Chivalry is Dead, and Common Decency is Taking Its Last Gasp

Wednesday, Hick and I had our annual appointment with our financial advisor. It was scheduled for 2:00, but was delayed because our FA had gone home for lunch to pick up her new puppy to bring back to the office, and got stuck on the highway due to emergency response to a motorcycle accident.

Anyhoo... we went inside and sat down. Hick was on the far wall facing the receptionist, and I was near her, by the hall leading to the meeting room. There was a third chair halfway between us, facing the front window as I was. We chatted with the receptionist, who's about 60. Saw some fire trucks and rescue vehicles go down Main Street with sirens and lights. Then Receptionist got the call from FA, saying she was on her way, but had to wait until the accident was cleared.

Around 2:30, a mid-20s couple came in. The man held the two doors open for his wife. They said they had an appointment with FA, and Receptionist told them we were ahead of them. Wife sat down in the third chair. Husband stood across from her, with his back to the window.

"Oh, we need another chair," said Receptionist. She went down the short, wide hall to get one like those upholstered chairs we sat in. "These sure don't have wheels on the bottom!" In a couple minutes, she huffed around the corner, pushing that upholstered chair on its wooden legs.

Here's where I thought Husband would come over and take it from her. But NO! He stood by the window, watching, as Receptionist pushed that chair all the way over to him, and turned it around so he could face us. He might have said thanks. I don't recall. I was in shock that a strapping young man such as himself did not deign to assist an elderly lady struggling to bring a chair to him!!! If I had good knees, even I would have gotten up to help when I saw her round the corner.

I told The Pony about it, and The Pony was also shocked. But for a different reason. "You mean Dad just sat there and didn't help her?"

"That's right. I didn't think about it. Probably because he expected that young guy to help, or because he was the farthest away."

When all of us elderlies die off, it will be the demise of the younger generations. They will expire while waiting for life to be served to them on a silver platter. And no one willing to be the server.

Voting Was a VALtastrophe! PART 2: The Portico

When we last convened, Val had sat herself down to vote, taking care not to leak blood from her bleeding forearm onto the table or ballot. Sitting right next to the worker's table on the left, she got an earful.

The worker gals were now having a conniption because a man came in and reported that SOMEBODY WAS PARKED IN THE PORTICO!!! Such excitement. Whispered shouts (that's the best way I can describe their frenzy) across the room from table to table:

"Somebody is parked in the portico!"

"We need to tell Kevin!"

"I don't know where he is."

"He was out in the hall a while ago."

"Kevin needs to go out and tell them to move!"

"They're parked in the portico!"

"I'll go look for Kevin!"

Kevin is the county clerk, in charge of elections. Not sure what he was overseeing at this time, but one of the worker gals went out to check on the car in the portico. She came back to whisper-shout to the others:

"It's a woman voting. She needs curb-side voting. Her husband came in to get her a ballot, and one of us has to be out there watching. He's parked there for the curb-side voting. We've got [SOMEBODY] out there with them."

By now, Hick was inside, and sitting at the table in front of me. We finished at the same time. Hick was going to take my ballot to feed through the scanner, but I told him it probably wasn't allowed. Not that the Portico Panic-ers would have noticed...

By the time I got to the scanner, there was a line of four old ladies ahead of me, two with canes. As you might imagine, the line moved slowly. Then they turned to swim upstream back through the room to the entrance, when you're supposed to go out the door at the back of the room, and come up the hall to get back out. Hick and I did that, and we stopped at the restrooms. 

Of course on this day when I needed to wash off my mysteriously bleeding arm, the sink was a motion-activated type like casinos have, not a faucet with handles. AND there was no paper towel dispenser, but only the blow-dryer machines on the wall. I had to fight the motion sensor to start the water, and scoop some of it to my arm before it shut off in three seconds! Then keep turning it on to rinse my blood out of the white sink. I did not try drying my wound with the jet-powered air, but chose to get some toilet paper out of a stall to dab at it.

I met Hick in the hall, and he went ahead to drive A-Cad back to pick me up out front. Which was another problem. It looked like a family reunion under the portico! I could not get to the ramp. It was the same black SUV that was there when I went in. 

