Hey! Did I mention that we were out of town for the weekend? That we took the back roads out of Backroads and headed for Columbia? The occasion was a statewide award event for Genius to receive accolades for being a genius. Him, and 99 of his cohorts from every corner of Missouri.
But we're not here to talk about a nerd convention. Nope. We're here to talk about the ambiance of the lodging. Sorry, I can't work in a statement about how I spent the night at a Holiday Inn Express. I was at the H. I. EXECUTIVE CENTER. Okay. So it's not that special and it's not that accommodating. I'm sure you knew that by the time you got down to this line, because why else would Val be using perfectly good blog space to discuss it, right?
I booked a mini suite because how often do you attend your son's genius convention? We had a sitting room with a fold-out couch, two puffy chairs, an ottoman, a desk, a rolly chair, two end tables, three lamps, and a big wall-mounted flat-screen TV. Whoa. It feels like I'm doing my end-of-the-year inventory already. The bedroom harbored a king-size bed with four flat pillows, a tiny upended shoebox of a closet, a mini fridge, a microwave, a dresser, two end tables, three lamps, and a flat-screen TV on the dresser. We'll get to the bathroom in a minute, as it is the cornerstone of Val's complaint manifesto.
Let the record show that neither TV worked. Lucky for us we had a Genius along. He fiddled with some hanging-down wires and a black box thingy on the giant wall-mounted TV and brought it to life. The remote, however, was deader than a doornail. I didn't use those words with Genius around, because that always fuels an argument over the merits of "doornail" and "door knob." When Hick tried the bedroom TV, he was rewarded with the blue screen of death. Genius fiddled and faddled with the cable box thingy until it displayed its channels. Left to our own devices, Hick and I would have gone out for Reynolds Wrap, fashioned some rabbit ears, and put them on Hick's head while he stood like an ample-drumsticked, pale, yoga-posing flamingo while trying to get reception.
After putting on their thinking caps, one being a Jed Clampett design, and the other a six-paneled, multicolored beanie with a propeller on top, the guys deduced that the remotes had been switched. From then on, we had a sitting room remote that worked, and a bedroom remote that was still dead.
The bathroom was a deathtrap. The tan tile floor was suitable for Nancy Kerrigan to skate upon just prior to collapsing in a pile of WHY after a vicious Gilloolying. I first ventured onto the killing floor in my well-worn New Balances. Bambi on ice was more sure-footed than I. Lucky for me, there was a sink counter I could grab to pull myself along like a beginning skater at the roller rink. I warned Hick, who scoffed, right before poorly executing a flying camel. "Something's not right!" Genius and his Adidas performed a lunge from door to second sink, and concurred.
Always the problem-solver, I ventured forth in my dress-up shoes. Not a good move. I tried sock feet, and almost split myself in half. Even bare feet could not get traction on that slippery non-slope. Hick grabbed a washcloth while holding on for dear life with his other hand. He used a foot to mop the floor with his damp implement. He swore that the cleaning staff had sprayed something on the tile to make it shiny. He declared that his treatment restored traction. I assure you, it did not. Rising from the toilet required more coordination and energy than a triathlon.
I think I have figured out the corporate benefit of the slick floor. We were unable to load up our bags with the tiny complimentary shampoo, lotion, mouthwash, and conditioner set out for each of our three paid adult fares.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Monday, April 29, 2013
Val Puts the Passive in Aggressive
I took a personal day off work today to recover from our cross-state trip to see Genius receive his Missouri Scholars 100 award on Sunday. Still, I got up as usual to take The Pony to school.
Coasting down a residential street at the allotted speed limit, I had to yank my vehicle over the center line to avoid a scofflaw. A young man in a red sports car thought he was going to run a stop sign and shoot across my street. He almost T-boned the passenger side of T-Hoe. I had the audacity to block his path. As I made the half-circle to avoid his jutting bumper, at least a car-length past the stop sign and three feet into my lane, I turned to glare at him. Wouldn't you? Or are you, perhaps, some lily-livered pansy who hasn't a drop of road rage coursing through your veins? Along with my glower, I said, "Seriously?" Of course he couldn't hear me. But something tells me he saw me. Because instead of squealing on about his business and crossing over the street to his intended destination, he pulled out behind me. Like a mouse after the cheese in my trap.
