effectiveness in Helping Donors During the Recent Blood Drive
We have established (or at least the ACT interest inventory established) that The Pony is really not all that interested in helping people. He is, however, required to help people as a member of the school's National Honor Society. They hosted a blood drive last week. Let the record show that The Pony did not sign up to donate blood. He signed up (or was signed up) to hand out beverages and snacks to donors after their donation.
When I stepped in to ask him about an application, and to tell him I was leaving, I found The Pony sitting at a table, partially obscured by a tower of plastic-enclosed water bottle cases. There were three other helpers at his table. One was explaining the snack menu to him. I was not there to observe his two hours of service, but something tells me he did not leave that seat the whole time.
Flash forward to this morning, when I cleaned out the Thanksgiving leftovers to wash up the dishes BY HAND. The Pony DOES care about helping Val. She's his personal chauffeur, you know. And Chief Ball Holder. So he trotted up the basement stairs and took my containers to the back deck for scraping. The shades were open, thanks to Hick, who for some reason does not enjoy living like a mole. As I ran the dishwater, I saw The Pony battling with Simba, our not-very-likable tawny striped male cat that we rescued from mailbox row as a kitten. Simba strode along the rail like he owned the place, while The Pony dodged right, left, right, left trying to flick the remaining peas from one small serving of seven-layer-salad left over from the Sunday after Thanksgiving. So nice I made it twice!
Simba exhibited no fear of the sixteen-foot drop. He butted his head in every time The Pony had readied the spoon to flick peas. Despite The Pony's admonitions, feinting, and efforts to outsmart, that cat thrust his head into my brand-new Pyrex bowl (with a red rubber lid that burps!) without a flinch. You'd think he still had balls.
The Pony brought back my bowl. "Simba must really like mayonnaise!"
"Yeah. Don't think I didn't see him licking my bowl."
"I tried to stop him, but he kept putting his head in."
"This bowl smells like...a cat? Like fish? It doesn't smell like leftover salad."
"Maybe that's why he kept going after it. It smelled like fish!"
"Maybe. It's going right in the dishwater. Thanks for your help. I'll call you back up if I need anything. I'm going to get out the ham to put in those beans."
Off went The Pony to work on scholarship application essays. I finished that set of dishes, piled them likeJenga our overflowing wastebasket in the dish drainer, let the water out of the sink, and gave my soaked beans a final rinse. In went new water, some minced garlic, fresh ground black pepper, and my secret ingredient (shhh!) Mild Banana Pepper juice. I took the leftover slices of ham out of Frig II and commenced to dicing.
Did you know that a person's thumb has exactly the same texture as cold, left-over slices of smoked ham? It does. In fact, one might not even notice that the sharp knife blade is carving through a thumb instead of a ham slice unless the thumb that is being carved belongs to the carver. In which case there is a delayed sharp pain that must travel the nerve network up the thumb, past the wrist, along the radius, up the humerus, between the clavicle and scapula, dillydally past vertebrae C5 and C4, then reveal its message to the brain.
Did you know that people who are on aspirin therapy tend to bleed freely? Perhaps in the manner of a stuck pig, which is ironic, I think, having gotten a tentative grasp on this irony thing, since HAM is made from PIGS! And did you also know that tiny slivers of sliced leftover smoked ham are virtually indistinguishable from carved sections of human thumb tip? It's true. Let's just say that my pot of ham and beans might be every bit as delicious as that barbecue at the Whistle Stop Cafe.
I called The Pony. Because I needed assistance. Not with the thumb. I was in no danger of exsanguinating, unless, perhaps, you interview The Pony. I was in need of help to open a Ziploc bag of diced ham that I had frozen the day before Thanksgiving, when carving that ham, with the intention of using it to flavor some navy beans. Did you know that it is virtually impossible to open a Ziploc bag with only one functioning thumb? And furthermore, did you know that an open thumb wound does not favor the chopping of a white onion, nor Mild Banana Pepper Rings?
Anyhoo...I called The Pony, who charged up those stairs to see what help he could be. Then saw the Puffs With Lotion with Val blood, and balked. "I only need you to open this frozen bag of ham." The Pony rolled his eyes wildly, like perhaps should have put blinders on him. He tried to squeeze that hamcicle out of the zipped lock, but it wouldn't go. He picked up the sharp knife to cut it. Disaster flitted across my dimming field of vision. "NO! Be careful! You might cut yourself."
The Pony shied away from the bloody Puffs on the burgundy counter, and jabbed the bag and not the zipped lock. He twisted and wrestled and finally got the hamsicle loose. "Do I just drop it in the beans?"
"NO! It will splash boiling water on you! You have to ease it in. Not plop it!"
After several false starts, the hamsicle slid into the beans. The Pony turned tail and galloped away to the basement.
If he has that reaction to a tiny bit of blood on a Puffs, I can't imagine how he felt sitting in the midst of twenties of people hooked up to needles and bags, in various stages of bloodletting.
When I stepped in to ask him about an application, and to tell him I was leaving, I found The Pony sitting at a table, partially obscured by a tower of plastic-enclosed water bottle cases. There were three other helpers at his table. One was explaining the snack menu to him. I was not there to observe his two hours of service, but something tells me he did not leave that seat the whole time.
