I Think It's the Mark of a Psycho

Hick may be a genius with machines and construction, savvy at business, and pretty good with people skills. But nobody's perfect. Hick has a deficiency in common sense. He can barely prepare his own plate for supper.

Last night it was boneless/skinless chicken breast, stuffing, and a baked potato. Let the record show that Hick was offered slaw and a sliced tomato and salad, but declined. He said he wanted sour cream and cheese on his baked potato. This was a breeze for me to prepare, because we'd already had the chicken the day before, and the stuffing. We ran out of corn on the cob, so I offered the baked potato. All I had to do was warm chicken and stuffing in the oven, and microwave the potato.

A normal person would probably be able to come to kitchen and put that food on a plate without issue. No need for Val to hover over a normal person, micromanaging. But with Hick, it's different. Hick is not a normal person. I set out his plate (in this case, the yellow cafeteria tray) and silverware (including his precious paring knife), and the sour cream container with a designated spoon, and a bowl of shredded cheddar (because Hick is likely to reach an unwashed hand into the bag if I don't).

I stood by, with helpful suggestions, heh, heh.

"Do you want a longer knife to cut open your potato?"

"No. This little one is just fine."

Hick sliced the potato in half. You might think that sounds completely normal. You'd be wrong. Hick did not slice the potato lengthways, as every baked-potato-eater in the history of the world has done since the beginning of potatoes and knives. No. Hick sliced that potato across the middle. Like you might have two halves of a soft-boiled egg in two egg cups. 

WHAT KIND OF PSYCHO DOES THAT?

"Why in the world would you slice a baked potato like that? How are you going to put your cheese and sour cream on it?"

"I know what I'm doing, Val. I just don't do it the way you want me to do it."

Hick then cut down the middle of each potato half. They were in a V shape.

"I don't know how you think your cheese and sour cream are going to stay on the potato. Here! At least do THIS." I pulled the halves apart so they laid flat. "Wait. Why are you putting the sour cream on first?"

"It don't matter which I do first."

"Okay. Do the sour cream. It will get hot, and the shredded cheese will stay cold on top of the sour cream."

Hick put down the spoon. Picked up the bowl of shredded cheddar, grabbed handfuls, and dropped the clumps onto his potato quarters. THEN added the sour cream on top. I could tell he was totally confused by this concept of letting the cheese melt on the hot potato.

Baby steps. I'm trying to ease Hick into the world of normal food prep. Because I'm a giver like that. Hick is not a very good taker.

It shouldn't bother me how Hick fills his plate. He's an adult. He wants to eat in the living room. I don't have to watch. I could just as well dump everything into a portable trough and Hick would do just fine. But I keep trying to polish Hick into a normal-adjacent eater.

Weirdo Goes A-Grabbin', Uh Huh

Don't worry about Val's Weirdo Magnet losing power as she ages. That magnet is as charged as ever. Weirdos just can't help themselves. Like moths to flames, dogs to bones, and flies to doodoo, weirdos cannot resist Val's charms. Even an innocuous act such as strolling past them results in Val having a weirdo interaction.

Monday I went into Country Mart on my way home from leg therapy. The sole purpose was to get scratchers out of the two lottery machines up front. There was a cart beside the building when I parked way down at the end in the second handicap space. I pushed it inside. Doing a good deed, you know. Plus I would have it to lean on if I had to wait. The lottery machines here are popular, and they also regularly stall out and force the money-putter-inner to wait until the machine darn well decides it's ready to respond.

Indeed, there was a lady buying tickets at the far machine. Nobody at the near one, though a young adult chubby man was playing the adjacent grabber machine. A thin blond woman had almost rammed me with an empty cart as I entered the second set of sliding glass doors. She was returning it to the carts in the between-doors area, which I planned to do with my good deed on my way out.

Turns out Blondie was with the Grabber Kid. I THINK! She came back and was giving him advice on where to steer those floating tongs. I scanned three winners into the lottery machine, and selected my tickets. Blondie had come up behind me.

"Can you believe they have so few one-dollar tickets in here? They used to have a lot more."