You know I am a law-abiding citizen. I always drive the posted 30 mph on that street. No need to gas gas gas, brake brake brake on that section. It's only three blocks, and a slight downhill grade. I let gravity be my fuel. Besides, a sheriff's deputy must live at the end of that road, because his car is always parked in the driveway.
Redcar Man attached himself to my bumper. Some might have termed what he was doing "tailgating." I was in no hurry, not needing to be at work, only dropping off The Pony. I daresay I might have let my speed fall to 29 mph. At the stop sign, I made sure to come to a complete halt. I looked left. Right. Left again. Then I made my right turn.
Redcar Man was not going my way. He burned his tires and careened left, in front of the deputy's house. So sad to report there was no poetic justice. At least I revel in the fact that I cost him valuable time and made him veer off course, all for his petty revenge in being caught law-breaking.
Val Thevictorian. Teaching road rules etiquette one driver at a time.
Coasting down a residential street at the allotted speed limit, I had to yank my vehicle over the center line to avoid a scofflaw. A young man in a red sports car thought he was going to run a stop sign and shoot across my street. He almost T-boned the passenger side of T-Hoe. I had the audacity to block his path. As I made the half-circle to avoid his jutting bumper, at least a car-length past the stop sign and three feet into my lane, I turned to glare at him. Wouldn't you? Or are you, perhaps, some lily-livered pansy who hasn't a drop of road rage coursing through your veins? Along with my glower, I said, "Seriously?" Of course he couldn't hear me. But something tells me he saw me. Because instead of squealing on about his business and crossing over the street to his intended destination, he pulled out behind me. Like a mouse after the cheese in my trap.
You know I am a law-abiding citizen. I always drive the posted 30 mph on that street. No need to gas gas gas, brake brake brake on that section. It's only three blocks, and a slight downhill grade. I let gravity be my fuel. Besides, a sheriff's deputy must live at the end of that road, because his car is always parked in the driveway.
Redcar Man attached himself to my bumper. Some might have termed what he was doing "tailgating." I was in no hurry, not needing to be at work, only dropping off The Pony. I daresay I might have let my speed fall to 29 mph. At the stop sign, I made sure to come to a complete halt. I looked left. Right. Left again. Then I made my right turn.
Redcar Man was not going my way. He burned his tires and careened left, in front of the deputy's house. So sad to report there was no poetic justice. At least I revel in the fact that I cost him valuable time and made him veer off course, all for his petty revenge in being caught law-breaking.
Val Thevictorian. Teaching road rules etiquette one driver at a time.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Like a Slice of Buttered Toast Falling Buttered-Side Down
I have a small confession. Tiny, really. Inconsequential. But I must let my dastardly deed see the light of day. Air it out like dirty laundry. Cleanse my palate of the bad taste it's left in my mouth.
There was no plan to carry out this inadvertent act of marital sabotage. It was just a happy accident. There I was in the walk-in shower, surveying the items resting on top of the door frame, contemplating why my tube of hair conditioner seems to have become anorexic of late. If she was Jethro Bodine, she would have to tighten her rope belt a couple of knots. I know that Hick has been using it. And he has hardly any hair! He tries to be tricky, flattening out the tube from the bottom. Not like the way he squeezes the toothpaste in the middle. But he can't fool me. I do not use conditioner at that alarming rate.
Funny thing. As I reached for my flattened friend, my hand must have hit Hick's blue disposable razor. That, or Razor suddenly decided he was not good enough for this world any more, and flung himself over the side without having the common courtesy to leave a note.
