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.

Far and Away, an Expensive Lunch

Hick took The Pony and me to the casino on Wednesday. It was The Pony's day off, and Hick had business down in Casino Town with his pawn shop provider of certain merchandise for his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2). We hadn't been to the casino since July, and were all ready to win our fortunes.

Well. That didn't exactly happen. We all lost money, but at least had a good lunch. Considering our losses, and that we drove 90 miles to get there, it was kind of an expensive long way to go for lunch! Still, what else do we have to do? Work. Scratch lottery tickets. Build a new storage unit store.

Hick had his regular cheeseburger and onion rings:

Yes, I wish I had a picture of the inside of that burger, but I was lucky to stop Hick from eating it long enough to get this picture. He said it was really good, but that's no surprise, as he always enjoys his burger.

The Pony chose the salad with grilled chicken, same as last time:

It looked great! But if I had gotten a salad, it would have taken me an extra half hour to eat it. I'm always the last one finished anyway, no matter what I order. The Pony picked out the cucumbers, which I would have done also. The grilled chicken looked especially good this day.

After all my griping two casino trips ago, and finally getting my grilled chicken wrap last time... I chose to have the grilled chicken sandwich this time. It pleased me more than the wrap.

You might notice that they are now serving the meals on PLATES, rather than the cardboard square bowls of the past. Must be because their newly-built hotel is open now, and they want to impress the people who are paying a fortune to stay in it! 

I gave The Pony half of my tater tots, as was the plan all along. I normally ask for my sandwich without lettuce, but decided to try it this time. I should have listened to The Pony, who warned me that the sandwich came with leaf lettuce. Not my thing. I like a crispy lettuce, such as romaine hearts, or even iceberg. It was an easy fix.

You can see my lettuce lying peacefully upon a napkin in the background. My sandwich came with BACON, and provolone cheese, tomato, onion, and pickles. It was advertised with comeback sauce, but there was barely a thin squiggle of it on my top bun. That's the only thing that would have made it better, the moisture from the comeback sauce. I'll probably order this again, because it was quite tasty.

So, Thevictorians went out to lunch. While we didn't lose our shirts in the casino, we each lost a couple of sleeves. Now we start fortifying our casino bankrolls for the next trip.

A Stripe-Challenged Rumpushole Needs To Be Taught a Lesson

Nothing gets Val's granny panties in a twist faster than a rumpushole usurping a handicap parking space, or the space around it. Like parking over the line, or ON THE ENTIRE STRIPED WALKWAY.

Thursday's blood-pressure-rocketing discovery was at the Sis-Town Casey's. It was not even a case for Travels With My Placard, because I was not intending to use my placard for parking in a handicap space. I was there for T-Hoe's weekly gas. I park at the pumps, and walk inside to pay, since you can't pump without paying, and I'm not going to use my debit card because card skimmers were found on their pumps before. 

I park at Pump 4 or Pump 3, because that gives me the most direct line to the sidewalk's handicap ramp. I can't go up and down on a curb unless I have something to hold onto, like T-Hoe's side, or The Pony's shoulder. Nobody wants to try and scoop up a broken Val from the pavement.

Look what obstacle I discovered:

I got a picture for evidence, once I returned from my harrowing trip inside to pay. That car is parked entirely on the striped walkway that leads to the gentle incline of the sidewalk ramp. When I arrived, there were no cars parked on either side. Nor down to the left by the doors. It's not a busy time. I get there before the local high school lets out. I can't imagine that every other parking space was taken when this rumpushole parked on the stripes.

You can see that there is precious little ramp space available for Val to get onto the sidewalk. 

I actually had to take a little step up. I WANTED to put my hand on the little car, and give it a bounce as I stepped up. After all, I have to lean on T-Hoe when I go up and down from curbs.

There was an early-twenty-something gal sitting behind the wheel, talking on her cell phone. As if she couldn't have parked off to the side, over by the air hose and water spigot, to talk on her phone. The whole time I was there (and you know that Val is not quick in her traipsing in and out of convenience stores), she did not go into the store, nor have a passenger come out.

I think young rumpushole needs to learn about STRIPES! They do not designate a special parking area for people to park and chat on their phone. I suggest starting with stripes of the black-on-white variety, in a prison, breaking rocks in the hot sun.

You Think You Know a Guy

Hick had just sat down in his recliner Thursday night to eat a mini frozen pizza that I had touched up with a slice of provolone cheese and pepperoni slices. His phone rang. It was the buddy who lives in the house where Hick had put in the infamous "90-degree angle" sewer pipe. 

"Yeah. I think I have one in the basement. I'll bring it to you tomorrow at my shop."

Hick set his pizza aside and went to the basement. He returned with a box that he put on the long couch. I didn't care enough to ask. Friday morning at 5:50, when Hick sat down beside it, I asked what was in the box. He held it up.

"Silverware."

"That's for your buddy? Why does he need that? What's he been eating with all these years?"

"He has silverware. This is for his wife."

"The one who's sickly, and kind of disabled? Can't she use HIS silverware?"

"It's not for them to USE, Val. It's for her daughter. She's giving it to her daughter."

"Oh. Why was it in the basement? Why do you have silverware?"

"Actually, I think it's from my buddy that lived up the street from Pony's house, the old man with the Studebaker that we took to car shows before we got married. I think he gave it to us as a wedding gift."