Flash forward to this morning, when I cleaned out the Thanksgiving leftovers to wash up the dishes BY HAND. The Pony DOES care about helping Val. She's his personal chauffeur, you know. And Chief Ball Holder. So he trotted up the basement stairs and took my containers to the back deck for scraping. The shades were open, thanks to Hick, who for some reason does not enjoy living like a mole. As I ran the dishwater, I saw The Pony battling with Simba, our not-very-likable tawny striped male cat that we rescued from mailbox row as a kitten. Simba strode along the rail like he owned the place, while The Pony dodged right, left, right, left trying to flick the remaining peas from one small serving of seven-layer-salad left over from the Sunday after Thanksgiving. So nice I made it twice!
Simba exhibited no fear of the sixteen-foot drop. He butted his head in every time The Pony had readied the spoon to flick peas. Despite The Pony's admonitions, feinting, and efforts to outsmart, that cat thrust his head into my brand-new Pyrex bowl (with a red rubber lid that burps!) without a flinch. You'd think he still had balls.
The Pony brought back my bowl. "Simba must really like mayonnaise!"
"Yeah. Don't think I didn't see him licking my bowl."
"I tried to stop him, but he kept putting his head in."
"This bowl smells like...a cat? Like fish? It doesn't smell like leftover salad."
"Maybe that's why he kept going after it. It smelled like fish!"
"Maybe. It's going right in the dishwater. Thanks for your help. I'll call you back up if I need anything. I'm going to get out the ham to put in those beans."
Off went The Pony to work on scholarship application essays. I finished that set of dishes, piled them like
Did you know that a person's thumb has exactly the same texture as cold, left-over slices of smoked ham? It does. In fact, one might not even notice that the sharp knife blade is carving through a thumb instead of a ham slice unless the thumb that is being carved belongs to the carver. In which case there is a delayed sharp pain that must travel the nerve network up the thumb, past the wrist, along the radius, up the humerus, between the clavicle and scapula, dillydally past vertebrae C5 and C4, then reveal its message to the brain.
Did you know that people who are on aspirin therapy tend to bleed freely? Perhaps in the manner of a stuck pig, which is ironic, I think, having gotten a tentative grasp on this irony thing, since HAM is made from PIGS! And did you also know that tiny slivers of sliced leftover smoked ham are virtually indistinguishable from carved sections of human thumb tip? It's true. Let's just say that my pot of ham and beans might be every bit as delicious as that barbecue at the Whistle Stop Cafe.
I called The Pony. Because I needed assistance. Not with the thumb. I was in no danger of exsanguinating, unless, perhaps, you interview The Pony. I was in need of help to open a Ziploc bag of diced ham that I had frozen the day before Thanksgiving, when carving that ham, with the intention of using it to flavor some navy beans. Did you know that it is virtually impossible to open a Ziploc bag with only one functioning thumb? And furthermore, did you know that an open thumb wound does not favor the chopping of a white onion, nor Mild Banana Pepper Rings?
Anyhoo...I called The Pony, who charged up those stairs to see what help he could be. Then saw the Puffs With Lotion with Val blood, and balked. "I only need you to open this frozen bag of ham." The Pony rolled his eyes wildly, like perhaps should have put blinders on him. He tried to squeeze that hamcicle out of the zipped lock, but it wouldn't go. He picked up the sharp knife to cut it. Disaster flitted across my dimming field of vision. "NO! Be careful! You might cut yourself."
The Pony shied away from the bloody Puffs on the burgundy counter, and jabbed the bag and not the zipped lock. He twisted and wrestled and finally got the hamsicle loose. "Do I just drop it in the beans?"
"NO! It will splash boiling water on you! You have to ease it in. Not plop it!"
After several false starts, the hamsicle slid into the beans. The Pony turned tail and galloped away to the basement.
If he has that reaction to a tiny bit of blood on a Puffs, I can't imagine how he felt sitting in the midst of twenties of people hooked up to needles and bags, in various stages of bloodletting.
Friday, December 4, 2015
Who Do You Have to Sleep With Around Here to Get a Good Night's Sleep?
That was not a rhetorical question. And the answer for sure is NOT Hick.
My evening of shut-eye last night commenced in the downstairs recliner, watching an episode of House Hunters. I didn't even see which house the hunters picked. So it must have been around 9:50 when I dozed off. At 1:00, I woke up to go to bed.
When I got upstairs, I first had to lay out clothes fortomorrow today. And plug in my cell phone to charge on the kitchen counter. Where I saw a text from a colleague asking to trade duty tomorrow today for my duty on Monday, when I will be having jury duty. So I had to send a reply of agreement. By the time I got to bed, it was 2:00.
It took a little while to fall asleep, what with acclimatizing myself to the under-pillow arm-rooting and back-of-neck breather-spraying of Hick. But once I did, I was deep in sleep, having a dream of The Pony driving a bronze-colored Ford Aerostar van, taking my parking space that was saved for me at my old junior high school, and hitting the brakes (like the front brakes on a 10-speed bicycle) so that the rear end of that van flew up in the air.
RING...RING...RING...
"HELLO!" Let the record show that the phone is on Val's side of the bed. On the far edge of her nightstand, so that she must get completely out of bed to answer it.
"This is Central Station calling about an alarm at The Workplace of Hick..."
"Here he is. HEY! PHONE!"
Hick turned off his breather and grabbed the phone. "Yes. Yes. We have a bird in that building. The police can check the outside, but I'm not coming in until 6:00. I'll check the inside then."