Upon exiting the shower, I searched for Razor's remains. He was not on the floor. Not shattered, not broken, not bruised. I looked more thoroughly, though I stopped short of calling in a search dog. Razor was a real nowhere man. No part of him was in evidence. I went on about my post-shower business. After dressing and combing my freshly-conditioned hair, I turned to give one last cursory glance toward the shower.
There he was! Razor was in the corner, between the shower and the toilet, up in that ninety-degree angle formed by the shower base and outer bathroom wall. Yes, there he reclined, all smug and camouflaged, his dark blue plastic blending with the pattern of the toilet brush upon which he perched. There. I said it. Hick's razor was laying on top of the toilet brush.
I thought of throwing it away and putting out a new one. They're disposable, you know. Hick would never know the difference. Until he cut his throat with a brand-new razor that he assumed was the broken-in one he had been using. No. Better not subject Hick to a slashed carotid artery. I grabbed Razor between my thumb and forefinger and put him back on top of the shower door. It was a new toilet brush, I'm sure. The tag was still on the handle with one of those plastic thread thingies. I doubt it has even been used yet.
What Hick doesn't know won't hurt him.
There was no plan to carry out this inadvertent act of marital sabotage. It was just a happy accident. There I was in the walk-in shower, surveying the items resting on top of the door frame, contemplating why my tube of hair conditioner seems to have become anorexic of late. If she was Jethro Bodine, she would have to tighten her rope belt a couple of knots. I know that Hick has been using it. And he has hardly any hair! He tries to be tricky, flattening out the tube from the bottom. Not like the way he squeezes the toothpaste in the middle. But he can't fool me. I do not use conditioner at that alarming rate.
Funny thing. As I reached for my flattened friend, my hand must have hit Hick's blue disposable razor. That, or Razor suddenly decided he was not good enough for this world any more, and flung himself over the side without having the common courtesy to leave a note.
Upon exiting the shower, I searched for Razor's remains. He was not on the floor. Not shattered, not broken, not bruised. I looked more thoroughly, though I stopped short of calling in a search dog. Razor was a real nowhere man. No part of him was in evidence. I went on about my post-shower business. After dressing and combing my freshly-conditioned hair, I turned to give one last cursory glance toward the shower.
There he was! Razor was in the corner, between the shower and the toilet, up in that ninety-degree angle formed by the shower base and outer bathroom wall. Yes, there he reclined, all smug and camouflaged, his dark blue plastic blending with the pattern of the toilet brush upon which he perched. There. I said it. Hick's razor was laying on top of the toilet brush.
I thought of throwing it away and putting out a new one. They're disposable, you know. Hick would never know the difference. Until he cut his throat with a brand-new razor that he assumed was the broken-in one he had been using. No. Better not subject Hick to a slashed carotid artery. I grabbed Razor between my thumb and forefinger and put him back on top of the shower door. It was a new toilet brush, I'm sure. The tag was still on the handle with one of those plastic thread thingies. I doubt it has even been used yet.
What Hick doesn't know won't hurt him.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
The Artist as a Questionably-Young Woman
You know how sometimes, everything falls into place without effort, without conscious thought? You just do it. Easy peasy. Like an Olympic-caliber rhythmic gymnast, twirling and swirling that ribbon-on-a-stick in a gold-medal-worthy performance, relying on adrenaline, muscle memory, and three Tic Tacs chased by Crystal Light. I had a moment like that yesterday. Several moments, to be exact. Almost an hour.
There was tale I wanted to share, though not here, because I DO try to separate parts of my working life from my internet life. The thoughts flowed like milk out of a carton carried by a helpful butterfingered toddler. I grabbed my little notebook to capture my thoughts before they vaporized like a dream an hour after awakening. That's what I have to do if I'm not at my basement lair keyboard when the muse comes calling. Yesterday, Musie caught me on the toilet. Oh, stop your grimacing! Stop gouging your eyes and screaming, "TMI! TMI!" I was not on the business end of the toilet. I was sitting on the lid. With a cushiony towel further softening the surface for my ample buttocks. Fully-clothed, buttocks, I might add.