"WHAT? I didn't know anything about that! Isn't a wedding gift supposed to be for BOTH of us?"

"Yeah. But we bought new silverware. We didn't need it."

"So you've just been HIDING it all this time?"

"I wasn't hiding it. It's been over 30 years. We don't need it."

"But you got it, when we lived in my $17,000 house, and I never saw it, and then we built THIS house, and you moved it, and I still never saw it. Even though I used to roam the basement on a regular basis. That's kind of sketchy."

"Well, I thought I had it somewhere, and Buddy needs it, so I'm giving it to him."

"I don't want the silverware. I just don't understand how you've had our "wedding gift" all this time, and I've never heard of it or seen it!"

Something is fishy here. It definitely looks like 30-year-old silverware, from the style of the box. It doesn't even have a bar code on it. Makes me think Hick has been saving it all these years, in case he needed to set up another household!

Monitoring the Double Hovel

Hick drove by the Double Hovel flip house(s) last week. It's on a route between the Senior Center and Pony's house, and home. He noticed a guy in the yard of the Beauty Shop, picking up walnuts that had fallen from the tree in the front yard.

"That guy had one of those push things that pick up walnuts. You roll it along, and it scoops them up into a bag that's attached. The guy we bought the property from was in our yard talking to the walnut guy. I didn't stop when I seen he was there. When I came back by, the walnut guy was gone, and there was still a lot of walnuts in the yard. I guess Seller told him off and made him leave."

That's the great thing about living in small towns. Seller happens to be the dad of one of Genius's former elementary school teachers. He's a good guy. Gave us a good price on the Double Hovel, and told Hick the things wrong with it that needed to be fixed. He used to live in the house next door, but one of his kids lives there now, and he lives a few houses down. Kudos to him for seeing that walnut-stealer in the yard, and reading him the riot act.

Hick went to the Double Hovel a couple days ago to turn on the heat. He reported that there were plenty of walnuts in the yard of the Beauty Shop. It's not that we have plans for these walnuts. Hick might barter them for something if one of his buddies is in the walnut business. But still, that doesn't mean that random THIEVES can go into the yard and pick them up. It's not like this guy just drove by and wanted a couple handfuls of walnuts. He was definitely harvesting them, most likely to sell. We don't need folks traipsing across the property, perhaps breaking an ankle on loose walnuts, trying to sue us for damages!

Anyhoo... when Hick was turning on the heat, he saw a business card on the counter from a realtor over in Bill-Paying Town. So that's a sign that other realtors are also getting requests from potential buyers to look at the property. I hope they appreciate walnuts!

Paradise Takes a Tumble

Hick used to go to the Senior Center every day. Early. Stay late. Bring home armloads of cereal, paper plates, napkins, plastic utensils, Christmas gewgaws, and other sundry prizes from beating the elderlies at bingo. Now he barely makes it there once a week.

Sure, Hick has been busy with his newest Storage Unit Store. But the Senior Center is no longer the paradise he once professed. The feud with one of his former friends there doesn't help. It seems like it's not just Hick's impression that the Senior Center is on a downhill slide. 

Hick went there for lunch on Tuesday. Not because he was excited by the menu, but because he had time, and it's a place to eat lunch. The menu was:

Chicken Sandwich

Potato Salad

Beets

Bun

Bumbleberry Pie OR Fruit

I asked him if they served what was on the menu.

"Yeah. It wasn't very good. My buddy sat down and took a bite of his chicken sandwich, but he couldn't bite through it. He had to chomp it several times. They over-cooked the chicken. The potato salad was good, but yours is better. I didn't eat the beats. The pie was pretty good. It was like blueberry, but not. More like a mixed berry. It had regular crust.

My other buddy delivers meals, and he got bit by a dog. It's the third time that dog has bit one of the delivery people. He called and told the gal who runs the Senior Center, and she said they probably won't be able to deliver there anymore. After the THIRD TIME! They should have stopped after the first time, I think. He said the lady has a little fence, but the dog jumped up on it and bit him in the armpit. He had blood all over the chest of his shirt. He didn't go to the doctor or nothin'."

Well. That is indeed unfortunate. For the dog bite, as well as the tough chicken! AND I don't think it's fair to list BUN on that menu, when you would assume it's included in the CHICKEN SANDWICH.

Anyhoo... Hick will still be eating at the Senior Center when he finds time. He's just not a fanatic about it like he used to be.

Travels With My Placard: The Repeating Offender

The Gas Station Chicken Store seems to be a vortex that sucks in people who are totally ignorant of the purpose of a blue-and-white wheelchair stencil painted on a parking space. Or maybe it just sucks in the totally ignorant...

Saturday, it was that beverage-swilling elderly lady who took my rightful handicap parking space. Sunday and Monday, it was a REPEATING OFFENDER!

I know I've mentioned this guy before, but I don't seem to have any pictures of his vehicle. He's 40-something good ol' boy whom I've often encountered inside the store, joking around with my favorite cashier, as good ol' boys are wont to do. It was only within the past couple months that I realized HE was the one who keeps parking in my rightful handicap space between 3:30-4:00. A discovery made when he passed me as I was walking back to T-Hoe.