Let the record show that this bird has been a fly in Hick's ointment for many years. Almost since they moved out of the old Red Cross building and into their current building. About 15 years ago. It's probably a 15th generation of the original bird. They fly around and set off the electric eye that triggers the burglar alarm. Schools have the same problem, only it's not birds, but kids' work falling off the wall in the hall.
Let the record further show that the time of that call was 2:59 a.m.
I went back to sleep, building a barricade of Grandma quilt between the right side of my face and the breathered breath of Hick.
WHOMP!
That was the giant left ham-arm of Hick thwacking across my upper abdomen. Like a hunter under attack trying to fend off a grizzly bear on a remote island in the Alaskan Panhandle during the salmon run. Like a hitchhiker thumping the side of a Chevy Silverado after hopping out on the highway shoulder, signaling the driver that he was clear of the pickup, and thanks for the ride. Like a small-time embezzler resisting the amorous advances of his new cellie on his first night in the federal penitentiary.
"Why did you do THAT?"
"It's about time for the alarm to go off."
"Funny. I kind of like to wait until the alarm actually goes off. It's 4:44. I have six more minutes. But I'll never get back to sleep now."
"I thought the alarm went off. I heard someone say, 'Are you awake?' I heard a voice."
"Well, now I'M awake."
I would have had more rest if I had not gone to bed at all.
My evening of shut-eye last night commenced in the downstairs recliner, watching an episode of House Hunters. I didn't even see which house the hunters picked. So it must have been around 9:50 when I dozed off. At 1:00, I woke up to go to bed.
When I got upstairs, I first had to lay out clothes for
It took a little while to fall asleep, what with acclimatizing myself to the under-pillow arm-rooting and back-of-neck breather-spraying of Hick. But once I did, I was deep in sleep, having a dream of The Pony driving a bronze-colored Ford Aerostar van, taking my parking space that was saved for me at my old junior high school, and hitting the brakes (like the front brakes on a 10-speed bicycle) so that the rear end of that van flew up in the air.
RING...RING...RING...
"HELLO!" Let the record show that the phone is on Val's side of the bed. On the far edge of her nightstand, so that she must get completely out of bed to answer it.
"This is Central Station calling about an alarm at The Workplace of Hick..."
"Here he is. HEY! PHONE!"
Hick turned off his breather and grabbed the phone. "Yes. Yes. We have a bird in that building. The police can check the outside, but I'm not coming in until 6:00. I'll check the inside then."
Let the record show that this bird has been a fly in Hick's ointment for many years. Almost since they moved out of the old Red Cross building and into their current building. About 15 years ago. It's probably a 15th generation of the original bird. They fly around and set off the electric eye that triggers the burglar alarm. Schools have the same problem, only it's not birds, but kids' work falling off the wall in the hall.
Let the record further show that the time of that call was 2:59 a.m.
I went back to sleep, building a barricade of Grandma quilt between the right side of my face and the breathered breath of Hick.
WHOMP!
That was the giant left ham-arm of Hick thwacking across my upper abdomen. Like a hunter under attack trying to fend off a grizzly bear on a remote island in the Alaskan Panhandle during the salmon run. Like a hitchhiker thumping the side of a Chevy Silverado after hopping out on the highway shoulder, signaling the driver that he was clear of the pickup, and thanks for the ride. Like a small-time embezzler resisting the amorous advances of his new cellie on his first night in the federal penitentiary.
"Why did you do THAT?"
"It's about time for the alarm to go off."
"Funny. I kind of like to wait until the alarm actually goes off. It's 4:44. I have six more minutes. But I'll never get back to sleep now."
"I thought the alarm went off. I heard someone say, 'Are you awake?' I heard a voice."
"Well, now I'M awake."
I would have had more rest if I had not gone to bed at all.
Thursday, December 3, 2015
Something Tells Me He's Gonna Get PEEnalized For That One of These Days
We picked up the mail this evening and The Pony read me the return addresses.
"Here's one from Slate. And one from American Family. And one from Edward D. Jones. And one from pmlajaysmthtn."
"What? What was that last one?"
"One from pmlajaysmthtn."
"Say it slower. I didn't get it."
"Pmeluh J. Smithton."
"What? Camilla? J. Smithton? When did someone else get elected? That sounds like--"
"Not Camilla. Pmeluh. The county collector."
"That's what I thought. It's our tax receipts. But that's not her name. It's--"
"Pmeluh."
"No. That's not it. Spell it."
"P-A-M-E-L-A. Puh-MELL-uh."
"Oh! Pamela!"
"Ha ha ha. No! Puh-MELL-uh!"
"Um. That is pronounced PAM-uh-luh."
"No it isn't! You never hear anybody being called PAM-uh-luh!"
"I'm sorry to tell you, Mr. HAR-BRINGER of Spring, that you will most likely be PEE-nal-ized if you call some girl that at college. There you'll be, walking up to a girl from your class, saying, 'Hello, Puh-MELL-uh. Would you care to join me for a bite of supper in the dining hall this evening?' And she'll keep on walking, not even look at you, because her name is obviously not Puh-MELL-uh, but rather PAM-uh-luh. And you'll think she was snobby and rude and hurt your feelings on purpose. When in reality, she didn't even know you were talking to her. Because her dang name is pronounced PAM-uh-luh. Not freakin' Puh-MELL-uh!"
"That's not going to happen. Nobody names their daughter Puh-MELL-uh these days."
"That's RIGHT! Because nobody EVER named their daughter Puh-MELL-uh!"