Sometimes, I go into the master bathroom to grab a moment of peace from making other people's sandwiches, or acting as an earpiece for other people's boasts of bargains bartered for at auction. It's a peaceful room, all forest green tile and patterned wallpaper, roomy, with a big triangle tub and walk-in closet. With the exception of that short interlude of mice in the exhaust fan/light, and telltale blood smears after their dispatch...it's a relaxing retreat. Yesterday, I was there to coat my tresses with the shellac of youth. We're going to a major event to honor Genius for being named to the Missouri Scholars 100, and I don't want people to think that Grant Woods used me as the model for American Gothic.
Yes, I was in the zone. On fire. Like Johnny, rosining up his bow, telling The Devil down in Georgia that he's the best that's ever been. Similes rained from my brain to the pen like dollar bills from the hand of a fan onto the head of a Saturday night stripper. If only there was somewhere I could submit this masterpiece, I thought. It would surely win a contest, or be published, and bring me fame. But I'd better keep it secret, because if I'm famous, the person who was the inspiration might read it, and I'll be up spit creek in hot water without a paddle. And might hurt some feelings. Yes, it's best to let it languish in obscurity, even though it is SO good that the great literary masters would weep with joy upon reading it, and possibly want to plagiarize me, if it were not for that unfortunate dead thing they've got going on.
I read over that new classic this morning, on my supersecret blog. It is total crap. The universe has assigned a certain symmetry to my toilet masterpiece.
There was tale I wanted to share, though not here, because I DO try to separate parts of my working life from my internet life. The thoughts flowed like milk out of a carton carried by a helpful butterfingered toddler. I grabbed my little notebook to capture my thoughts before they vaporized like a dream an hour after awakening. That's what I have to do if I'm not at my basement lair keyboard when the muse comes calling. Yesterday, Musie caught me on the toilet. Oh, stop your grimacing! Stop gouging your eyes and screaming, "TMI! TMI!" I was not on the business end of the toilet. I was sitting on the lid. With a cushiony towel further softening the surface for my ample buttocks. Fully-clothed, buttocks, I might add.
Sometimes, I go into the master bathroom to grab a moment of peace from making other people's sandwiches, or acting as an earpiece for other people's boasts of bargains bartered for at auction. It's a peaceful room, all forest green tile and patterned wallpaper, roomy, with a big triangle tub and walk-in closet. With the exception of that short interlude of mice in the exhaust fan/light, and telltale blood smears after their dispatch...it's a relaxing retreat. Yesterday, I was there to coat my tresses with the shellac of youth. We're going to a major event to honor Genius for being named to the Missouri Scholars 100, and I don't want people to think that Grant Woods used me as the model for American Gothic.
Yes, I was in the zone. On fire. Like Johnny, rosining up his bow, telling The Devil down in Georgia that he's the best that's ever been. Similes rained from my brain to the pen like dollar bills from the hand of a fan onto the head of a Saturday night stripper. If only there was somewhere I could submit this masterpiece, I thought. It would surely win a contest, or be published, and bring me fame. But I'd better keep it secret, because if I'm famous, the person who was the inspiration might read it, and I'll be up spit creek in hot water without a paddle. And might hurt some feelings. Yes, it's best to let it languish in obscurity, even though it is SO good that the great literary masters would weep with joy upon reading it, and possibly want to plagiarize me, if it were not for that unfortunate dead thing they've got going on.
I read over that new classic this morning, on my supersecret blog. It is total crap. The universe has assigned a certain symmetry to my toilet masterpiece.
Friday, April 26, 2013
You Never Know WHAT You're Going To Find Along the Back Roads of Backroads
The most recent floodwaters have receded from the babbling brook that runs along our gravel road. The runoff is on its way to the Pacific Ocean by way of the Gulf of Mexico Watershed. It has, however, left a lasting impression on the landscape.