 

This was on Sunday. I parked in the FREE AIR space, and waited for him to leave. If you look closely through the back windshield, you can see RePete walking across the front of his truck. No need to strain your eyes, though, because at the end, I'll show you a closeup. 

Here is the same guy parked there again on Monday! At first you might think it's just a second picture of the same day. But no. Different sky. Different cars. Different shadow on the building from his truck.

RePete was already sitting in his truck this day. I came from the front, so I know he saw my swinging placard as I drove past him to make a U-turn in the alley and drive down to park behind him. He took his own sweet time before leaving. Probably to punish me, heh, heh, for daring to have a legal handicap placard and want that space!

This guy knows what he's doing is wrong. When he walked around to get into his truck on Sunday, he could see me waiting there, placard dangling in plain view. Yet he still parked there on Monday.

Here he is, for your virtual-rotten-tomato-throwing pleasure. 

Ladies and gentlemen, I present RePete. Doesn't he look exactly like the kind of person you would expect to park illegally in a handicap space?

Another Lowball Pitch

Sunday evening when Hick returned home from his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2), he said he had just talked to our realtor about the Double Hovel flip house. She had an offer from an investment company in the city. They had not toured the property, but were going by the website pictures alone.

Investment Co wanted a decision within 24 hours. It would be a cash deal, to be finalized within two weeks. They would pay all closing costs, and did not want any inspections.

The offer was the same as the previous lowball offer that Hick did not even counter.

Hick was pushing to take this deal. I said I did not agree. I called The Pony, our investment partner. The Pony also said no to this amount. I reminded Hick of what he had stated would be our bottom-line price. The Pony and I said we would agree to THAT amount. But not a penny less.

Hick sent a text to Our Realtor. She had said she needed the info by Monday morning, since she had an appointment in the city on Monday afternoon. By 9:20 on Monday, she responded to Hick that Investment Co was not interested in the Double Hovel at our bottom-line price. Which, I might add, was a considerable reduction from the asking price.

The Pony was okay with that, as was I, because overnight I had been thinking that maybe we shouldn't drop the price so much at this time, seeing as how the Double Hovel hasn't quite been 30 days on the market. The Pony was afraid Hick would be cranky and disappointed, since he had been pushing us to take this offer. When I talked to Hick midday, he was not at all upset.

"They were trying to steal it!"

I agree. The pressure of the 24-hour response was the first clue. Wanting the deal done within two weeks was the second clue. Not bothering to drive one hour to actually tour the property was the third clue. Seems like their tactic was to pressure us into selling fast, before we could think it through. We are not real estate rubes with a cash-flow problem. 

Yes, we could still have made a 33% profit on our investment if we sold at that price. But our bottom line deal would give us a 66% profit. If that investor saw it, another investor can see it. We are content to wait. With the difference between that offer, and our bottom line counter offer, we could afford to pay electricity, water, and insurance costs on the Double Hovel for 12 years!!! I'm pretty sure it will sell sooner than that.

Investment Co gave us a lowball pitch. Hick took a swing with our counter offer. It was a miss, but we're still in the game.

Travels With My Placard: Val Almost Rumbles With the Elderlies

There are none so blind as the entitled rumpusholes who park on top of a blue-and-white handicap stencil in a parking space, sans placard or designated license plate. Even if those entitled rumpusholes are elderlies!

Saturday, I drove onto the lot of the Gas Station Chicken Store, and saw a white sedan in my rightful handicap parking space. There's only one, you know. I looped around the diesel pumps into the back alley, and pulled T-Hoe nose-down into the parking space by the FREE AIR hose, putting us nose-to-nose with that white sedan. No handicap plates. No handicap placard. My own placard was swinging freely from the mirror, in all its blue-and-white glory.

An elderly woman got out of the driver's seat of the white sedan, and walked without any discernable disability around the corner of the building toward the door. I eased out of T-Hoe, and hobbled past the passenger door of the white sedan, where an elderly man sat with the window rolled up. 

Not gonna lie. I wanted to pound my fist on that window, shake it in the air once I had his attention, and say, "You elderlies get off my parking space!" But I didn't. Val is not confrontational. She'd much rather passive-aggressively give people the stinkeye, and make them the star of her blog for a day. Besides, Elderly Man was not the one who parked the car in my space.

Inside, I was chatting with my favorite clerk, naming the tickets that I wanted, when Elderly Woman came up from the soda fountain, holding a 44 oz drink.

"You're the fourth person today that I've seen buying lottery. And believe me, I've been out and about, making lots of stops. But isn't that something, to see FOUR people buying lottery?"

I looked at her like she had two (equally-empty) heads. First of all, you're not a part of this conversation. Nobody asked for your input. But while you're running your entitled mouth, maybe you'd like to illuminate us on whether you illegally parked in a handicap space in all those other stops you made. Oh. Does that sound harsh? It was meant to!

What in the Not-Heaven? That's not unusual at all. It's a common item people buy at convenience stores. Gas, liquor, tobacco, soda, snacks, and lottery. What did she expect people to buy, arugula and goat cheese?

I didn't respond to her. Finished my transaction, told Fave that I'd see her tomorrow (you know, just to establish that I was a REGULAR here) and limped on out the door. As I heard Fave ask Elderly Woman if there was anything else, and she replied, "Just the refreshing beverage, Sister!"

