Just when I think it's safe to go back in the Save A Lot, another curious incident of the weirdo in the daytime befalls me.
Seriously. I don't ask for much. Time to write. A 44 oz. Diet Coke every day. World peace. And the opportunity to dash into Save A Lot unmolested both physically and emotionally by crackpots.
Hick is planning to use his new auction grill, Gassy G, tonight and tomorrow. He asked me to pick up some meat. Yeah. Our little Hick is growing up. He understands that I would rather make a trip to town than haul some Auction Meat out of the deep freeze.
I buy my meat at Save A Lot. They have their own butcher, you know. And they don't inject their meat with water like Walmart. They don't slap a new date sticker on it like it's good for one more day, and mark it down. They run a clean shop with tasty carcass cuts, and make their own bratwurst, which my mom loves as much as the slaw she puts on it. They also have packaged meat like jumbo hot dogs. I was sent for hamburger, pork steaks, and jumbo hot dogs.
There I was, minding my own business on the cold-cut section of the meat aisle that runs across the back of the store. I was piloting my cart with bananas, tomatoes, and pickles already ensconced in that child seat area. A blond woman hustled up from the opposite end of the meat counter. She came at me like a teenage car-texter out for her first solo drive. I was elbow deep in the jumbo hot dogs, making sure the dates were good. I've never had a problem with that in Save A Lot, but I have at the grocery store three blocks away, so I always check. I pushed my cart away from the cooler, thinking Blondie might want some cured processed meat. And she did.
Could Blondie simply grab her meat and walk away? If you're a regular visitor to Val's Cat-Unbagging Emporium, I'm sure you know the answer to that rhetorical question. Not-Heaven NO! Blondie was jonesin' for some small talk. Some hyper, coked-up, energy-drinked-up, guilty-conscienced, overcompensating-for-undiagnosed-bulimia, Cheri-Oteri-without-the-cheerleader-uniform-and-Collette-Reardon-makeup, small talk to throw Val off her fresh-jumbo-hot-dog-seeking mission.
"I should get those. To give them to my dog. He won't eat the healthy food I buy him. These little ones are gone in no time. They even have to be microwaved, not cold."
WTNH? That's my new exclamation. What The Not-Heaven? Do you think it'll catch on? Like "fetch" did for Gretchen Wieners?
Now keep in mind, Blondie had that pack of tiny hot dogs in her hand the whole time. She was not rooting me out to put them back, or pick up more, or grab the jumbos. Just waggling that wiener-pack and babbling like I was some hot-dog guru with my own reality show. Did I look like a person who would care about what she feeds her dog? Was she overcompensating for being a dog-lover (and I mean that in the way Will Ferrell and Rachel Dratch were hot-tub lovers). Did I look like the dog police? Like somebody who gave a pile of dog crap what her dog prefers for snacks? Like a blogger in need of a post?
WTNH, lady. You're telling me that the food I'm buying for my family is something you should give your dog? And I'm supposed to smile and chat? You've pointed out that your dog won't eat HEALTHY food, so you should give him this? Why don't you smear a little Grey Poupon on it, you snob? Serve it out of a crystal goblet like those cat food commercial ladies. A real Fancy Feast for Fido. You'd think I had scooped up a bucketful of offal from the slaughterhouse floor with a pooper scooper, the way Blondie was on me like flies on dog poo without a baggie half full of water and six pennies nearby.
I need to carry a little voice recorder. I fear people will think I am exaggerating.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
The Heat Was On
Yesterday, I took my mom to see The Heat.
Surely you don't think that's all there is to tell. Nothing is ever that simple when the two of us go out on the town. First of all, we give that movie a glowing recommendation. It's not for the folks who don't like pottymouths, but it IS hilarious. Besides, we saw it for only $4 a ticket, the first showing of the day. That's a bargain. Also, it was time to renew my AMC movie rewards card for $12. But get this! By renewing, I got $10 free at the concession stand. So it only cost me $2 to renew. AND that gets me upgrades and rewards over the next year. But I'm not here to Alec Baldwin/Capitol One for AMC. I'm here to share our full movie-going experience with you.