SOMEBODY needs to get his nose out of a laptop, his butt off of the couch, and climb to the front seat of T-Hoe and experience life in the real world for a while.
"Here's one from Slate. And one from American Family. And one from Edward D. Jones. And one from pmlajaysmthtn."
"What? What was that last one?"
"One from pmlajaysmthtn."
"Say it slower. I didn't get it."
"Pmeluh J. Smithton."
"What? Camilla? J. Smithton? When did someone else get elected? That sounds like--"
"Not Camilla. Pmeluh. The county collector."
"That's what I thought. It's our tax receipts. But that's not her name. It's--"
"Pmeluh."
"No. That's not it. Spell it."
"P-A-M-E-L-A. Puh-MELL-uh."
"Oh! Pamela!"
"Ha ha ha. No! Puh-MELL-uh!"
"Um. That is pronounced PAM-uh-luh."
"No it isn't! You never hear anybody being called PAM-uh-luh!"
"I'm sorry to tell you, Mr. HAR-BRINGER of Spring, that you will most likely be PEE-nal-ized if you call some girl that at college. There you'll be, walking up to a girl from your class, saying, 'Hello, Puh-MELL-uh. Would you care to join me for a bite of supper in the dining hall this evening?' And she'll keep on walking, not even look at you, because her name is obviously not Puh-MELL-uh, but rather PAM-uh-luh. And you'll think she was snobby and rude and hurt your feelings on purpose. When in reality, she didn't even know you were talking to her. Because her dang name is pronounced PAM-uh-luh. Not freakin' Puh-MELL-uh!"
"That's not going to happen. Nobody names their daughter Puh-MELL-uh these days."
"That's RIGHT! Because nobody EVER named their daughter Puh-MELL-uh!"
SOMEBODY needs to get his nose out of a laptop, his butt off of the couch, and climb to the front seat of T-Hoe and experience life in the real world for a while.
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
What We Need Here is a Penetrating Investigation
Yesterday, I revealed one of my sister the ex-mayor's wife's least-endearing habits. She took a fake-beatin' and kept on cheatin'. She framed me again and again with cries of nonexistent physical attack. It was my own fault. Fool me once, shame on Sis. Fool me twice...and a hundred times more, shame on gullible trusting Val.
This behavior started shortly after we moved into our new childhood home. That was 7th grade for me, and 5th grade for Sis. Which makes us 12 and 10. Sis was a freckledy scrappy spitfire compared to me. She got the wire handle of the flyswatter more often when we were younger. She had a routine where Mom would grab her by the upper arm and spin in a circle chasing her churning legs just below the shorts line, while Sis ran like Secretariat, with one hand held behind her back to shield her legs, red hair streaming in the wind.
Our new split-level house had a floor plan with a door that opened into the foyer, living room on the right. You could go straight and enter the kitchen, turn right, enter the dining room, turn right again, and you were back in the living room. A big circle. So when Mom was cooking at her harvest gold stove top, we were on the other side of the wall in the living room. We didn't spend much time there. Mom stopped short of the plastic furniture covers. But the living room was the sitting room. Where Mom sat with the Jehovah's Witnesses for hours at a time, unable to turn them away.
When Sis and I grew bored with watching TV in the wood-paneled family room downstairs, we gravitated to the kitchen to see what was for supper. Sis would step into the dining room and motion for me to follow. "C'mere. I've got a secret." She mouthed that behind Mom's back. And I fell for it every time. A SECRET! Sis was going to tell me a secret!
The secret was that she had a dastardly plan to get me in trouble. Because she could. The minute we got into the living room, and I leaned over to hear the secret, Sis clapped her hands together and hollered, "OW! She SLAPPED me!" I had not ever read a Junie B. Jones book at that time, but after reading them with my own kids, I know what the author was talking about when she said that Junie's teacher, Mrs., clapped her loud hands.
Let the record show that Val was no angel. But neither was she a sister-pummeler. Still, Val was the one punished for the imaginary transgression. EVERY time. Sis's secret was: Val was about to get in trouble.
Val was not one to plot revenge. I'm sure that the incident about to unfold was a complete accident. Of course it was. Stuff happens.
Val and Sis shared a bathroom. It was upstairs at the front of the house, between our two bedrooms. There were no fancy doors like the Brady Bunch bathroom, where you could enter from your separate bedrooms. Nope. Just a door from the hall. On the left was a pink bathtub, then a pink tile half-wall with black trim tiles at the top, and a pink toilet in its own alcove. On the right was an accordion-doored closet, with four shelves for sheets and towels and blankets. Then a white counter with pink double sinks, and a mirror spanning the length of the counter. Any area not covered by pink tile or a wooden accordion door was adorned with white wallpaper sporting a fuzzy red fleur de lis pattern. Yes. It was a grand '70s bathroom. They don't make 'em like that anymore. In fact, the two stepdaughters of my cousin who bought Mom's house forbade him from changing anything about it during the remodel. Everything old is new again. Girls like what girls like.
It so happens that one certain day, Val and Sis were both in the bathroom at the same time, combing hair and brushing teeth. Sis decided that it was a fine time to clean out her ear canal with a bobby pin. Folks did that back then, you know. None of that fancy Q-Tip stuff. That was for babies. Not tweenagers.