I was rounding the back bumper of Elderly Woman's car as she caught up and got into the driver's seat. She had to wait until I passed the front end of her white sedan before she could start backing up to go around T-Hoe.

I don't think she felt the least bit bad about her actions.

In the Future, I Will Be Careful What I Wish For

I asked Hick to bring home a Reuben Sandwich lunch for my supper on Friday. You know, since he chickened out on the Chicken Salad Sandwich, and didn't bring it last time I asked. Hick said he was also going to get a Reuben for himself, although he would be eating one in person for lunch. He called ahead. Hick says the Reubens go quickly, and if you don't get your take-out order called in early, they will run out.

Hick ate his lunch, and then brought our suppers home to put in FRIG II.

Grilled Reuben

Broccoli Cheddar or Veg Soup

Slaw

Crackers

Variety of Desserts

I didn't know if they would send soup in a carry-out lunch. Hick said sometimes they do, sometimes not. I said I wanted the vegetable soup, but he said you don't really get a choice. Only if a worker makes your take-out lunch right before you leave. Which he said his friend did last time with the BEETS fiasco. But it was unlikely on Reuben day, because they have so many and make them all ahead. So I'd get whatever they put in the container.

Anyhoo... Hick came in carrying two white plastic bags, each containing a foam container of lunch, and a small foam container of the dessert. Hick was carrying them both in one hand. Making one lean sideways at a 45-degree angle.

"Whoa! You're spilling stuff inside! You know how that slaw juice runs all over everything!"

"I'm just carrying them, Val."

"Set one over here and let me look inside."

I think I know part of the problem why those Senior Center workers are stressed on Reuben day! They had tied the top of each plastic bag in THREE knots! Did they think Reuben was going to fight his way out of a white plastic bag? A single knot should suffice.

Anyhoo... inside the container were Potatoes, Slaw, a Reuben Sandwich, and a cardboard container of soup with a lid that did not leak.

I set the soup out onto the table, and moved the sandwich to see if anything had leaked on it. Indeed, it had! That bottom piece of bread was as soggy as a wet sponge! It barely held together as I turned it over to take its picture. The potatoes are the villain! That's where the liquid came from.

Yes, there is still plenty of liquid left in the potatoes themselves. Who packs a take-out container like that? Do they not have access to a slotted spoon at that Senior Center? While we're on the potatoe topic, I have no idea what they did to those potatoes. They were the worst potatoes I've ever eaten. I tried, but only choked down half of them. I couldn't figure out the flavor. It was not butter, because after six hours in FRIG II, that liquid did not thicken or solidify. Kind of a sour taste, yet sweet. YUCK! The best I can figure is that they drenched canned potatoes with Italian Dressing.

The slaw was also terrible. Hick actually traded out the soggy sandwich in this one, to allow me to have the container. Because the other one had a lot of carrots in the slaw, which I don't like. Anyhoo... it was not a white creamy slaw, but a vinegar type of slaw. I left about a third of it.

When I looked into the vegetable soup, I figured the vegetables had settled to the bottom. Um. No. When I poured it into a cup to heat it up, there were two slivers of grated carrot, and two tiny shell noodles. Hick said I could have his soup, which at least had two broken pieces of green bean, two tiny cubes of potato, and one tiny cube of carrot. It's like those workers FOUND the slotted spoon, and used it to seine out the vegetables from my vegetable soup!

I warmed our sandwiches in the oven, giving Hick's soggy slice extra time. It dried out, but did not get as toasty as the other slice did. Gotta say, those sandwiches were delicious. Too bad the other stuff came with them! Hick only ate his sandwich. And one of the desserts, saving the one I gave him for the next night. It was a cherry crisp that actually looked good, but I'm not much on their desserts. Unless they actually have cake, often advertised, seldom served!

Still, it was a meal I didn't have to cook. The Reuben Sandwich was great. I will ask for it again next menu, but I will not be expecting anything else. Better to be surprised than disappointed.

As If The Pony Didn't Have ENOUGH Troubles Lately

Just when The Pony was finally getting a break from The Universe taunting him with obstacles that hindered his job... he went out to his Rogue Thursday afternoon to drive home, and the fob didn't work. Nor did the key itself. The Pony could not get into his car. So he walked home.

The Pony sent Hick a text asking him to see about getting a battery for his car clicker, figuring that must be the problem. Yet still puzzled about the key not working. 

"It's not a big deal until the weekend and my day off. I can walk to work. I just have to leave five minutes earlier." 

Yeah. And walk home after a day of work, walking an 11-mile route.

Hick has the spare, and was taking both to get new batteries. Since he spends Friday afternoons shooting the bull with his buddies at a shop a couple miles from the post office, The Pony will text Hick when he clocks out. Then they can also explore the key issue, and Hick can trade with him if necessary. It's easier and safer that trying to track down The Pony on his route, or leaving the car unlocked with a battery or the other fob and key under the floormat.