I didn't know if she was talking to me. I figured she might have been saying it to Grabber Kid. The lady at the other machine moved away, and I pushed my empty cart over there to get some tickets. Blondie was following me. So I guess she was talking to ME.

"Well. I hear they're going to do away with the $3 tickets like this little crossword. Maybe they're cutting down the dollar tickets, too."

I stepped up to the lottery machine and put in my money. Blondie moved from my left shoulder to my right shoulder. 

"And look at these! Can you believe people actually buy these $50 tickets? I mean, I understand the prizes are bigger. But only if you win. I could buy groceries with that $50." 

As Blondie was blabbering, she reached up to point at the $50 tickets, and touched the screen. Which popped up the picture of that $50 ticket, with choices for how many to select. I had a flashback to an Oklahoma casino where an old lady walked up and pushed the SPIN button on my slot machine, and I slapped her hand. I refrained from touching Blondie, but I was not pleased with her behavior.

"Oh. Sorry. I don't buy tickets out of machines. I didn't mean to do that."

A LIKELY STORY!

I was annoyed, but not worried that she would "accidentally" buy a $50 ticket. That was impossible, because I only had $20 in the machine. Still, Blondie was persona non grata. I gave her my teacher stink-eye, and she walked back to the grabber machine.

I'm really not so sure Blondie was with that Grabber Kid. A young woman came from the register with a cart of groceries, and asked how he was doing, and he said he'd already fed that machine three dollars. Maybe Blondie was just hanging out, giving him "advice."

Weirdos gonna weirdo.

Teach Your Children. Well...

I got my rightful handicap parking space at Save A Lot on Sunday. It's next to the cart return, which was full. I grabbed a cart/walker and headed across the drive towards the door. They are the automatic type glass doors that swing open when you get close.

A 30-something man came out the exit door, pushing his cart full of groceries. A little girl bopped along behind him. She looked about 7-8 years old. She trailed along slowly, watching me. I suppose it's because I'm old. I'd say the way I walk, but I was leaning on the cart, so my stride was fairly normal.

Her eyes widened. "Are you going in?"

"Uh huh."

Little Girl stepped over to the entrance door, to trip the eye and make it open. The dad was not having it.

"Sis! Come on! It's an automatic door."

"Thank you!" I said.

Little Girl ducked her head with pride. Then scampered off to join her disgruntled dad. I suppose she learned her manners from her mom.

That dad is what my students called a "fun-sucker." Somebody who sucks the fun out of any situation. What harm did it do to let Little Girl do something nice, and enjoy making that magic door open?

Narrow Miss

Backroads dodged a weather bullet last week. Rain and storms were in the forecast, but we only got 2-3 inches, and the timing allowed part of the water to flow away, with a lull before the rest arrived. Our neighbors 50 miles to the south were not so lucky. It's been all over the news here, and I've even seen it on international news.

Iron and Reynolds counties got over 12 inches of rain in 24 hours. Supposedly that happens once in a millennium, or every 1000 years. Over 350 people had to be evacuated, some by National Guard helicopters. People had to cling to roofs, trees, and car tops waiting for rescue. This was around Black River, near Lesterville. The only death I heard about was a woman washed away in Crawford County, near the Huzzah Creek. I know that area, having driven through there twice a day when working in Steelville.

Anyhoo... kudos to the rescuers who risked their own lives carrying these people to safety! Water is nothing to sneeze at. We are fortunate that this weather steered south of us, and that our hillbilly mansion sits on high ground above our creek. We have a high bridge over Big River, and know not to drive into water flowing over the two low-water bridges we cross to get to town. The water did not rise even halfway to the bridges this time.

We were prepared in case it did. Sometimes you just have to sit tight until the water goes down. Our southern neighbors did not have that option. It's such a relief they are safe.

Business Is Business

Hick came home from his SUS2.5 (Storage Unit Store 2.5) on Saturday with a story.

"This old guy come in and asked me if I knew anybody named Beans. I said yeah, I did. That I'd had an uncle named Beans. The guy talked about him a while. He had a gun [which Hick is legally licensed to buy and sell] he wanted to sell or trade, and said he bought it from Beans years ago. From the details in his story about the time and other people he knew, I was sure he really DID get that gun from my Uncle Beans. I traded him for it. Then I called my cousin to tell her.