An argument developed, in that way one does between sisters. Perhaps about getting off my side of the counter! Or about Sis hollering, "JOAN OF ARC CHILI BEANS?" accompanied by several loud thumps from the kitchen at a time on Saturday morning whe Val was trying to sleep in. Or maybe about Sis taking umbrage at Val's comment that she really shouldn't wear her silver sandals, what with her having boy toes and all.
Anyhoo...some jostling occurred. A bit of a scuffle. And by the time it was over, Sis had a drop or two of blood seeping from her ear. Only a little bit of blood, really. Hardly enough to even call it blood, though it was very red, and seemingly upsetting to Sis when she saw it in the mirror. It's not like she went deaf or anything. I'm sure eardrums grow back from perforation. I can't really say if that silly ear incident happened before or after the SECRETS. We're not a chicken and an egg, you know. We're sisters. Stuff happens. I certainly don't want to ask Sis for the pertinent details.
Maybe I AM a chicken...
This behavior started shortly after we moved into our new childhood home. That was 7th grade for me, and 5th grade for Sis. Which makes us 12 and 10. Sis was a freckledy scrappy spitfire compared to me. She got the wire handle of the flyswatter more often when we were younger. She had a routine where Mom would grab her by the upper arm and spin in a circle chasing her churning legs just below the shorts line, while Sis ran like Secretariat, with one hand held behind her back to shield her legs, red hair streaming in the wind.
Our new split-level house had a floor plan with a door that opened into the foyer, living room on the right. You could go straight and enter the kitchen, turn right, enter the dining room, turn right again, and you were back in the living room. A big circle. So when Mom was cooking at her harvest gold stove top, we were on the other side of the wall in the living room. We didn't spend much time there. Mom stopped short of the plastic furniture covers. But the living room was the sitting room. Where Mom sat with the Jehovah's Witnesses for hours at a time, unable to turn them away.
When Sis and I grew bored with watching TV in the wood-paneled family room downstairs, we gravitated to the kitchen to see what was for supper. Sis would step into the dining room and motion for me to follow. "C'mere. I've got a secret." She mouthed that behind Mom's back. And I fell for it every time. A SECRET! Sis was going to tell me a secret!
The secret was that she had a dastardly plan to get me in trouble. Because she could. The minute we got into the living room, and I leaned over to hear the secret, Sis clapped her hands together and hollered, "OW! She SLAPPED me!" I had not ever read a Junie B. Jones book at that time, but after reading them with my own kids, I know what the author was talking about when she said that Junie's teacher, Mrs., clapped her loud hands.
Let the record show that Val was no angel. But neither was she a sister-pummeler. Still, Val was the one punished for the imaginary transgression. EVERY time. Sis's secret was: Val was about to get in trouble.
Val was not one to plot revenge. I'm sure that the incident about to unfold was a complete accident. Of course it was. Stuff happens.
Val and Sis shared a bathroom. It was upstairs at the front of the house, between our two bedrooms. There were no fancy doors like the Brady Bunch bathroom, where you could enter from your separate bedrooms. Nope. Just a door from the hall. On the left was a pink bathtub, then a pink tile half-wall with black trim tiles at the top, and a pink toilet in its own alcove. On the right was an accordion-doored closet, with four shelves for sheets and towels and blankets. Then a white counter with pink double sinks, and a mirror spanning the length of the counter. Any area not covered by pink tile or a wooden accordion door was adorned with white wallpaper sporting a fuzzy red fleur de lis pattern. Yes. It was a grand '70s bathroom. They don't make 'em like that anymore. In fact, the two stepdaughters of my cousin who bought Mom's house forbade him from changing anything about it during the remodel. Everything old is new again. Girls like what girls like.
It so happens that one certain day, Val and Sis were both in the bathroom at the same time, combing hair and brushing teeth. Sis decided that it was a fine time to clean out her ear canal with a bobby pin. Folks did that back then, you know. None of that fancy Q-Tip stuff. That was for babies. Not tweenagers.
An argument developed, in that way one does between sisters. Perhaps about getting off my side of the counter! Or about Sis hollering, "JOAN OF ARC CHILI BEANS?" accompanied by several loud thumps from the kitchen at a time on Saturday morning whe Val was trying to sleep in. Or maybe about Sis taking umbrage at Val's comment that she really shouldn't wear her silver sandals, what with her having boy toes and all.
Anyhoo...some jostling occurred. A bit of a scuffle. And by the time it was over, Sis had a drop or two of blood seeping from her ear. Only a little bit of blood, really. Hardly enough to even call it blood, though it was very red, and seemingly upsetting to Sis when she saw it in the mirror. It's not like she went deaf or anything. I'm sure eardrums grow back from perforation. I can't really say if that silly ear incident happened before or after the SECRETS. We're not a chicken and an egg, you know. We're sisters. Stuff happens. I certainly don't want to ask Sis for the pertinent details.
Maybe I AM a chicken...
Tuesday, December 1, 2015
My Baby Was Bamboozled!
It sure gets dark fast in the country.
I was without The Pony this evening, him having a previous engagement, accompanied by Hick. I didn't leave school until 4:30. There was barely a glow in the sky as I stepped in front of T-Hoe at the bottom of Mailbox Condo Hill to fetch the mail from EmBee's mouth. It's pretty dark in the woods after dark, you know, what with those trees (some still bearing dead rustling leaves) leaning over you.