When we drive along the creek, The Pony and I often spot large, long-legged birds who sometimes gather their gangly limbs and take flight. We see cottontails hippity-hopping across the potholed gravel. Snakes on tree branches peering in the window. Turkeys stepping methodically through the fallen leaves. Deer flipping us the white tail while bounding from one copse of trees to another. The one thing you really don't want to hear from your kid as you putt-putt along at ten miles per hour is:
"Oh, hey! There's that bear."
Let the record show that a bear WAS spotted in town, in a neighborhood we drive through on the way to school. It happened a year or two ago. Several people made reports, not just one crazy old coot with a moonshine habit. I have seen a bear in the wilds of southern Alaska. Yet I was rattled to hear The Pony announce THIS bear. I gazed out the passenger window. Across the creek. Into the saplings and broken rocks lining the edge. Thinking, perhaps, it had come to drink.
"Where? I don't see a bear."
"There. On that limb. The one I told you about last week. It's back."
Somebody has a kind of warped sense of humor. And somebody really needs
to schedule an appointment with an optometrist. Because that's a BUNNY,
not a bear.
When we drive along the creek, The Pony and I often spot large, long-legged birds who sometimes gather their gangly limbs and take flight. We see cottontails hippity-hopping across the potholed gravel. Snakes on tree branches peering in the window. Turkeys stepping methodically through the fallen leaves. Deer flipping us the white tail while bounding from one copse of trees to another. The one thing you really don't want to hear from your kid as you putt-putt along at ten miles per hour is:
"Oh, hey! There's that bear."
Let the record show that a bear WAS spotted in town, in a neighborhood we drive through on the way to school. It happened a year or two ago. Several people made reports, not just one crazy old coot with a moonshine habit. I have seen a bear in the wilds of southern Alaska. Yet I was rattled to hear The Pony announce THIS bear. I gazed out the passenger window. Across the creek. Into the saplings and broken rocks lining the edge. Thinking, perhaps, it had come to drink.
"Where? I don't see a bear."
"There. On that limb. The one I told you about last week. It's back."
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Crime Means Always Having to Say You're Sorry
Let's stop making excuses. People need to take responsibility for their actions. "My bad!" is not good enough. We're not toddlers. Apologizing does not make your offense disappear any more than kissing a dislocated elbow aligns the bones and ligaments again.
This morning I saw a story on the news about a dude who entered the wrong house and took a shower. According to the report, Dude entered a neighbor's house. Or not. Because he lived a couple of streets over, and he and the homeowner had never met. Not exactly what I would call a neighbor. Someone from the area, perhaps. But not a neighbor you might borrow a cup of sugar from, or pick up the mail for when they're out of town.
Not only did Dude take an illicit shower, he kicked in the door, rummaged through the silverware drawer, and rattled some doorknobs. The homeowner woke up to the door-kicking and locked herself in her daughter's room. Or not. Because the report quoted the woman as holding onto the door as tight as she could. Not a very good lock. She called 9-1-1. The police arrived and didn't let Dude use a towel.
According to the report, Dude had been drinking "several pitchers of hard liquor" at a nearby bar until 4:00 a.m., then walked to this house, thinking it was his own. Gosh. Several pitchers of hard liquor! Dude can put it away! And of course, everybody knows that you kick in your own front door every time you go home. And take silverware with you to the shower.
Anyway, in spite of the issues I have with this news report, the Dude situation became even more interesting when the station quoted "Dude's Father." That's what it said under the written statement in a box on the TV screen. "Dude's Father." Not Mr. Richard Dude. Simply "Dude's Father."
The statement made by Dude's Father purported that Dude is a really nice guy who is really sorry and embarrassed. He will be going back to college to study business. And he will not be drinking any more adult beverages. “It’s unfortunate; he’s a really good kid. It was a freak accident and he feels bad about it.”
Seriously, Dude's Father? The train has already left the station. Let Dude apologize for himself. His picture was flashed on the screen about ten times, along with his name. He's not anonymous. The fact that he's appearing before a judge in June means that this was more than a freak accident. It was not a cute little misunderstanding. Dude kicked in a door and was found naked in a stranger's house.