A woman was sitting in the passenger seat. Her husband (I presume) hovering over her, standing at the open door. A worker gal standing on one side of the ramp behind him, talking to a random lady in front of her, who was asking directions to a fast-food restaurant. Into this cluster I needed to advance, to get down to street level without stepping off the curb. To walk halfway to the parking lot to get into A-Cad. Hick could not drive under the portico, that lane being blocked by the black SUV, and a line of cars coming the opposite direction, dropping off voters, a couple of whom had canes. 

I hobbled closer to the ramp. Worker Gal turned around suspiciously, like I was eavesdropping. Which I suppose I was, while waiting to be noticed, not wanting to interject myself into their deep conversation of how to get to lunch.

"Sorry. I just need to walk down this ramp."

"Oh, let me help you!" Worker Gal stepped to the other side of the ramp, and grabbed the flabby flesh of my upper left old-lady arm.

I appreciate her gesture. But there was absolutely no help involved in that act, save her satisfaction of doing a good deed. It was really nice, but no way could her flimsy fingers have stopped me from falling if I got off-balance. At least I was down the ramp. I walked along the drive, waiting for Hick to pull up in A-Cad. Coming towards me was a middle-aged lady, trailed by an old woman with a cane. I guess she wasn't able to drop her off, what with the traffic jam under the portico.

WHY DID THAT GUY PARK UNDER THE PORTICO, BLOCKING THE RAMP???

Obviously, his wife was not getting out of the car, since he went in to request curbside voting. Did sitting in front of the ramp enable her to vote better? He could have parked in any other space. There were some along the front drive prior to the portico. Since an election worker would be coming out anyway, there was no need to park RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE HANDICAP RAMP.

The election people should have planned ahead for curbside voting, since they seemed to know the rules about it. Could have put up some orange cones and a sign that a couple spaces were reserved for curbside voting. It's not rocket science.

I guess there were no former VALEDICTORIANS on the election staff...

Voting Was a VALtastrophe! PART 1: The Bloodbath

Don't you worry about Val's voice not being heard! Her ballot was successfully sucked into the vortex of the scanner on Tuesday, at the county courthouse annex that hosts early voting. 

I've mentioned how my regular voting precinct is the basement of a country church, with carpeted steps to navigate. So now Hick takes me over to the facility where we can vote up to two weeks before Election Day. Mail-in absentee voting in Missouri has so many rules that you could break a hip jumping through the hoops, so this is my best option. Hick also voted early, because he will be working as an election judge again, and won't have time.

Hick drove A-Cad under the little roof that spans the entrance to the building that was formerly a morgue. He let me out, then went to park. A black SUV was sitting in front of the door, blocking the oncoming traffic lane. I had to inch along between it and the sidewalk curb to get to the ramp. It was a much smaller ramp than the one at the Casey's where the gal had parked blocking that one. This was perhaps 1/3 the size. Only big enough for one person (like Val) to walk on it, or perhaps two anorexics arm-in-arm.

Inside, I got into a line that only had one guy ahead of me, giving his info to a worker. There were eight long white plastic tables for voting, each with five or six chairs, all occupied by at least two people. All the workers at the two entrance tables were women. (No wonder Hick likes this duty!) Two sat at the workers' table on the left, two at the table on the right, with two standing next to the right-side table. One of them suddenly said, "YOU! Go over there!" And motioned for me to go across the room to the left table.

I handed one of those gals my driver's license. She put it in a scanner thingy. Told me to check my address and info, then sign the screen with a stub of a stylus, tipped with rubber. As Worker Gal handed me the ballot, my right arm itched on the outside, halfway between wrist and elbow. I reached to scratch it, and Worker Gal said, "Ma'am, you're bleeding!"

Dagnabit! I guess the flowing blood is what made it itch. Too late! My left index and middle finger got a bit on the fingertips. "There's a bathroom out in the hall if you want to wash that off."

"Oh. Well. Am I allowed to take this ballot with me?"

"I don't know!"

Yet instead of asking somebody, she motioned me away. I asked for a pen. They usually have a box of pens that they hand out and then you drop them in another box when you're done. So much for sanitation these days! "The pens are on the tables."