The show was at 11:15. Normally, I like to get to the movies about 30 minutes before showtime. That pretty much guarantees me my back row seats of choice. However, the last several times we've gone to a morning showing, there was just a smattering of patrons in our theater. So this time, we arrived a scant 15 minutes before the start time. The parking lot was half full! Mom and I scurried to the door. A woman and her teenage daughter beat us to the ticket-taker. One of these days, I'm going to be able to keep up with Mom.
That teenage ticketmeister took his own sweet time. People were lined up getting snacks. I tapped my foot and willed TickyPickySavvy to get with the program. I told Mom I wished we had arrived earlier. TPS fiddled around with my card. Told me it was time to renew, even though a couple weeks ago he told me I had a month left. "Yes. Do it now. I'll renew." For the love of festival seating, do it NOW. Then TPS couldn't quite figure out which part of the ticket to stuff in that metal box, and which part to hand us, and how to explain about my Rewards card. Seems that the computer won't show I renewed, but if I showed the counter help my ticket stub, they would know. Sure. Gimme the tickets! He didn't even tell us which of the four theaters harbored our feature.
Mom asked if I was getting snacks. She, herself, does not partake. Heavens no. That would be a waste of money. She does not appreciate the full movie-going experience. But she sure likes to take home a giant bag of popcorn and munch it in the car and have it later while watching her Cardinals on TV. So I always get the large bag that comes with a refill, just for her. Shh...don't let her know that. Before evil AMC bought out Kerasotes, ALL sizes were refillable. Not so now. Anyway, I told Mom that first, we had to secure our seats. We rushed willy-nilly about the four-plex, finding The Heat in the last theater we looked at.
MY SEAT WAS UNPICKED! We sat down in the next-to-last row. A four-seater. I debated on moving back one, but decided we were good. I left Mom to hold the seats while I went out for popcorn and soda. Of course Mom did not want any. The popper was covered in bottom crumbs, so I took a detour to the bathroom. Best to be proactive. The Heat is almost two hours long. I went back to check on Mom. Three women had sat down in the row right in front of us! Not at the end of their eight-seat row. RIGHT IN FRONT OF US! Mom asked if I wanted to move back. No. We're already set. Somebody worse could move in front if we moved back. Perhaps a contingent of wide-shouldered, big-haired pro wrestlers who really love Sandra Bullock.
The previews had already started, with sound, even, and it was 11:15. I went back for my snacks. The popper was popping like a champ. Just before I rounded the candy rack to get in line at the only side of the counter that was open...five dudes got ahead of me. You know that that means. First of all, they were there for that Man of Steel movie. Secondly, they were each going to pay individually. Because they're dudes. We inched forward. At the last minute, two dudes decided they weren't all that hungry. They stepped out of line. Two others just got drinks. The last got a little combo. The popper's last kernels cascaded onto the fluffy hot popcorn mountain. The timing was perfect.
I showed the girl my ticket and Rewards card. Refused the soda upgrade, because a large cup is too unwieldy. And I asked her three times which bag was the refillable popcorn bag. She said the large, even though two weeks ago they gave us the bucket. She filled my soda. AND HANDED ME A LARGE POPCORN THAT WAS ALREADY IN A BAG ON THE SHELF BEHIND HER! The horror! No way was I going to pay their exorbitant prices for stale popcorn. Much to the chagrin of the line behind me, I asked, "Why do I have to get THAT bag of popcorn? I don't want one off the shelf. I want fresh popcorn. Can't I get it bagged out of the popper?"
"This IS fresh popcorn."
"Not out of the popper. I've been waiting for it to pop. Can't I get a bag out of the popper?"