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night... nor sprained ankles, dog bites, bumpy rashes, or lack of personal transportation stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

Strapping On the Feedbag With Hick

Hick has been busy with a couple projects, and thus has not been eating lunch at the Senior Center every day. He means to, but time gets away from him. I read the menu he brings home, so he'll know what he's missing. He DID make an effort to eat there Wednesday. Even treated Old Buddy to lunch, so they could keep in working. The meal was:

Pork Loin

Mashed Potatoes 

Green Beans

Rolls

Vanilla Ice Box Cake OR Fruit

Hick wasn't sure about Thursday. It was a new meal that I've not seen on the menu before:

Poppy Seed Chicken

Glazed Carrots

Sliced Potatoes w/peas

Roll

Peach Pie OR Fruit

It's not that Hick dislikes any of those foods. He was busy working on the QuickFlip house for the old lady who bought it. Hick does good work for cheap, and she doesn't know anybody else around here. So she hires him for her projects. That's how Hick charges. For the project, not by the hour. He doesn't want anybody to think they're getting cheated if he takes a break, or has to go buy parts.

Anyhoo... Hick and Old Buddy were fixing the roof of the garage. It's a tin roof, and sheets of the tin were loose. Plus it needed paint. So Old Buddy got on top of the roof, and put in long screws. Then he painted, as well as Hick, who GOT ON A LADDER so soon after his recent fall! They painted the roof black, using brushes and a roller. Hick said Old Buddy actually did about 70 percent of the work on top of the roof.

Anyhoo... they did not have time to go to the Senior Center for lunch. Hick was asking Old Buddy if he wanted to go to McDonalds to get lunch, when the Grandson came out and heard them.

"I have some baloney in there."

"Huh. Would you mind making us a couple of baloney sandwiches?"

"No problem!"

Hick said he and Old Buddy each got a bologna and cheese sandwich, and a glass of iced tea. And that Bertha (not her real name) the old lady came out, and said, "I had ham and roast beef in there." Hick assured her that the bologna sandwiches were good. Hick likes bologna.

As usual with Hick's stories, the details are murky. He started out by telling me that "Bertha gave us baloney sandwiches for lunch." Yet then it turned into the Grandson offering them. So I'm not sure who really made the sandwiches.

Still... Hick got a meal, and didn't have to pay.

The Thief Who Wasn't

I can't remember if it was here, or on my supersecret blog, where I mentioned some teens in Orb K who seemed to be stealing merchandise. Their friend was up front using the self-scanner to buy a soda, and the other three stood by him a minute, then all walked out with their arms full of fountain sodas, not having set the others on the scanner thingy.

Anyhoo... I was in Orb K again on Tuesday. A wacky older lady was at the self-scanner, with only one cashier working down at the other end of the counter. Wacky had two fountain sodas. A couple of snack items. She DID put them all on the little shelf thingy for scanning. She had a little trouble with her card working, but I think it finally went through. She wasn't looking around for help, or adjusting anything on the scanner, or trying another card.

Wacky put her card away, picked up her merchandise, and moved along the counter, standing by the middle register. A manager-type gal was doing something there, but the register was not open for customers. Wacky just stood there. Manager Gal made some small talk. Then asked her if she needed anything. Wacky said no. Then she moved down the counter, standing between me and a woman currently in the middle of a transaction at the open register.

What in the Not-Heaven? At first I was mad that Wacky seemed to be cutting in line. Maybe her card HADN'T worked, and she was going to pay. She set her merch on the counter beside the other woman's stuff. The people in line behind me were shifting around and murmuring. Then I realized that Wacky was with that woman. 

The cashier must have also been confused. She was just standing there as Woman was scanning in her card and code. Wacky picked up her stuff and walked out. Cashier waited a minute, and then said to Woman: "Are you paying for hers, too?" And Woman said, "Oh, no. She's already paid at the self-serve." Which indeed, it appeared that she had.

When it was my turn, Cashier asked for my ID to buy scratchers! I didn't mind. I always have it in my shirt pocket. She said she was new. Not a big deal to me. She wanted to do things right. 

As I left, Wacky and Woman were getting into the red SUV parked in the handicap space across the walkway from me. So they were actually together. And Wacky moved kind of slow. I didn't begrudge them the handicap space. I don't park in it at Orb K anyway.

When NOT-Cooking Is More Stressful Than Cooking

Hick's supper Tuesday night was breakfast. Sausage, eggs, and biscuits. Sure, the biscuits were out of a can. And the sausage was a previously-grilled bratwurst that I thawed out. I offered to make scrambled eggs for Hick, but he preferred fried eggs. Which meant he had to cook them himself. I don't do fried eggs. I don't like fried eggs. So as you might imagine, when I cook them, they are not up to Hick's standards.

I did everything else. The biscuits were done. The sausage was hot. I had a skillet with oil already warming up. The pepper grinder was waiting without the lid on the bottom. The four eggs were set out. Hick only wanted three, but there were four left in the carton, and I wasn't going to store one egg. There was also a plate on the counter, with a fork, butter knife, and sausage-cutting knife. Plus the metal spatula for egg-flipping. I had done just about everything except chewing the food and baby-bird-ing into Hick's mouth.

Hick came to the kitchen when called, to start frying his eggs. I sat at the kitchen table out of the way. I had been scratching some losing scratchers, but I could not look away from the spectacle of Chef Hick.

Hick picked up his first egg, and started tapping it on the side of the pan. It's not like he was using a cast-iron skillet. This was a small non-stick pan.

"What are you doing?"

"Cracking my egg."

"On the side of the pan???"

"Yeah. That's what I always do. How do you crack them?"

