Saturday, October 12, 2013

Baby Needs a New Pair of Tires

Looks like Val is late to the party. You WERE throwing me a party, weren't you? Not skulking away because of the 15-minute rule. As long as you are all gathered here, waiting with bated eyes to see what Val's subject is this evening, let's take a little poll. What would you like to read about? Hahahaha! You didn't really think I would take your suggestions, did you? Put your hands down before somebody tears a rotator cuff.

I could wax all congenial, and talk about world peace. Or harsher punishment for parole violators. Or I could point out the Even-Stevenness of my world, what with Genius coming home from college today, and asking for $50 gas money to return, then the curious coincidence of scratching off a lottery ticket to find that I won $50. But I think I'll share a little tale of how changing my spots backfired on this ol' Val this afternoon.

T-Hoe has pulled up lame. For the past two weeks, he's been favoring his driver's side rear tire. It loses a pound of air per day. Not a big problem, what with three easy air hoses between home and work. And a faithful Pony to hop out and refill, while I sit in the driver's seat and watch the dashboard tire poundage gadget to tell him "when." T-Hoe has had this problem before, which turned out to be a bad valve stem. A leather-jacket-wearing, insolent, lip-cigarette-dangling, switchblade-totin', greaser-DA-hairstyled valve stem. Last year, that problem was solved by rotating the front tires to the rear, and getting two new front tires. This year, Hick decided I needed two new rear tires. Tires don't grow on trees, you know. It's not like we can run out and buy a bushel. We have to budget. So Hick took my T-Hoe to the tire store this morning.

He returned in time to take The Pony to his bowling league. I took T-Hoe to town for a spate of shopping. Just some bananas, yogurt, onions, and crunchy fish filets. No. They don't all go in the same dish. More about this shopping excursion at a later date. It can stand clear like those Parmalee boys at the showdown between Rooster Cogburn and Lucky Ned Pepper in True Grit. I have no interest in it today.

The town trip itself was fairy uneventful. No traffic Not-Heaven-bent on running me off the road. No road walkers. No bridge blockers. No snakes hanging from tree limbs one shatterproof piece of glass from my face, and only mild weirdos in Save A Lot. I enjoyed the beautiful sunshine after our morning downpour. Slathered my threatening-to-crack lips with mint Chapstick as I do every day during my drive. Surfed my SiriusXM for oldies. I had just returned and finishing putting away my purchases when Hick and The Pony showed up.

They were about 90 minutes early for their bowling return. None of The Pony's opponents showed up, so they bowled a blind, which was speedy. I was firing up my front-window laptop internet connection as they came through the kitchen door. As I started to exit the living room to change out of my presentable town clothes into my comfortable home clothes, Hick started into the living room. We were at an impasse between the short-couch end table and the wooden railing that keeps us from tumbling twelve feet to the bottom of the open basement stairs.

I put my arms around Hick's neck. Some might call it a hug. I calls it a sumo-attempt to work my way past him to leave the living room. Mmmhmmm. At some point during the hugging-squeezing battle for home supremacy, my face ended up on Hick's right shoulder. I pulled back.

"I could swear I just got a hair in my mouth off of your shirt."

"Could be. I went to get a haircut."

I hope you grasp the full horror of this seemingly trivial event. My Chapstick-coated lips picked up snipped hair from Hick's shirt like masking tape wrapped the wrong way around one's hand picks up cat hair off black dress pants.

No Val hug goes unpunished.


  1. Val--That will teach you. Don't ever do that again.

  2. Sioux,
    I keep forgetting that somehow, guys can still get a shoulder full of clipped hair, even after the "barber" uses one of those plastic cape thingies. My boys used to come home and take their shirts off and shake follicular confetti out of them.

    I was a regular bristle-lipped porcupine for a few seconds, before the horror struck me, and I screamed and swiped the snippings away with the back of my wrist. Because a proper lady is all about decorum.