Lucky for me, our homestead sits upon a hill. Lucky right after darkness has fallen down by the mailboxes, but not so lucky when I try to get back home after a snowstorm. Anyhoo...it was light enough see the vague outline of Hick's recent driveway doings (more on that another day) as I rolled T-Hoe towards the garage. And light enough to see the frolicking of my sweet, sweet Juno when she heard the garage door go up.
I flipped on the Christmas lights that have been attached to our soffits since The Pony was a pup. That gave me enough light to get up the steps to the porch. But first, I had to greet my sweet, sweet Juno. She stood still and put her nose against my neck. I was the first one home, you know. Not that she wanted anybody else. But she kind of looks for them, too. Just to make sure her whole pack is inside at the end of the day. And to hope for a run in front of Hick's Gator when he feeds the livestock.
After our lovefest had petered out, I asked my sweet, sweet Juno if she wanted a treat. YES! YES! She DID! She danced around, snuffling, feinting left and right until I put a fistful of cat kibble down on the porch in front of her. She put her head down to eat as poor dumb Ann ceased her incessant baying from the front of the house and rounded the stair railing. I gave her a handful as well, and wiped my kibble hand on her coarse black German shepherdish fur.
AND JUNO TOOK OFF FOR THE FRONT PORCH! WITHOUT EATING HER CAT KIBBLE!
Such a curious incident of the sweet, sweet Juno in the eveningtime! She NEVER abandons her cat kibble. She lives for that stuff. Yet off she ran, from whence Ann had come. Well. Ain't that a fine how-do-you-do after saying how do you do? All that greeting with no kibble-eating. Something surely had to be amiss.
I knew Timmy didn't fall down a well. Timmy is the grown-up dude who lives across the way who may or may not have stolen my favorite cat, Snuggles, whose likeness is the masthead of this blog. And who may or may not be living with his mummified mommy, who has not been seen for years, even when Timmy calls a cab to take him to the store.
I knew Hick was not home yet. So my sweet, sweet Juno could not be running around to join his Gator procession to the Sword Shack/Fishing Lair/Little Barbershop of Horrors village.
I didn't know WHAT had gotten into my sweet, sweet Juno. So unlike her to leave her cat kibble behind. Maybe a package had been left on the front porch. Perhaps the deliverer had caught a foot in the front steps and needed help. I followed my sweet baby to the front porch, even though I was laden with my own school bag and purse and pre-Christmas junk mail.
Nothing.
No package. No body. Nobody. Nothing. Only my sweet, sweet Juno barking her fool head off. She turned to see that I had followed her, then sprinted back to her pile of cat kibble. Which had just been licked clean down to the porch wood by poor dumb Ann.
I cry shenanigans! Poor dumb Ann is like an idiot savant. A regular Tom Sawyeress. A Hound of the Mensavilles. She must have tricked my sweet, sweet Juno into investigating elsewhere, after lagging on the front porch barking until our lovefest was over.
Poor Juno. I'll bet she felt like I did, every time my tweenage sister the future ex-mayor's wife called me into the living room to tell me a secret, then clapped her hands together and screamed to Mom that I had slapped her.
I was without The Pony this evening, him having a previous engagement, accompanied by Hick. I didn't leave school until 4:30. There was barely a glow in the sky as I stepped in front of T-Hoe at the bottom of Mailbox Condo Hill to fetch the mail from EmBee's mouth. It's pretty dark in the woods after dark, you know, what with those trees (some still bearing dead rustling leaves) leaning over you.
Lucky for me, our homestead sits upon a hill. Lucky right after darkness has fallen down by the mailboxes, but not so lucky when I try to get back home after a snowstorm. Anyhoo...it was light enough see the vague outline of Hick's recent driveway doings (more on that another day) as I rolled T-Hoe towards the garage. And light enough to see the frolicking of my sweet, sweet Juno when she heard the garage door go up.
I flipped on the Christmas lights that have been attached to our soffits since The Pony was a pup. That gave me enough light to get up the steps to the porch. But first, I had to greet my sweet, sweet Juno. She stood still and put her nose against my neck. I was the first one home, you know. Not that she wanted anybody else. But she kind of looks for them, too. Just to make sure her whole pack is inside at the end of the day. And to hope for a run in front of Hick's Gator when he feeds the livestock.
After our lovefest had petered out, I asked my sweet, sweet Juno if she wanted a treat. YES! YES! She DID! She danced around, snuffling, feinting left and right until I put a fistful of cat kibble down on the porch in front of her. She put her head down to eat as poor dumb Ann ceased her incessant baying from the front of the house and rounded the stair railing. I gave her a handful as well, and wiped my kibble hand on her coarse black German shepherdish fur.
AND JUNO TOOK OFF FOR THE FRONT PORCH! WITHOUT EATING HER CAT KIBBLE!
Such a curious incident of the sweet, sweet Juno in the eveningtime! She NEVER abandons her cat kibble. She lives for that stuff. Yet off she ran, from whence Ann had come. Well. Ain't that a fine how-do-you-do after saying how do you do? All that greeting with no kibble-eating. Something surely had to be amiss.
I knew Timmy didn't fall down a well. Timmy is the grown-up dude who lives across the way who may or may not have stolen my favorite cat, Snuggles, whose likeness is the masthead of this blog. And who may or may not be living with his mummified mommy, who has not been seen for years, even when Timmy calls a cab to take him to the store.
I knew Hick was not home yet. So my sweet, sweet Juno could not be running around to join his Gator procession to the Sword Shack/Fishing Lair/Little Barbershop of Horrors village.