"On the edge of the counter. So I don't drip egg juice down the side of the pan where it hardens, and onto the burner and stove."

"Huh."

Hick kept cracking. One egg took 11 whacks! Like I said, that small pan is not sturdy enough to be an egg-cracker. AND, after each egg, Hick wiped his hands on a paper towel he had set ON THE STOVE BESIDE THE BURNER! I was afraid it was going to burst into flames! Hick cooked two eggs at a time, then shoveled them onto his plate. When he was done, he turned off the burner, but let the pan with oil sit on that hot burner, metal spatula inside.

I thought he might eat at the cutting block, but Hick took his plate into the living room to his recliner after buttering three biscuits and carving up his sausage. When he returned with the plate, I had to instruct him to wipe off the crumbs, then put it in the sink, run water on it, and put his fork in it. Nothing gets as concrete-hard as left-over egg, unless maybe it's leftover potato. 

It's actually easier for me just to cook something, rather than stress through Hick's efforts.

Hick Takes a Noggin-Knockin' and Keeps on Hawkin'

Hick has been preparing his next Storage Unit Store for business. He's got the electricity in, and the flooring, and insulation, and is arranging his goods to show them off. The SUS2.5 is next to the SUS2. It's in a unit that is 10 feet longer than the SUS2. You can be sure that Hick will pack every square foot of the SUS2.5 with his wares.

Monday was a day off for Hick's paid helper, Old Buddy, because Hick had an eye doctor appointment. Afterward, he went to work on the SUS2.5 until time for lunch at the Senior Center:

Beefy Mac Casserole

Parm Peas

Salad

Roll

Lemon Cake OR Fruit

Hick reported that it was actually pretty good, although the cheese on the peas was cold. He worked some more in his SUS2.5 after that, until time to go to the auction. He got home after 8:30.

"See my knot?" Hick said, holding up his right arm, showing a quarter-sized lump on his inner forearm. "And the knot on my head?" 

Heh, heh! Don't get me started on Hick being a knothead!

"What happened to you?"

"I was on a ladder, hanging my fishing stuff. When I came down, I missed the bottom rung of the ladder. I thought I was stepping onto the floor, but there was still another rung. As I was falling, I grabbed the ladder. It turned over, but not on top of me. My drill was on top of the ladder. I think that's what hit me on the head. I turned over the deer feeder that I had there. I might have hit my arm on it. I knocked my hat off! And by butt's sore!"

Hick really needs to make better decisions. One reason he has a paid helper is so he doesn't have to climb on ladders.

You Can Never Be Sure of a Creecher's Intentions

It's been a while since we've had an issue with CREECHERS. The Creek Creatures who show up to park on our private road beside the creek, and use it as a recreational site. As I've mentioned before, nobody owns a creek. People have the legal right to wade and swim and float on them. They do NOT have the legal right to park on private property to gain access, or beach their boat on a float trip to have a picnic.

Anyhoo... on Saturday, I saw a red JEEP parked about 50 feet into our private gravel road. There was a man and four boys walking towards the creek. The boys looked around 6th or 7th grade age. Maybe 11-12 years old. They were shirtless. Just shorts and shoes. The temperature was 83 degrees. I thought maybe they planned on swimming.

I was in town for an hour. When I returned, making a left turn onto our gravel road from the county blacktop road, those four boys jumped out of the way. They were walking on the gravel, about to get onto the blacktop. A couple were waving. Not at me. But back at the red JEEP, where the guy had the motor running, and was about to make a U-turn to come back toward the blacktop road.

What in the Not-Heaven? What business did those boys have on the blacktop road? There are no houses nearby. Were they planning to take a jog? Perhaps training for the upcoming basketball season? This blacktop road is no place for joggers. Nor tweenage boys. It's hilly and curvy. A car can come up on you in an instant. And what was the man going to do? Follow them at 5 mph?

You never can be sure what a Creecher's going to do.

Hip, Hip, Hip, But No Hooray

The Pony continues to be the butt of The Universe's unfunny jokes. He has spent a week recovering from a horrific rash that popped up the day after he delivered mail for 8 hours in the pouring hurricane-remnant rains last Friday. It was only on both inner arms, and the front of his thighs, but blistery and painful. The urgent care doctor said it could have come from the friction of the wet clothing, or an incomplete rinsing of detergent. Anyhoo... after being dosed with steroids and skin cream, and one day off, The Pony was back at work.

"At least the pain is going away, and the itching. But now I have those Medicare booklets to deliver. I have three stacks, all of them hip-high. The manager said I can spread them out, that I don't have to do them all in one day."

Good to know! I'm guessing The Pony will have these delivered in several days.

Did you all get your Medicare & You 2025 handbook? They're definitely no treat for the mailman! At least they're not for every house.

If you're like us, it will probably just lie around for a while, and then I'll get a little less lazy and toss it out. Unless you're having an issue, or planning some kind of procedure, you might not have the urge to look inside at the regulations.

This publication is not svelte. Mine feels like it weighs about a pound. Imagine lugging a stack of those around on your forearm while walking various loops of an 11-mile mail route.

On the back, it says this version contains special information for Missouri. I'm assuming each state has its own version. Some thinner, some fatter, perhaps. Same as your mailmen.

