T-Hoein' Down the Aisleway, Get Outta My Way

On Thursday, I headed back to the doctor's FNP's office to give a blood sample for some fasting lab tests. Just routine, and out of order because it's a new doctor FNP who wouldn't write the order for my usual six-month lab tests until after he'd seen me for an appointment.

Anyhoo...there was not a specific time that I had to show up, so I avoided the 8:00 a.m. rush and the lunch time crowd, and arrived at 10:45. It was difficult to find a parking space, because the lot was full, and because two cars insisted on coming down the aisles the wrong way, making it hard for me to pass. There are no direction arrows, and the spots are not slanted. But I know that I was the one going the right way, and those other two cars were not! Actually, there's plenty of room for two cars to pass, IF the ones that aren't you will quit driving down the very middle.

Heh, heh! Joke's on those center-hogging wrong-way drivers, because right after they passed it, a car backed out, and I got that nice wide space near a light pole before they could loop back around. Take THAT! [insert sound of cracking whip] Even though that space was in the last row, it WAS in the parking lot.

Once I spurned the free minibus ride to the door, choosing to hoof it because walking hurts less than climbing minibus steps, I held the elevator for an overdressed woman. I knew she wasn't a patient, but more likely a drug rep. She wasn't pulling a little suitcase on wheels, but she had a bag that I figured could hold samples of samples. We were both going to 3rd Floor, so I pushed the square lighted button with the back of my knuckles. You know, that flat part between the fingernail bendy joint of your fingers, and the main bendy part in the middle. No need to contaminate all my possessions with germs from the elevator panel! Saleslady thanked me again when I let her exit the elevator first. "Go ahead. You move faster than me." Of course I almost ran up on her heels when we disembarked, because she didn't know which way she was going.

I walked up to the 3rd floor lab window and handed over my written lab order. I saw that all the names (20 perhaps) on the sign-in sheet had been crossed off. I signed in and sat, after briefly flashing my two insurance cards and not being asked for ID. There must have been some allergen in the air outside, because the inner corner of my left eye was itching. I am loathe to touch my face until taking a Silkwood scrub with Germ-X once I get back to T-Hoe. But my eye itched. It wouldn't hurt to rub it a little. Which I did, with the back of my knuckles. YIKES! The minute my itch was soothed, I remembered that I had assuaged it with my ELEVATOR KNUCKLES! Hopefully, my eye won't rot and fall out. Even though the button for 3rd Floor is what all the sickies going for lab testing touch.

There was a coughing lady to my left, and a phone-talking lady past her. A nurse came around the corner and called the coughing lady down the hall. Phone-Talking Lady was trying to find out from her insurance where to send her blood for testing. They were giving her the runaround, giving her all kinds of questions and offers that she politely refused, trying to get them to divulge where her blood should go. Finally she figured out it was LabCorp. We used to use them, and they were a pain. Anyhoo...the lab staff listening through the thin walls was privy to that info as soon as Phone-Talking Lady, and called her in forthwith. A grandma and single-digit coughing boy signed in and sat to my left. Then the bled Phone-Talking Lady escaped the phlebotomist, and I was called in.

Let the record show that this blood-draw station used to have one of those 1970s style slick plastic scoop-like light-green chairs with a wooden thing for the left arm like a school desk. Also let the record show that Val, even before making wise choices since February, had no problem sitting down in that slick 70s chair. She did, however, have somewhat of a problem STAYING in that slick 1970s chair, because it was like sitting on a silk sliding rug and barreling off the top of a ten-story giant slide at the state fair. Still, I could brace my feet and slow the slippage until my blood was out.

That slick 1970s chair has been replaced by a bench. A black vinyl padded bench that could easily hold two stars of My 600 Pound Life before their surgery, and three of them if they lived an alternative lifestyle and all married each other and arrived as a throuple and didn't mind getting cozy. Each side of the new sitting bench has a wooden arm platform that swings across like the safety bar on a Scrambler at the annual Labor Day Picnic. Not that the phlebotomist used it to hold Val in. On the contrary. She left them to the side, and flopped Val's arm onto the right one. Not a problem, because Val has good veins in both arms, and spurts blood like fountain when one is tapped.