"Sure." Her mouth said yes, but her eyes and shoulders disagreed. Then she rang it up and said, "That will be fifty cents." Haha! I got my fresh popcorn AND my $10 off. High from my victory, I returned to the theater. There was a weird man in the seat behind mine. Mom said, a bit too loudly, "Do you want to move to a different row?" I shook my head and handed her the popcorn while I manipulated the flipping seat. The weird guy behind me sighed. He got up and went four rows down. Yeah! Victory number two for Val and her mom. Seriously. What kind of weird bald middle-aged guy goes to see a Sandra Bullock movie by himself and sits in the back row? No weirdo I want behind me, that's for sure.
Twenty minutes and ten previews later, our movie started. A woman and a man with a cane came in and sat behind us. Oh, well. They knew what they were getting into. It just meant that Mom and I could not talk during the movie, across the empty seat that held our purses, the large popcorn, and my soda. I don't know why I worried about being considerate, because about ten minutes later, one of those two people in the only row behind us dumped an entire soda onto the concrete floor. It must have been the extra-large keg nearly the size of a popcorn bucket. The sound was like Niagara Falls. I wouldn't be surprised if our shoulders were coated with the spray. The guy with the cane who was directly behind me said, "Did you get any on you?" And he was not talking to me. Throughout the movie, every time I shifted in my chair and moved my feet, it was like my tractiony New Balance soles had been replaced with tiny Bambi hooves that scrabbled to gain purchase on an icy pond. Of course neither back-row dweller told the usher about their accident, at that time, or as they walked past him after the show was over.
I dumped the dregs of the popcorn in the wastebasket, and got in line with my empty bag for Mom's refill. She got right in line with me, like a supervisor. Normally, she waits against the lobby wall. The girl on the other end of the counter that had tried to foist stale popcorn on me disappeared. One minute she was there, then she was gone. Her line still waited hopefully. The guy serving our line finished up with the lady and little girl ahead of us, and went to the other end of the counter. Darn that girl clerk and her spiteful, revengy ways! I had bested her fair and square, but she Even-Stevened me right back. The guy clerk saw the bag I put on the counter. "Is that all you need, a refill?" I nodded. "I'll come get it for you." He pushed the soda filler button and scooped up Mom's fresh popcorn from the popper. She handed me my purse, and was crunching away before we were even out the door.
I don't know why we can't have a normal, everyday outing without added drama. At least Mom left her tiny phone in the car.
Surely you don't think that's all there is to tell. Nothing is ever that simple when the two of us go out on the town. First of all, we give that movie a glowing recommendation. It's not for the folks who don't like pottymouths, but it IS hilarious. Besides, we saw it for only $4 a ticket, the first showing of the day. That's a bargain. Also, it was time to renew my AMC movie rewards card for $12. But get this! By renewing, I got $10 free at the concession stand. So it only cost me $2 to renew. AND that gets me upgrades and rewards over the next year. But I'm not here to Alec Baldwin/Capitol One for AMC. I'm here to share our full movie-going experience with you.
The show was at 11:15. Normally, I like to get to the movies about 30 minutes before showtime. That pretty much guarantees me my back row seats of choice. However, the last several times we've gone to a morning showing, there was just a smattering of patrons in our theater. So this time, we arrived a scant 15 minutes before the start time. The parking lot was half full! Mom and I scurried to the door. A woman and her teenage daughter beat us to the ticket-taker. One of these days, I'm going to be able to keep up with Mom.
That teenage ticketmeister took his own sweet time. People were lined up getting snacks. I tapped my foot and willed TickyPickySavvy to get with the program. I told Mom I wished we had arrived earlier. TPS fiddled around with my card. Told me it was time to renew, even though a couple weeks ago he told me I had a month left. "Yes. Do it now. I'll renew." For the love of festival seating, do it NOW. Then TPS couldn't quite figure out which part of the ticket to stuff in that metal box, and which part to hand us, and how to explain about my Rewards card. Seems that the computer won't show I renewed, but if I showed the counter help my ticket stub, they would know. Sure. Gimme the tickets! He didn't even tell us which of the four theaters harbored our feature.