I didn't know WHAT had gotten into my sweet, sweet Juno. So unlike her to leave her cat kibble behind. Maybe a package had been left on the front porch. Perhaps the deliverer had caught a foot in the front steps and needed help. I followed my sweet baby to the front porch, even though I was laden with my own school bag and purse and pre-Christmas junk mail.
Nothing.
No package. No body. Nobody. Nothing. Only my sweet, sweet Juno barking her fool head off. She turned to see that I had followed her, then sprinted back to her pile of cat kibble. Which had just been licked clean down to the porch wood by poor dumb Ann.
I cry shenanigans! Poor dumb Ann is like an idiot savant. A regular Tom Sawyeress. A Hound of the Mensavilles. She must have tricked my sweet, sweet Juno into investigating elsewhere, after lagging on the front porch barking until our lovefest was over.
Poor Juno. I'll bet she felt like I did, every time my tweenage sister the future ex-mayor's wife called me into the living room to tell me a secret, then clapped her hands together and screamed to Mom that I had slapped her.
Monday, November 30, 2015
Nothing Could Possibly Go Wrong. Right?
Here is the whole shocking story of Val's first Thanksgiving.
It had to simmer on the back burner for a few days. How Val thought her goose was cooked. What a dodo she was. Her fear of eating crow. A glimpse into the seamy underbelly of Val's Thanksgiving turkey. And now...as the story takes wing...NO SNIPING!
I knew that I could not simply pick up a turkey out of the Save A Lot freezer bin and drive it home and pop it in the oven. I knew that. So I did some internet research courtesy of my estranged BFF Google, and calculated how long my Butterball would take to thaw. That's 24 hours per 5 pounds, you know. So my 16-pound turkey needed approximately three days and six hours to cool her drumsticks on the bottom shelf of Frig II. EBFFG also informed me that a thawed turkey could sit for one or two days in the refrigerator.
Yes, I had it all figured out. I bought my Butterball on Sunday around noon. I figured it would be ready for roasting by Wednesday evening. I had no intention of cooking it until Thursday, but I knew it would be good and ready and not frigid by Thursday. As your may recall, the zero hour was 5:00 o;clock for the feast. Then 4:00 o'clock when Genius changed plans slightly. No problem. Everything was under control.
On Monday evening, I poked Butterball. Still hard as a rock. Like The Rock. And Arnold Schwarzenegger and Lou Ferrigno in their prime. Like a turducken of The Rock, Arnold, and Lou all stuffed one inside the other. A RockSchwarzIgno. I figured I would put something under that hardbody as it thawed. But I had gotten home late from an appointment, so I put it off.
On Tuesday evening, I poked Butterball again. Barely pliable. Kind of like Jane Fonda, Jillian Michaels, and Jackie Warner all rolled into one. A FonMichNer. And it was still the RockSchwarzIgno on the bottom half. I figured I would put something under that solidbody as it thawed. But I stopped by Walmart for some last minute items, and The Pony drove us home, and it was getting late, so I put it off.
On Wednesday afternoon, I poked Butterball as usual. The bottom half was firm. Like Viggo Mortenson, John Stamos, and Liam Hemsworth stacked together in a panini press. A MortStamWorth. I figured I would put something under that firmbody as it thawed. But I had to make a chocolate pie, Hidden Valley Ranch Dip, boil two dozen eggs, bake a ham, and simmer a pot of green beans and potatoes. So I put it off.
On Thursday morning, I poked Butterball. Alas! My turkey was jiggly. It felt like my finger plunged into Delta Burke, Kathy Bates, and Roseanne wrestling around in child's blow-up swimming pool full of warm cream cheese. WITH NO SPANX! A DelKathAnne! AND THEY WERE INCONTINENT!
A pool of pinkish liquid sat brackishly on Frig II's glass bottom shelf.
"Pony! Quick! Get me a towel!"
He was on helper duty. Stationed on the long couch in the living room, at my beck and call. The Pony galloped to the hall closet and returned immediately with...a faded purple hand towel.
"NO! I need a big towel! A thirsty towel! Go get one! Get TWO!"
When he raced back, I made him fetch one of the two foil roasting pans. I lined it with a thirsty towel, and The Pony picked up Butterball and laid her on her new bed. Then we commenced to wipe out Frig II. I pulled the glass shelf out and bathed it in hot soapy water. I gave The Pony paper towels of various soapiness and had him wipe out the nooks and crannies of the plastic rim the shelf sits on.
"Did it get on anything else, Pony? You can get back in there, and see better than I can."
"No. We got it. Everything else looks okay."
So we did a load of towel laundry. Twice. And put Butterball back in Frig II for a couple of hours until roasting time. Let the record show that when rinsed in the sink before roasting, Butterball was still stiff inside, with the gizzard and liver frozen to her butt. Which is neither here nor there. Butterball was shoved in the oven quicker than the witchy plans for Hansel and Gretel.
Which brings us to the true horror.
"Pony, let's get the veggie tray ready. Bring me that bag of mini carrots from the second shelf. And that bag of broccoli/cauliflower/carrots from the crisper. It has thinner carrots. Genius likes them. So we'll have two sections of carrots, one of broccoli, one of cauliflower, one of green olives, and one of black olives. Let's see how they look the best. Orange across from orange. Green across from green, and black across from white. Wait a minuet! What's that on the broccoli bag? It's dripping! PONY! Put it in the sink! What IS that? Is that turkey juice?"