The problem is, the new sitting bench is at a height for those 10-foot-tall indigenous Na'vi people from the movie Avatar. I told the phlebotomist, as she was tying off my arm with a strip of rubber and drooling over the blue rope that jumped out of my inner elbow...

"It's hard to stay on this bench."

"There's a bar under there for your feet."

Well. There's a bar under there for your feet if you're a stalled-puberty Olympic gymnast, or a veteran touring member of the Beijing Acrobatic Show. But if you're an old lady with arthritic knees, you might just as well try to dunk a basketball from half court as put your feet on a bar back under that bench to hold yourself steady, because the success level would be the same.

I balanced myself in a half-seated position, steady enough for the workmanlike ministrations of the all-to-mechanical phlebotomist. I didn't watch, but I felt no pain when she told me there would be a big stick. My blood must have poured out like a beer on tap (hopefully without the foam) because in a matter of seconds, I was done and holding a small square of gauze over my puncture site. The phlebotomist popped the rubber tubing out of the test tube and fixed it up for shipment and wound some stretchy stuff around my "belbow" (as my boys used to say) to hold on my gauze square.

I only wish I had stuck with my original choice of my sea foam green shirt, rather than my gambling uniform pink plaid voting shirt. It would have been more color-complementary to my stretchy bandage, as seen here in T-Hoe. Let the record show that Val did NOT take the picture while T-Hoe was in motion.

Anyhoo...I was back out in the parking lot by 11:00, the rest of the day still ahead of me for cashing an $11.06 refund check from my insurance, and swilling 44 oz of Diet Coke, and eating a Hardee's Chicken Bowl, and scratching off lottery tickets, and writing two blog posts, and walking in the driveway for 20 minutes while being battered by the ramming of Puppy Jack's nose into my upper thigh.

Retired life is good.

Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday #35 "Ain't No Party Like a Wiener Dog Party"

Blog buddy Sioux is hosting Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday. I have 150 words to convince you to fake-buy my fake book. This week Val tries her hand at public service, serving up a pitch to the public to open their mouths hearts to dachshund rescue. Come on, who's willing to cut the mustard and fake-buy Val's latest fake book? A portion of the fake proceeds will go to a fake charity, you know! Don't be miserly, spend your fake money wiser-ly!

Ain't No Party Like a Wiener Dog Party

Cause a Wiener Dog Party Goes On Longer

Sal Thethicktorian invests her casino windfall in a dachshund rescue facility. Her spur-of-the-moment advertising photo goes viral. Now she needs to strike while the dog is hot! Her brochure reads:

Won't You Open Up Your Buns to a Little Wiener?

Li'l Smoky is casing out the joint, looking for a proper home. He heels from Johnsonville, but he's not a brat. He's well-behaved. Sadly, he's been rejected by Oscar Mayer. We won't discuss what those Ballpark people wanted to do with him. Plumping is NOT in Li'l Smoky's future. He's a chilly dog who longs for the warmth he'll find tucked between your buns. Take in his whole pack! Not to badger you, but don't weasel out. Won't you make a tunnel of love for Li'l Smoky? C'mon, don't be a sauerkraut!'

Kardashians need not apply.
Not suitable for adoptive family with children under two.

Will Sal succeed? (150 words)

__________________________________________________________________

Fake Reviews for Val’s Fake Book

Sausagefest Coordinator..."We are willing to promote Thevictorian's fake book IF we can have this little morsel--erm--fella as our main course--erm--guest of honor. As for the author, we don't care if she comes, stays, lays, or prays. She can roast on a skewer over the campfire, as befitting this sloppy by-product of her efforts."