Enquiring Mouths Want To Know

Thursday, I was in line at Country Mart behind a grandma-looking woman with a small boy and girl. The boy looked around 5, and the girl maybe 7. As Gran was scanning her card to pay, the kids waited in the front aisle at the end of the checkout. I presumed she had the duty of taking care of them until their parents were off work. It was around 4:00.

Boy paced back and forth along the contraption holding big water jugs, and the two lottery machines. Girl was mainly there to keep him from running off, I suppose. She trailed behind him a few steps. Boy was hyper in the way of a young child just released from prison school. It's hard to hold in rambunctiousness all day.

Boy peered down the short hallway, where you could see one of the managers sitting behind a desk.

Boy: "Do you live here?"

Manager: "No. I just work here."

Boy: "Huh. What do you do? You're just sitting!"

Heh, heh! That was hilarious. She chuckled, and tried to explain how she takes care of the store. Another cashier came walking along. Boy said something, and that cashier said, 

"I'm 43."

Gran said, "Here now! You don't need to be so nosy!"

Cashier: "It's okay. He just said he was five, so I told him I was 43."

Gran: "He does have a mouth on him! I thought he was asking your age."

I was quite glad to remain in the background behind Gran. No telling what question Boy might have had for me!

Absence Does Not Make One Heart Grow Fonder

Hick has not been to the Senior Center lunch for over a week. He's been busy with his SUS2.5 (Storage Unit Store 2.5) over in Bill-Paying Town. He doesn't drive to the Senior Center at 11:00, but gets lunch somewhere else.

After the first few days of Hick's absence, a couple of the workers there sent him a text. One was a true friend. The other was Hick's current arch nemesis, a former friend with whom he's having a feud and doesn't know why. I say it's because they're both hard-headed know-it-alls, who refuse to apologize for any real or imagined transgressions, preferring to sit upon their high-horses, smug in the knowledge that they're right!

Anyhoo... the arch nemesis sent Hick a text asking if he was all right, since 'all the gals were asking where he'd been.' Hick replied to both texters (heh, heh, that makes Hick the TEXTEE) that he was fine, just busy working on his new store.

Today, Hick WILL be going to have lunch at the Senior Center. It's the day of the local high school's homecoming parade. So they have prime real estate out front on the sidewalk to watch. And to pick up candy tossed their way, too, I suppose! Though it might be a slow-motion race as to who can get to it fastest. Hick's Friday afternoon bull-session crony has asked Hick to save a seat for himself and his wife.

"How can you do that? Do you have chairs?"

"Yeah. We'll wheel out."

"What's THAT mean? Do the chairs in there have wheels?"

"Some of them do. The others we'll carry."

"That's an accident waiting to happen! I hate chairs with wheels. I'm sure they are going to roll out from under me. That's why I always had my teacher desk where my chair could back up to the wall. So I could sit down without worrying!"

"Anyway, they didn't say to save them seats for the parade, but for the lunch inside. THEN we can take our chairs out to the sidewalk."

Good to know. It's not even Hick's school. It's MY school! Where I was VALEDICTORIAN!!! Have I ever mentioned that?

The lunch menu is:

Chicken Pot Pie

Pickled Beets

Side Salad

Variety of Desserts

I know better than to ask for any Chicken Pot Pie. It would sit on Hick's lap during the parade, I'm sure. And probably have a double serving of beets.

Hick Is a $35,000 Snitch

I've mentioned how we are looking for another flip house. CHEAP! One that doesn't need too much money poured into it to make a safe, liveable house for resale. I found one on Monday. Or so I thought. It must have been on Realtor.com, since that's mostly where I check. The picture looked decent. I clicked on it. The description, though, said

This is a tear down you are purchasing mainly for the property. This is for the corner lot it will be divided off from 406 Lincoln.

Well. That was interesting. I've never seen something like this. The house was also listed as 2 bedroom, 2 bath. The roof looked decent. Nothing was sagging. The porch could use work. Hick drove by, and said some of the windows were new. And that only a little part of the roof looked like it might need patching.

"What's the deal? Do you think it was condemned? Maybe the floor rotted out? Mold?"

"I cain't see much wrong with it. I don't know why they would say it's a tear-down."

"Maybe it's because of zoning? Like how you couldn't have a business in the Beauty Shop, and we can't divide ours and sell the houses separately?"

"That might be it. I'm going to call about it."

I figured Hick was going to call our realtor, and have her check on it with the listing agent. It's something we would be interested in, but not from a tear-down standpoint. 

Well, Hick went to the city building inspector! Who wasn't there, so Hick called him and described the situation. Maybe the Inspector already knew the property. At the very least, Hick gave him the address. It's not too far away from the Double Hovel. The inspector said they couldn't sell that property, even as a vacant lot.

"It's not big enough. Nothing can be done with a lot that size, even if the house is torn down. You can't build another one on it. Then neither that lot, or the one with the other house on it, are big enough."

"Well, they have it listed on the real estate websites for sale at $35,000, as a tear-down house, so you're purchasing the lot."

"I'll go by there tomorrow and talk to them about it."

"If they're allowed to sell like that, then why aren't we? I've had three people stop and ask me to buy the Beauty Shop house, but I have to tell them I can't split it. If they were separate, people would be able to get a regular loan. But they can't get a loan to buy two houses. If you go down the street, there are houses with way smaller yards. And somebody can sell those houses if they want. Just because they've always been like that."