A lady got up from the nearest table, so I sat down there, at the opposite end from the man who remained. I concentrated on filling in my boxes without putting my right arm on the table. It was not an easy task. Not to mention that I was perturbed, having seen a sink and crank-handle paper towel dispenser on the opposite wall, near the right-side workers' table. Would it have killed one of those gals to crank out a paper towel to staunch my wound flow, and hinder my eventual exsanguination? I know it's not their job, but it's common decency!

TO BE CONTINUED...

The Disinformation of the Dumplings

The Senior Center served chicken and dumplings on Tuesday. Hick told a dining companion that his wife's was much better. The woman said hers never turn out right, and asked for the recipe. Here it is, just for comparison.

___________________________________________

Six Can Chicken and Dumplings

2 cans chicken broth

2 cans cream of chicken soup 

2 cans white meat chicken

8 flour tortillas, 10-inch

2 tbsp butter 

1 tbsp minced garlic

black pepper 

cut tortillas into 2-inch squares

add butter, garlic, pepper to broth and soup, bring to a boil

stir in tortilla squares, boil 5 minutes, stirring frequently

remove from heat, stir in chicken

___________________________________________

Very simple. So simple that Hick thought he could give my recipe to a random woman who occasionally eats at the Senior Center. Even though he's never seen me make it, nor read the recipe. He has, perhaps, unloaded the ingredients from a grocery bag.

Here are Hick's instructions to Random Gal:

"I think I know what she does. She boils the chicken broth and cuts the tortillas in about 1-inch-long sheets."

"Sheets?"

"No. I said STRIPS. One-inch-long STRIPS."

"NO! You don't eat 10-inch-long dumplings! I cut them in 2-inch squares. Did you tell her about the cream of chicken soup?"

"No. I didn't tell her that."

"Did you tell her I add minced garlic and black pepper and butter before boiling the broth and soup?"

"No."

"And that when it boils you add the tortillas, and keep stirring them for 5 minutes? No more, no less. THEN take it off the burner and add the chicken."

"No..."

"Did you even say what kind of chicken?"

"I said you use the canned chicken, and chicken breast."

"Yeah. That makes it better. More chicken."

"The chicken and dumplings we had were the kind that hurts your eyes, looking for the chicken. It was stringy shredded chicken."

"Does she live upstairs?"

"No. She comes in every now and then. She said she hardly ever cooks, but this sounded so simple that she thought she'd try it."

"She's going to have a runny mess of the worst thing she every ate, if she makes it the way you told her! I'll be a laughingstock! You have her putting 10-inch-long tortilla strips in chicken broth! I'd write down the actual recipe for her if you'd give it to her."

Seriously. Would YOU try to cook a recipe that Hick gave you out of his head?

Val's New Full-Time Job

Complaining about the plethora of local rumpushole parkers has become a full-time job for Val! She is the self-appointed Commander of the Illegal Parking Police. Oh, how I wish I could collect fines from these rumpusholes! I convict them in the Court of Blogosphere Opinion. Otherwise I might be collecting a bellyful of lead. People are crazy these days!

Sunday, I was halfway to T-Hoe as I came out of 10Box pushing a cart with my groceries, and my precious scratchers stuffed in my purse. I heard a motorcycle revving its engine. It was behind T-Hoe! Not waiting on me to back out. Waiting for me to cross the wide, white-striped area designated for the cart return. It's between two handicap parking spaces, in front of the garage door that opens to their inside cart corral. A sign on the post there says NO PARKING ANY TIME. 

Apparently, Heck's Angel thought that sign was meant for everyone but him. When I got across that area to load my groceries, he pulled in and parked there! Just sat on his cycle, listening to loud music. To me, that is kind of suspicious. Surely there are other places to park a motorcycle to sit and listen to loud music.

I kept my eye on that guy as I pushed my cart up to the garage door, and got in T-Hoe to write down my receipt total in my checkbook register. Heck's Angel was looking at me in his side mirror, or I would have taken his picture for evidence! Val might be mouthy (or fingery) when complaining on her blog, but she does not provoke a Heck's Angel in person.