People really need to take responsibility for their own actions.
This morning I saw a story on the news about a dude who entered the wrong house and took a shower. According to the report, Dude entered a neighbor's house. Or not. Because he lived a couple of streets over, and he and the homeowner had never met. Not exactly what I would call a neighbor. Someone from the area, perhaps. But not a neighbor you might borrow a cup of sugar from, or pick up the mail for when they're out of town.
Not only did Dude take an illicit shower, he kicked in the door, rummaged through the silverware drawer, and rattled some doorknobs. The homeowner woke up to the door-kicking and locked herself in her daughter's room. Or not. Because the report quoted the woman as holding onto the door as tight as she could. Not a very good lock. She called 9-1-1. The police arrived and didn't let Dude use a towel.
According to the report, Dude had been drinking "several pitchers of hard liquor" at a nearby bar until 4:00 a.m., then walked to this house, thinking it was his own. Gosh. Several pitchers of hard liquor! Dude can put it away! And of course, everybody knows that you kick in your own front door every time you go home. And take silverware with you to the shower.
Anyway, in spite of the issues I have with this news report, the Dude situation became even more interesting when the station quoted "Dude's Father." That's what it said under the written statement in a box on the TV screen. "Dude's Father." Not Mr. Richard Dude. Simply "Dude's Father."
The statement made by Dude's Father purported that Dude is a really nice guy who is really sorry and embarrassed. He will be going back to college to study business. And he will not be drinking any more adult beverages. “It’s unfortunate; he’s a really good kid. It was a freak accident and he feels bad about it.”
Seriously, Dude's Father? The train has already left the station. Let Dude apologize for himself. His picture was flashed on the screen about ten times, along with his name. He's not anonymous. The fact that he's appearing before a judge in June means that this was more than a freak accident. It was not a cute little misunderstanding. Dude kicked in a door and was found naked in a stranger's house.
People really need to take responsibility for their own actions.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
From the Entity That Brought You the Clanging Phantom Can
Last night I fell asleep in my basement recliner. It happens all the time. One minute I'm watching a DVR of The Naked Castaway, and the next minute I'm waking up with my neck all cricked to the right. Still, I'm in a recliner. Not wearing a grass skirt (false advertising, Discovery Channel), sleeping all contorted in a cave with goat droppings as bedding.
I require the proper ambient lighting for my chair naps. The overhead lights go off, and a table lamp on my right and a gooseneck fluorescent floor lamp behind my recliner go on. Most often courtesy of The Pony. He carries out the TV-watching protocols.
Between 10:00 and 10:30 I call my mom so she can ask me if everybody's alright. I try to get off the phone by 10:30 so I have time for my before-bed unplanned nap. Last night fell I asleep around 11:20, and woke up at 1:15. First I try to orient myself. Like, is this the weekend, or do I have to go to work in a few hours? Last night, something was amiss. The dark. The basement was too dark. The TV was on. And my table lamp. But the gooseneck was off. I was a bit cranky about that loss of illumination. Now I would have to ask Hick to find out what kind of bulb that lamp needed. I can't go without my gooseneck. It's been with me for years. My mom had one, and liked it so much that she gave one to me and one to my sister the ex-mayor's wife for Christmas. Now mine was kaput. And Sis's probably still shone with impertinence on that non-reader.
I walked across the basement, past the pool table, to flip on the overhead lights on the wall beside the piano. Then I circled back to that gooseneck. I figured I should turn off the switch for when Hick put in a new bulb. I pushed on that lever AND THE LIGHT CAME ON! Someone, or something, had pushed that lever from ON to OFF while I slept with my reclined head only inches away. Is the hair on the back of your neck standing up yet? Like mine was last night? I knew that Hick had already gone to bed before I got off the phone with Mom. The Pony went to bed at 9:00. Genius was in the shower at 10:30, and goes to bed after that. WHO TURNED OFF MY GOOSENECK?