Sarah McLachlan…"I am writing a new song for this poor pup at this very moment. (Look for it on late-night TV.) Which is more writing than Thevictorian did, with her drivel that didn't even rhyme! Like my commercials, this fake book brings a tear to your eye. Because the fake writing is so painful."

Davie Lard-Ass Hogan…"When I read this fake book, it made me feel like that time I entered a pie-eating contest. This author is definitely full of something, and it ain't blueberry pie.”

Flounder Kent Dorfman..."This reminds me of that time Dean Wormer called me into his office to tell me that fat drunk and stupid was no way to go through life. Thevictorian must have gotten that speech herself, because what she churned out reeks, just like what I left on Dean Wormer's desk."

The Horses From Equus…"Thank goodness our injury precluded us from reading this fake book.”

Pangle in Cold Mountain…"I have never been more happy to be simple than when I was handed this fake book. Not-reading it is fundamental. I used it to fuel a powerful fire to keep me warm, even though Ruby Thewes gave me a fine coat made out of two horse blankets. I recommend this fake book, because it burns really hot.”

The Man in Jack London's "To Build a Fire"..."If only I'd a had these fake pages with me when I needed them most, I might have survived and become a writer. Thevictorian might have become a writer, too, if she had any talent. White Fang would have made short work of this long-winded blowhard of a fake author."

Lassie…"I would throw MYSELF down the well, rather than listen to Timmy fake-read this fake book to me again. This author is so bad that I can't even say she's gone to the dogs. Thevictorian has gone to the cats!"

Bette Davis…"This fake book gave me a real headache, the likes of which I haven't had since I played Judith Traherne in Dark Victory. This fake book is dark alright. But I would hardly term it a victory."

That's the Day That the Lights Went Out in Backroads. That's the Day That They Wrung an Innocent Val.

Don't trust your lights to some Backroads farmer Hick man...'cause the bulb in this lair's got paint stains on it, Pal.

You may recall that the light went out on Val in her kitchen a couple weeks ago. Lucky for her, it came right back on when she left the room. And there was one downstairs right below it that was out. But Hick fixed that one for her.

On Monday, no sooner had I walked downstairs with my lunch, around 2:00, after my weekly shopping trip, than another light forsook me. I carried my yellow bubba cup full of Frig II ice into the NASCAR bathroom to fill it with water. I flipped on the light switch as usual. And heard that frying sound above. Kind of like a bug zapper. The sizzling sound of a light bulb burning out.

CRAP! Now I'd have to do my bathroom business in the dark! There's an emergency light in the outlet, but that hasn't worked in a long time. I decided I'd leave open the door, and get a little light from the rest of the basement overheads. It was bright enough to see the fixtures. Not bright enough to read or admire the 21,179 little NASCARS hanging on hooks in their packages on three walls.

I told Hick when he called home, but I said he could wait until Tuesday to fix it. I knew he had that meeting with the fire department, and wouldn't be home until 9:30 or 10:00. So I peed in the dark for a day and a half. Well, in the TOILET specifically, without a light.

I was gone most of my basement time on Tuesday anyway, to the doctor's office. But there was another problem, apparent as I walked back to T-Hoe from EmBee after getting the mail. I sent a text to Hick, my handyman.

"I think my right headlight is out. Saw it when I got the mail. Driving to the doctor now."

"Okay. I will look tonight."

"After I drive home in the dark!"

"Well I can't fix it from here not a magician."

"Can't you take a joke? It's bad enough you don't believe that it's out."

"Yes I can I will get a bulb and fix tonight."

See? That's how Hick is. First he wanted to get home and look at it. So he could say, "Yep. You got a light out. I'll get one tomorrow on the way home." That's how he operates. But I could cut out a step and make my repair happen a day sooner, by shaming him. So he got the light, and fixed it Tuesday evening when he looked at it. It's not like we would be out an extravagant amount of money for a light he might not need. He puts it on the debit card. They'll take it right back if it's the wrong thing. Hick has friends in parts store places.