Cousin always talked about how her dad Beans had told her that he got his guns from his dad when he died. And Beans said that when HE died, Cousin would inherit his guns. But when Beans died, Cousin's stepmom gave all of Beans's guns to HER son. And Cousin didn't get a single one.

I told her about this guy. She asked if he was kind of loud. I said yeah. I looked up his name in my book when Cousin got here, and she said that she knew of that guy being friends with her dad. I said I couldn't guarantee that it was one of her dad's inherited guns, but I was pretty sure it was a gun that he had, that had belonged to him in some way or another. She was really happy to get it."

"What kind was it?"

"A Browning [something number] [something action] double barrel--"

"That means nothing to me! I only wanted to know if it was a rifle or pistol or shotgun. So it was a shotgun?"

"Yeah. A double-barrel shotgun. In great condition, it would be worth $1550. I told Cousin I was asking $950 for it, but I'd sell it to her for $800. She said that was fair. She was thrilled to get something that belonged to her dad."

"That's a nice story. I'm glad she got it."

"And I still made a profit. I only had $525 in it with the trade."

Well. Hick IS a businessman. He's not a charity. So I wouldn't expect him to just GIVE his cousin an item like that. As long as they were both happy, I guess it was a good deal.

Because Two Flip Houses, a Business, and Apartment-Managing Can't Keep Hick Busy

Nothing is being done on the flip houses. Cheap House has no air conditioning, so Hick can't replace parts of the floor in 105-degree heat. Lap House has a new HVAC system. Hick SAYS he plans to start moving walls in it. But first, he HAD to get his office finished. His office at the senior apartments, where he's paid just over $300 a month.

Hick already has an office in the apartment building. But he divided a 14 x 30 storage room so he could have a 14 x 15 office. He built a wall. Put in a door. Painted. Decorated.

I'm confused. This does not look like the office of an apartment manager to me. Maybe somebody who works for the DMV. Or a big game hunter. Or the leader of a NASCAR pit crew. I asked Hick.

"DECORATING, Val! I had to decorate it. I don't want a plain office. So I brought some of my stuff from home."

"Do you have a desk?"

"YES! I have a desk. But I haven't moved it in from my old office. I moved the fan and the couch. I've been trying to get it ready before our board meeting in three weeks."

"Why do you have a board meeting in YOUR office?"

"Because it will be too hot in the hall, Val! My office is air conditioned!"

"Where did you get that?"

"It was in the storage room. My boss said I could go buy one, but I think this one will work. I haven't tried it yet."

So let's think about this. Hick can't work in a house that doesn't have AC. But he can build a wall and put in a door and paint and hang a fan and decorate an office without AC, on the third floor of a brick apartment building...

Don't get me wrong. I don't want Hick working in the heat. AT ALL. His logic isn't logic-ing with me. Anyhoo... Hick has a new office. Filled with his treasures. And he PLANS to start working in Lap House until the weather cools off to finish Cheap House.

Something Fishy Here

I love sardines. Specifically sardines in mustard sauce. Not all brands. The one I prefer is Beach Cliff. I find them at 10Box. The mustard has just the right tang. Sometimes you can get a batch that is skimpy on the mustard. But always, the can has been full of robust sardines, arranged edge to edge, end to end. Packed in like sardines, heh, heh!

Over the past couple weeks, I have encountered Beach Cliff sardines that don't live up to the previous standards. They are anorexic sardines. They practically have room to swim around in that can!

I suppose it's the Beach Cliff version of shrinkflation. The extra mustard sauce and oil fulfill the weight listed on the cans.

Oh, I still eat them! I'm not crazy. I love sardines. They can be polarizing. Hick hates them, because he used to work with an old guy who ate them for lunch every day. Then Hick had to smell the guy's breath as they moved furniture around and maintained the knife blade factory.

I really wish my sardines came packed in like sardines again. Otherwise there might be a shift in how we describe crowded things. Perhaps... "Crammed in like superfluous words in Val's bloated blog posts."