Tonight The Pony and I were on our own. Hick and Genius went to Cape Girardeau for Genius to compete with the school academic team in the state sectionals. We watched Survivor as usual. Then The Pony went upstairs to run a bath in the big triangle tub. "Hey! It's not even dark outside yet!" I heard him puttering around overhead, gathering his pajamas, getting ice from the freezer door. Then he was back. I saw his bare feet, then legs, descend the stairs.
"Um. Look what I found under the edge of the railing." The railing that runs along two sides of the rectangle where the stairs come down from the living room floor. He held out a palomino-colored leather disk about the diameter of a softball. Hick picked it up at one of his many tool show visits. He uses it for a coaster on the table beside his La-Z-Boy upstairs. That might be the real purpose of that disk, or not. It is engraved with a tool company logo.
The hair on my neck saluted again. The Pony's voice quavered. The stair railing is on the opposite side of the living room from the table that houses the disk. Fifteen to twenty feet away. Over carpet. It's not like that thing fell and rolled. Not like we picked it up on a bare foot or shoe sole and carried it and deposited it UNDER the bottom rung of that stair railing.
At this rate, I'm going to have to invest in a good depilatory for my neck hairs.
I require the proper ambient lighting for my chair naps. The overhead lights go off, and a table lamp on my right and a gooseneck fluorescent floor lamp behind my recliner go on. Most often courtesy of The Pony. He carries out the TV-watching protocols.
Between 10:00 and 10:30 I call my mom so she can ask me if everybody's alright. I try to get off the phone by 10:30 so I have time for my before-bed unplanned nap. Last night fell I asleep around 11:20, and woke up at 1:15. First I try to orient myself. Like, is this the weekend, or do I have to go to work in a few hours? Last night, something was amiss. The dark. The basement was too dark. The TV was on. And my table lamp. But the gooseneck was off. I was a bit cranky about that loss of illumination. Now I would have to ask Hick to find out what kind of bulb that lamp needed. I can't go without my gooseneck. It's been with me for years. My mom had one, and liked it so much that she gave one to me and one to my sister the ex-mayor's wife for Christmas. Now mine was kaput. And Sis's probably still shone with impertinence on that non-reader.
I walked across the basement, past the pool table, to flip on the overhead lights on the wall beside the piano. Then I circled back to that gooseneck. I figured I should turn off the switch for when Hick put in a new bulb. I pushed on that lever AND THE LIGHT CAME ON! Someone, or something, had pushed that lever from ON to OFF while I slept with my reclined head only inches away. Is the hair on the back of your neck standing up yet? Like mine was last night? I knew that Hick had already gone to bed before I got off the phone with Mom. The Pony went to bed at 9:00. Genius was in the shower at 10:30, and goes to bed after that. WHO TURNED OFF MY GOOSENECK?
Tonight The Pony and I were on our own. Hick and Genius went to Cape Girardeau for Genius to compete with the school academic team in the state sectionals. We watched Survivor as usual. Then The Pony went upstairs to run a bath in the big triangle tub. "Hey! It's not even dark outside yet!" I heard him puttering around overhead, gathering his pajamas, getting ice from the freezer door. Then he was back. I saw his bare feet, then legs, descend the stairs.
"Um. Look what I found under the edge of the railing." The railing that runs along two sides of the rectangle where the stairs come down from the living room floor. He held out a palomino-colored leather disk about the diameter of a softball. Hick picked it up at one of his many tool show visits. He uses it for a coaster on the table beside his La-Z-Boy upstairs. That might be the real purpose of that disk, or not. It is engraved with a tool company logo.
The hair on my neck saluted again. The Pony's voice quavered. The stair railing is on the opposite side of the living room from the table that houses the disk. Fifteen to twenty feet away. Over carpet. It's not like that thing fell and rolled. Not like we picked it up on a bare foot or shoe sole and carried it and deposited it UNDER the bottom rung of that stair railing.
At this rate, I'm going to have to invest in a good depilatory for my neck hairs.
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