So...Hick fixed T-Hoe's light, then came downstairs to fix the NASCAR bathroom light. It took about five minutes. He came into my lighted basement lair next door.

"Okay. You have a light again. This one is dead."

"What's that all over it?" It looked like whipped cream. Or marshmallow cream. Not that Val of the wise choices is obsessed with food. There were white blobs on that darkened bulb.

"Oh. I guess it's paint."

Let the record show that such a finding would mean that it is the original bulb that has been in the NASCAR bathroom since at least the year 2000, when Hick finished decorating his NASCAR bathroom and hooked up the sink to the water. Oh, there had been a toilet and walls there since we built the house in 1997. But the basement was Hick's project back then, in the years when Shackytown was just a glimmer in his eye. So this light bulb that lasts 16 years had been inside that light bulb/vent fan cover, and gotten sprayed with white paint through the vent openings as the ceiling was painted.

Hick went upstairs, and I was happy to have light again. Or so I assumed. The first time I went in and turned on the switch, nothing changed. I heard it click. Maybe saw a little flash. But it was still dark. Like in a horror movie. Just enough light to see you meet your doom. The same as when I left the door open for some basement light to leak in. Huh.

Since I had gone in there for a reason, I continued about my business. And as I sat, contemplating the foot-candled situation, the light started to brighten. That darn Hick had replaced my light bulb with one of those newfangled twisty bulbs that take a while to warm up. Which is not something you need in a basement bathroom, when most times you are only in there about 90 seconds, and have peed, wiped, washed, and left by the time that bulb warms up.

Val people problems. I will begin negotiations during Thanksgiving week. Hick is taking a vacation week, so I'm sure he'll need something to do. Like find me an old-school light bulb for my toileting needs.

Just Another Indignity Val Endures

Val was due for a doctor's appointment this month. Oh, don't worry. You're not getting rid of her that easily. It's just a regular 6-month checkup with labs to assess the proper workings of her innards while on her routine medications. Thing is, those dad-blasted scheduling folks wouldn't give Val a lab appointment until AFTER she was seen by the doctor. What's up with THAT? Might as well put the cart before the horse, and see how far it gets pulled.

My doctor left me (oh, and several hundred other patients) high and dry, to abscond to the veteran's medical facility a couple streets over. He said he's not really a team player. He used to rent office space in the medical building at the local hospital clinic. Then he joined up with them because he couldn't beat 'em. THEN he disagreed with their standards of care, so went back to his Army roots and left us. Back in May, he told me who to call to schedule my 6-month appointment, but I could only remember the first name. I DID know she was a new nurse practitioner, even though Doc had two already working in his office.

Anyhoo...my prescriptions run out of refills this month, so I called for an appointment. The scheduler pawned me off on some guy who is also a FNP, even though calling him DR. She said he had an appointment available the very next Tuesday, at 3:00 p.m. I hate afternoon appointments. I'd rather get up at the crack of dawn and have one during the first hour. Because, as everybody knows, doctors fall behind throughout the day. You're never going to get more on-time than a first-of-the-day appointment.

The scheduler gave me a lot of lip, so much that I was thinking of telling her to forget it, and go to Hick's doctor in a closer town, even though she is also a nurse practitioner since HIS doctor retired several years ago. I even asked if I could get an appointment with Doc's replacement. The scheduler said that would be in December. Did I want to keep this appointment, to get the refills, and then decide? So I did. Gotta have the meds. Blood pressure and no thyroid are nothing to sneeze at.

On Friday, I got a phone message telling me to arrive 15 minutes early, with my insurance card and ID. Don't get Hick started on that 15 minutes early crap. That's been a thorn in his side since he arrived on time for a specialist's appointment, and they sent him away and billed him and told him to reschedule. Let the record show that he has not been back, and complained to his NP about the referral, and she agreed that her own office could do the same testing. Insurance is a racket.