Right before I started up T-Hoe to leave, a gal came out of the store. I did not notice if she was carrying a bag. She climbed onto the motorcycle behind Heck's Angel, and strapped on a bright green half-helmet. This gal had not gone inside while I was observing Heck's angel. She was not wearing a "uniform" t-shirt like the employees. I don't know where she came from, why she was getting picked up there by Heck's Angel, or why she couldn't walk to a regular parking space where he SHOULD have been waiting.

It's a full-time job, I tell you!

Another Unusual Tale From Hick's World

Hick has more than his fair share of encounters with unusual people. Not so much weirdos, like Val has a magnet for. Just people a bit outside the mainstream.

"I was in my store Saturday, and heard this guy and his buddy talking about hunting. They was lookin' at my fishing plugs, but I asked him what kind of gun he uses to hunt. He said, 'I don't hunt with a gun.' So I asked what he used, a bow? And he said, 'No. I use birds.' That was weird. So I asked him what kind of birds. He said he is one of only three people in the state of Missouri that has a license to hunt with a golden eagle."

"Isn't that a protected species? Can you get a license for that?"

"I don't know. Maybe he just said an eagle, and not the golden eagle. I don't remember."

"What does he hunt with an eagle?"

"Everything! He said one time it got a deer! But the deer was too big, and got away. Another time it got a turkey, but the turkey almost beat the eagle to death flogging it with his wings. And the other day, the eagle got away from him, and killed a cat!"

"This story is getting stranger by the minute! Did he train it to hunt cats?"

"No. It just goes after whatever it sees."

"I know falconers use falcons to hunt rabbits."

"Oh, he also has two falcons."

"So what happened with the cat?"

"The guy is from the county just north of us. He was out hunting with his eagle when it flew across the river. He has a tracker on it. He didn't want to lose his bird, so he had to get across the river to get to where it was. He had to drive 20 miles to get across, and find roads to get him to where the eagle was. It was probably only a couple miles away, but getting to it was hard.

He said when he got there, the eagle was eating a cat! It was almost all gone."

"What did he do with the cat?"

"I don't know! He said he went and knocked on the door, but nobody answered. So he just got his eagle and got out of there!"

"So either the people will think their cat ran away, or they'll find what's left, and think a wild animal ate it. Which kind of... it DID."

Only Hick finds people with such unusual tales.

Hick Crushes It

Hick drove A-Cad to his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2) on Sunday, because he was leaving early to sell some things at an auction, and didn't want to haul them in SilverRedO. As with many of Hick's ventures, The Universe threw a monkey wrench into his plans. Good thing Hick knows his way around a monkey wrench.

"I was backing out of the garage when I heard a POP. Just what I needed, a flat tire before I even left the house. I finished backing out, and got out of the car to see which tire. I walked all the way around, but the tires looked okay. I couldn't figure out what I hit. We drove it Wednesday to the casino. Then I drove it over to my sheds (on Shackytown Boulevard!) to get some stuff loaded in it. And I came back and parked it, the same as usual. There's nothing there to run over. Nothing to fall off the garage wall.

I walked around the car again, looking under it. I found what popped. I had ordered a box of forms that I need for selling some of my stuff. You've ordered them for me before. You know they're free. But they were taking so long to get here, I was running out. My Pawn Shop Buddy give me some of hers when we was in Casino Town. I guess FedEx or UPS delivered my forms while we were gone on Saturday. 

Apparently they set the box outside the garage door on the Acadia's side. So when I backed out, I run over it. Didn't hurt nothin', because it was just a stack of paper. But it crushed the box. I didn't see nothin' there when I come home on Saturday evening."

"I'd bet it was FedEx! They've done that before. I think they just pull up and throw it out. They don't even try to come to the door or put it on the porch. The UPS people bring it to the door and leave it. Nothing was by the garage when I came home Saturday. I guess they did it while we were inside later that evening. You know we don't look out every time the dogs bark."

I guess Hick is lucky it wasn't some fancy electronic gewgaw. Or a box of knives. Or a raft that self-inflates. At least this time FedEx left it at the right house, unlike some of Hick's medical supplies that they left at a house down the road.