"I understand what you're saying, but your lots aren't big enough if you split your property. About the best you can do is ask to speak to the city council, and see if they'll give you a variance for that. It will cost you. Maybe around $250."

Hick says he'd going to check into this. Surely the Inspector meant it would cost to get a variance, and not to talk to the city council! Anyhoo... we agree that it's worth the money to find out for sure.

Meanwhile, I hope the Inspector doesn't mention to the Lot-Sellers how he found out about this listing. If he does, Hick might need to keep his head on a swivel over in that neighborhood, lest his snitching lead to stitches!

Hick Did Not Learn Everything He Needed to Know In Kindergarten

If Hick was the kind of person to use a Life Coach, a toddler would suffice. And be cheap, too, I bet! It amazes me that Hick does not grasp the simplest things. Yet he can turn a Mack truck from a semi-trailer-puller into a dump truck, with torches and hydraulics.

Monday evening, Hick was having chicken tenders and some cheddar-and-broccoli noodles with a previously grilled bratwurst cut up in it. I asked if he wanted anything to use for dipping his chicken tenders.

"I think I'd like mustard. The spicy mustard."

When I called Hick into the kitchen to plate his food, I told him to get the mustard.

"It's in the door of the refrigerator. I didn't have time to set it out. But there's your plate and paper towel, and you can use the spoon that's in the noodles right now."

I glanced over my shoulder as Hick was rummaging in FRIG II's door. He picked up the bright yellow squeeze bottle of regular yellow mustard!

"That's NOT your spicy brown mustard!"

"Oh. Huh. Well... where is it?"

"In the door! Same place. The short bottle that you can see through. You can SEE the spicy brown mustard!"

"Huh. You don't have to be like that. I just didn't see the mustard."

"A TODDLER would know that regular mustard is in the yellow bottle! How have you lived this long and not known that?"

"I just grabbed the wrong bottle."

After cleaning up the noodle pan, I went to change out of my town clothes, in the master bathroom, where Hick had washed his hands before supper. I KNOW! I'm as shocked as you! But Hick did indeed announce, "I'm going to wash my mitts" when I called him to the kitchen.

What DIDN'T shock me were the droplets of dirty water on the counter beside the sink, from Hick's handwashing. I reminded him of that when I walked past his recliner where he was feeding.

"Even a TODDLER knows that 'washing your hands' means scrubbing them with soap and water until the dirt is off! How can you not have mastered this skill? Just like when you leave a giant dirty handprint on the top of the paper towel roll as you tear one off, you have left drops of dirty water all along the sink. I sure hope you didn't dry your unclean hands on MY towel! I might get some kind of disease!"

"I didn't. I used my own towel."

Sure he did. Sure he walked all the way across to the shower door handle, rather than turn and use my towel that was hanging on the wall rack.

We won't discuss the fact that the spicy brown mustard expired in October, 2023. A fact known to both myself, and communicated to Hick. I'm not trying to kill him. Really. I only wanted him to enjoy that spicy brown mustard. I'm pretty sure it was fine. Hick's still kickin', on the day after eating it.

Helpers Gonna Help

Hick does not have his SUS2.5, the storage unit he's converting next to his current Storage Unit Store 2, completely finished. He will have a little refrigerator AND a microwave in there. Currently, he just has a mini fridge, with no way to heat up lunch. He asked me to pick up a sandwich for him during my Thursday shopping trip.

Of course Hick could make his own sandwiches to take. But you know, that would require some effort. Hick could ask ME to make his sandwiches. But the repercussions from that would be even worse than slapping some meat between two slices of bread. Especially after a recent issue with straightening out his expenses from the flip house expenses.

Anyhoo... Hick rarely asks for anything from the store. I got him two containers of sandwiches from the Country Mart deli section. I had given one to Hick a couple weeks ago, for his supper, since he said he wasn't really very hungry, having filled up at the Senior Center lunch. This was a clear plastic container, with a sandwich of ham, bacon, cheese, lettuce, and tomato on white bread. Not a lot of meat. Just a regular sandwich, cut into four triangles, sitting on their crust with their pointy triangle ends sticking up. 

When Hick was getting ready to leave on Saturday morning at 6:00, he packed his sandwich in a plastic bag with a mini bag of plain potato chips I'd laid out for him.

"It'll be good to have lunch for two days."

"What? That's for one day. There's another container in there for tomorrow."

"Huh. I think there's more in here than the last one you got me."

"You know, I DID think it looked like more. You never know what you'll get from that store! Sometimes, the big salad comes without the boiled egg in it."

"I don't know if I can eat all this. It looks like two sandwiches."

"You've eaten two sandwiches most of your life! But if you can't, just give some to one of your buddies. Because there's another container here for tomorrow, and the date will go bad if you don't eat it."

Hick returned home that evening, saying he had given some sandwich to his paid helper, Old Buddy, who also has a storage unit store.

"I give Old Buddy a piece of my sandwich, and I ate the rest. He walked off with it while I was talking to some customers. I asked him later how he liked it, and he said he didn't eat it! He said, 'Well, there was this girl, and she was hungry...' That's how he never has nothin'! He gives everything away!"

Well. Old Buddy IS a helper...