So...I showed up 20 minutes before my appointment time. Not so much because of my overachieverness, but because I allowed time to stop by the bathroom, but found the ground floor one with no toilet paper and...um...excrement on the back of the seat, and the one on the 3rd floor full of a lady who got there ahead of me. So I went down to the 2nd floor for my appointment, deciding to hold it.

The receptionist shuffled through a stack of papers and found mine. Shoved them through the window for me to sign. And said, "That will be $35."

"I never have to pay. I have two insurances. A long time ago the clinic had me give the copay of $20, but then mailed me a refund."

"Oh. Well. Let me see your insurance cards."

Wouldn't you think that would be the first thing she should have asked for? And she never DID ask to see my ID. She rescinded the request for money, and told me to sit down. One thing I like about the layout of this office is that the seats are spread out, and none face each other. Even though most seats were full, there were some along the far wall. Here's a picture from my seat.

Lest you think Val goes to a DR who's really a FNP inside a prison facility (there are THREE of them in our immediate area, you know), it was only the railing to keep people from falling into the open lobby below.

Here's a better view, toward the elevators. I did not mean to include those people in my photo, but I don't think they are especially identifiable.

So here's the thing. Those chairs had all been full, but within a span of two minutes, they were all called back to the inner sanctum. I used that opportunity to take a picture, because I liked the lines and the slant of the sun at 3:15 p.m. Did I mention that my appointment was at 3:00?

The office was behind my back and to the left. See that closest empty chair? There's one right next to it. A really annoying little girl and her mom and grandma, I presume, were thankfully called back. Then a lady and her 8-10 year old boy took those seats. He was a cute, chubby guy, very well-behaved. I barely heard a peep out of him. His mother, however, was another story. She took some paperwork to the window, and when she came back, she sat down like some people are wont to do, with a leg curled up under her on the seat. That means her buttocks were not flush with the faux leather.

TOOOOT!

That lady farted! Right in my direction! And she acted like it wasn't her. Her kid knew better than to say anything. I saw him look at her quizzically, but he remained silent. She, herself, did not.

TOOOOT!

Yep. She cut another fart! I used my many years of teacher smarts and did not breathe through my nose. I wonder if SHE was the one there to see the DR FNP, rather than the boy, as I had first assumed.

Then another couple got off the elevator. This pair was hard to judge. But Val is a world champion judger. At first, I assumed it was a young couple, early 20s. It was a long-haired gal and a dude with a 5 o'clock shadow. At 3:30 in the afternoon. Did I mention that my appointment was for 3:00?

This Romeo and Juliet sat in a pair of chairs to my right, just an end table between us, which I had already territorially claimed by putting my DR FNP purse (same as my gambling purse, with different contents) on it. I wondered what could have brought them here. An STD? A pregnancy? Trying to get pregnant? Need for birth control? Romeo filled out a form while Juliet worried aloud.

"I won't get home till after dark now. I guess I could leave to go home and feed, and then come back. I knew we would get stuck here. But I didn't want to feed too early. I would have smelled like goats." Romeo was done filling out the form. "Go take it up there." Juliet took out her phone. "Yeah. We're stuck here at the doctor's [FNP's!] office. They said they are running an hour to an hour-and-a-half behind. Uh huh. That would be great. Everything's in the bucket. Except Evie's alfalfa. Uh huh. Only if they don't have any water. No need to top it off if they have some. Thanks. That will really help."

Romeo came back, saying nobody was in there. Juliet told him that Steve was going to feed for her. Who in the not-heaven was Steve? I still don't know the deal. The receptionist came out and gave insurance cards back to Juliet. So maybe it was a mom and son. Maybe Steve was a husband/stepdad. Or a son/brother! Life is so confusing! But at least I knew that I should be called in around 4:00 or 4:30. Did I mention that my appointment was at 3:00?

At 4:05 I was called in. Apologized to. Weighed. Pressure measured, pulse counted, prescriptions updated, offered a flu shot, and seen by the FNP within a minute of the nurse leaving the room. I was handed lab orders for any day/time of my choosing, and out of there by 4:20.