"No. We cleaned that all out."
"Go check."
"Um. There's a line of turkey juice just in the front of the crisper drawer. Just in the front. Everything else should be okay. You can use the broccoli and cauliflower, Mom. It's sealed in a bag."
"NO! Throw that away! And then wash your hands! I'm not using it. We'll just put the olives each in two sections. And get me the celery from the second shelf while I wash my hands. I don't have time to wash out the crisper until tomorrow. We shall not speak of this at the feasting table."
Of course The Pony let that cat out of the bag after dessert. No harm. No "fowl." No E. coli as of this writing.
It had to simmer on the back burner for a few days. How Val thought her goose was cooked. What a dodo she was. Her fear of eating crow. A glimpse into the seamy underbelly of Val's Thanksgiving turkey. And now...as the story takes wing...NO SNIPING!
I knew that I could not simply pick up a turkey out of the Save A Lot freezer bin and drive it home and pop it in the oven. I knew that. So I did some internet research courtesy of my estranged BFF Google, and calculated how long my Butterball would take to thaw. That's 24 hours per 5 pounds, you know. So my 16-pound turkey needed approximately three days and six hours to cool her drumsticks on the bottom shelf of Frig II. EBFFG also informed me that a thawed turkey could sit for one or two days in the refrigerator.
Yes, I had it all figured out. I bought my Butterball on Sunday around noon. I figured it would be ready for roasting by Wednesday evening. I had no intention of cooking it until Thursday, but I knew it would be good and ready and not frigid by Thursday. As your may recall, the zero hour was 5:00 o;clock for the feast. Then 4:00 o'clock when Genius changed plans slightly. No problem. Everything was under control.
On Monday evening, I poked Butterball. Still hard as a rock. Like The Rock. And Arnold Schwarzenegger and Lou Ferrigno in their prime. Like a turducken of The Rock, Arnold, and Lou all stuffed one inside the other. A RockSchwarzIgno. I figured I would put something under that hardbody as it thawed. But I had gotten home late from an appointment, so I put it off.
On Tuesday evening, I poked Butterball again. Barely pliable. Kind of like Jane Fonda, Jillian Michaels, and Jackie Warner all rolled into one. A FonMichNer. And it was still the RockSchwarzIgno on the bottom half. I figured I would put something under that solidbody as it thawed. But I stopped by Walmart for some last minute items, and The Pony drove us home, and it was getting late, so I put it off.
On Wednesday afternoon, I poked Butterball as usual. The bottom half was firm. Like Viggo Mortenson, John Stamos, and Liam Hemsworth stacked together in a panini press. A MortStamWorth. I figured I would put something under that firmbody as it thawed. But I had to make a chocolate pie, Hidden Valley Ranch Dip, boil two dozen eggs, bake a ham, and simmer a pot of green beans and potatoes. So I put it off.
On Thursday morning, I poked Butterball. Alas! My turkey was jiggly. It felt like my finger plunged into Delta Burke, Kathy Bates, and Roseanne wrestling around in child's blow-up swimming pool full of warm cream cheese. WITH NO SPANX! A DelKathAnne! AND THEY WERE INCONTINENT!
A pool of pinkish liquid sat brackishly on Frig II's glass bottom shelf.
"Pony! Quick! Get me a towel!"
He was on helper duty. Stationed on the long couch in the living room, at my beck and call. The Pony galloped to the hall closet and returned immediately with...a faded purple hand towel.
"NO! I need a big towel! A thirsty towel! Go get one! Get TWO!"
When he raced back, I made him fetch one of the two foil roasting pans. I lined it with a thirsty towel, and The Pony picked up Butterball and laid her on her new bed. Then we commenced to wipe out Frig II. I pulled the glass shelf out and bathed it in hot soapy water. I gave The Pony paper towels of various soapiness and had him wipe out the nooks and crannies of the plastic rim the shelf sits on.
"Did it get on anything else, Pony? You can get back in there, and see better than I can."
"No. We got it. Everything else looks okay."
So we did a load of towel laundry. Twice. And put Butterball back in Frig II for a couple of hours until roasting time. Let the record show that when rinsed in the sink before roasting, Butterball was still stiff inside, with the gizzard and liver frozen to her butt. Which is neither here nor there. Butterball was shoved in the oven quicker than the witchy plans for Hansel and Gretel.
Which brings us to the true horror.
"Pony, let's get the veggie tray ready. Bring me that bag of mini carrots from the second shelf. And that bag of broccoli/cauliflower/carrots from the crisper. It has thinner carrots. Genius likes them. So we'll have two sections of carrots, one of broccoli, one of cauliflower, one of green olives, and one of black olives. Let's see how they look the best. Orange across from orange. Green across from green, and black across from white. Wait a minuet! What's that on the broccoli bag? It's dripping! PONY! Put it in the sink! What IS that? Is that turkey juice?"
"No. We cleaned that all out."
"Go check."
"Um. There's a line of turkey juice just in the front of the crisper drawer. Just in the front. Everything else should be okay. You can use the broccoli and cauliflower, Mom. It's sealed in a bag."
"NO! Throw that away! And then wash your hands! I'm not using it. We'll just put the olives each in two sections. And get me the celery from the second shelf while I wash my hands. I don't have time to wash out the crisper until tomorrow. We shall not speak of this at the feasting table."
Of course The Pony let that cat out of the bag after dessert. No harm. No "fowl." No E. coli as of this writing.
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