You know what? I liked him. I really liked him. But in 6 months, I'm getting a 9:00 appointment.

Val Proclaims the Innocence of Her Client

Puppy Jack is no angel. Even I know that, as much as I enjoy that little imp. But Puppy Jack is not the devil, either.

Just before he left for Sweden, Hick was puttering around over in Shackytown while I sat on the front porch pew after giving the dogs their evening snack. This was before the time change. We still had some daylight left. Actually, Hick had been secretly stowing something in the BARn that evening. I watched him drive down through the BARn field, go in and out, and then drive my mom's old 2002 Chevy Trailblazer back toward the homestead. He stopped by the water spout so he could feed and water his menagerie.

Hick does not think Puppy Jack is an angel. Hick thinks Puppy Jack is the devil.

This little guy!

On this particular evening, Hick picked up his hose (heh, heh, his GARDEN hose) and proceeded to rearrange it from its state of disarray.

"That dog has pulled my hose off!"

"Really? This little dog? Pulled that hose off the roller? I don't think so."

"Well, who else did it?"

"You, maybe? And you just decided to straighten it?"

"It's that dog! He needs to learn how to behave."

"I agree that he needs to learn how to behave. But pulling that heavy hose off the roller is not something he did."

"He's all the time pulling on things."

"That's too high and too heavy for him."

What do you think? Could Jack unroll this hose?

Here's Hick fiddling about with his hose. And some evidence, lest you wonder why we have a patch of yard with no grass.

Here's my Sweet, Sweet Juno sitting over there as darkness was falling. She avoids strife. Usually tries to come between Puppy Jack and his adversaries in cat-canine skirmishes. She had crept up as Hick was complaining about Jack. You can see (maybe, in the dark) her size and the height of that hose. Sweet, Sweet Juno doesn't mess with stuff like that. If it's not food, she's not real interested. Unless it's one of Jack's toys, which she takes directly to her house and hoards it.

I think Hick is barking up the wrong tree with this one. Maybe whatever pulled Hick's hose is the same thing that took a crap on the trunk of his Toronado!

Sometimes Val is Not Real Sure What Hick is Dabbling In.

It's not often that Val is rendered speechless. But last night at 12:30 a.m., it happened. Okay, it was more like 2:14 a.m. to be precise. I say that not for the Truth in Blogging Law, but to appease The Pony, were he here, who is a stickler for details.

I had just ascended the 13 stairs from my dark basement lair when my phone jumped to life in my pocket. I checked it when I got to the kitchen, just in case it was one of the boys needing something. But it was only an email from Hick. Showing a time of 12:30. Who knows when he really sent it? Probably early evening, while he was over in the BARn. You never know, here in the black SPRINT hole that is our homestead. Sometimes Hick puts a message with his photos. Not this time.

Yes. I had to go to bed wondering what in tarnation Hick had sent me a picture of. I asked him this evening when he called, because I sure didn't set an alarm to get up and ask him before he left for work at 6:00.

"It's a figure. From Nigeria. And ducks. A plate with ducks."

"What KIND of...um...figure...is that?"

"It's a pole. Like a totem pole."

"It's a POLE all right..."

Seriously. What is a woman supposed to think?

Please Keep Your Arms and Legs Clear of the Table

Today my sweet baboo did something really nice. He took me to the casino! There is no truth to the rumor that he suddenly acquired the skills necessary for blog-readin', and wanted to be shown in a good light during this time of the SUPERMOON. Nope. He just volunteered to take me. If I provided his gambling stake, of course.

There was a catch, however. Hick wanted to be home before 2:00, because he "had things to do." I agreed to arise at 5:20 a.m. (Hick's regular workweek alarm) so we could leave by 6:00 (it was actually 6:10, because I was waiting on Hick to get ready), even though I had only been to bed for a few hours. Oh, and we also had to stop by Hick's workplace so he could drop off his work clothes for the uniform service, since he's working in the other building Monday, and won't have a chance to do it like normal. That was not a big deal. It's on the way, and only took 20 minutes to get to our destination from the plant.

"We might be the only people there, gambling on a Sunday morning at 7:30!"

"Oh, I seriously doubt that."

Hick was right. There were plenty of old people like us (on a fast track to Not-Heaven, perhaps!) throwing away their money at such an hour. And the staff was collecting it! Pushing rolling bins around taking cash out of the slots. In fact, they blocked Hick's path to the soda fountain. But like a well-mannered dog can delay gratification and sit with a biscuit on his nose...Val was able to wait five minutes to get her FREE Diet Coke.

Hick went one way and I went another. He circled back every now and then, but the machines I like are in close proximity. I had a very good (if not very profitable) time. Hick turned up around 11:00, hinting that we should have lunch and leave. I told him Burger Brothers wasn't open until 11:30, so he hung around watching me play. I hit some decent jackpots near the end, and cashed out some good tickets, but they did not make up for all that I had squandered earlier. We didn't lose the homestead, though. Nor my shirt.

Here's lunch:

Let the record show that we were NOT dining in the dark pits of Not-Heaven. And that the power WAS ON. There's something about that hand-me-down phone camera that I got from Genius. It won't take a good picture inside. Anyhoo...there's my delicious burger, done medium, with only pickles. And my fries, of which I ate 1/3, and my FREE Diet Coke I carried in, not quite 44 oz. And Hick's onion rings.

I took the picture and looked at it. By the time I said, "Oh, no!" Hick had already snatched his onion rings like I might take one, and squirted ketchup on the container, and was getting ready to chow down. No way was I risking a couple of fingers to pull them back over for another picture. I took one anyway:

As you can see...in the span of a few seconds between the photos, Val's food has not moved, and Hick's grabby hand can be seen as he prepares to strap on the ol' feedbag. I shared my fries with him after his onion rings disappeared. Well, not so much shared as he reached over and started eating them like he was entitled. I didn't care, since I had set my burger out on it's wrapper, and used that box to hold the fries I was planning to eat, and some ketchup.

People are odd. Weirdos, you might say. When we went into the restaurant, there were two women ordering at the window. Hick and I went to a table and put down our sodas that we had carried in for FREE rather than pay $2.40 apiece for them. I stayed there, because if there's one thing Hick is capable of, it's ordering two burgers, fries, and onion rings. I had already given him cash for them, though I stopped short of pinning it to his shirt. I stood by the table with our sodas, stretching my legs, and sending a text to The Pony. The women got done ordering, and came to SIT AT THE TABLE RIGHT NEXT TO US!

That table was only an arm's length away! Why not just sit on our laps, you weird weirdos? Let the record show that Val was not raised in a culture where five generations live together under one roof, sleeping like puppies in a pile, moving around like ants to and from a picnic harvest, everybody comfortable with close quarters and family togetherness. Nope. Val is like...how you say...in the language of biology class...a creature who prefers uniform dispersion for her population, not clumped or random dispersion. Val needs her space. There were at least 18 tables available. We were the only two parties in the restaurant! I guess my magnet was too strong today. Must have something to do with the SUPERMOON.

I moved our sodas to another table. Can you believe Hick was confused when he came back from ordering? I swear. I was in the same row. Just a couple of tables down. And the only other people there were those two ladies. At least he found me.

Yeah. I had a great time and a great burger, and lost the money I won on my last casino trip with my favorite gambling aunt. But don't you worry about Val. Because just last night, she won $100 on a $5 scratch-off ticket. Even Steven is taking care of her.

Let the record show that Hick went out to mow the yard and drive the 4-wheeler when we got home, and was INSIDE THE HOUSE at 4:00, with an hour of daylight left, which to Val means that she could actually have stayed ANOTHER HOUR at the casino.

Just sayin'.