Mom asked if I was getting snacks. She, herself, does not partake. Heavens no. That would be a waste of money. She does not appreciate the full movie-going experience. But she sure likes to take home a giant bag of popcorn and munch it in the car and have it later while watching her Cardinals on TV. So I always get the large bag that comes with a refill, just for her. Shh...don't let her know that. Before evil AMC bought out Kerasotes, ALL sizes were refillable. Not so now. Anyway, I told Mom that first, we had to secure our seats. We rushed willy-nilly about the four-plex, finding The Heat in the last theater we looked at.
MY SEAT WAS UNPICKED! We sat down in the next-to-last row. A four-seater. I debated on moving back one, but decided we were good. I left Mom to hold the seats while I went out for popcorn and soda. Of course Mom did not want any. The popper was covered in bottom crumbs, so I took a detour to the bathroom. Best to be proactive. The Heat is almost two hours long. I went back to check on Mom. Three women had sat down in the row right in front of us! Not at the end of their eight-seat row. RIGHT IN FRONT OF US! Mom asked if I wanted to move back. No. We're already set. Somebody worse could move in front if we moved back. Perhaps a contingent of wide-shouldered, big-haired pro wrestlers who really love Sandra Bullock.
The previews had already started, with sound, even, and it was 11:15. I went back for my snacks. The popper was popping like a champ. Just before I rounded the candy rack to get in line at the only side of the counter that was open...five dudes got ahead of me. You know that that means. First of all, they were there for that Man of Steel movie. Secondly, they were each going to pay individually. Because they're dudes. We inched forward. At the last minute, two dudes decided they weren't all that hungry. They stepped out of line. Two others just got drinks. The last got a little combo. The popper's last kernels cascaded onto the fluffy hot popcorn mountain. The timing was perfect.
I showed the girl my ticket and Rewards card. Refused the soda upgrade, because a large cup is too unwieldy. And I asked her three times which bag was the refillable popcorn bag. She said the large, even though two weeks ago they gave us the bucket. She filled my soda. AND HANDED ME A LARGE POPCORN THAT WAS ALREADY IN A BAG ON THE SHELF BEHIND HER! The horror! No way was I going to pay their exorbitant prices for stale popcorn. Much to the chagrin of the line behind me, I asked, "Why do I have to get THAT bag of popcorn? I don't want one off the shelf. I want fresh popcorn. Can't I get it bagged out of the popper?"
"This IS fresh popcorn."
"Not out of the popper. I've been waiting for it to pop. Can't I get a bag out of the popper?"
"Sure." Her mouth said yes, but her eyes and shoulders disagreed. Then she rang it up and said, "That will be fifty cents." Haha! I got my fresh popcorn AND my $10 off. High from my victory, I returned to the theater. There was a weird man in the seat behind mine. Mom said, a bit too loudly, "Do you want to move to a different row?" I shook my head and handed her the popcorn while I manipulated the flipping seat. The weird guy behind me sighed. He got up and went four rows down. Yeah! Victory number two for Val and her mom. Seriously. What kind of weird bald middle-aged guy goes to see a Sandra Bullock movie by himself and sits in the back row? No weirdo I want behind me, that's for sure.
Twenty minutes and ten previews later, our movie started. A woman and a man with a cane came in and sat behind us. Oh, well. They knew what they were getting into. It just meant that Mom and I could not talk during the movie, across the empty seat that held our purses, the large popcorn, and my soda. I don't know why I worried about being considerate, because about ten minutes later, one of those two people in the only row behind us dumped an entire soda onto the concrete floor. It must have been the extra-large keg nearly the size of a popcorn bucket. The sound was like Niagara Falls. I wouldn't be surprised if our shoulders were coated with the spray. The guy with the cane who was directly behind me said, "Did you get any on you?" And he was not talking to me. Throughout the movie, every time I shifted in my chair and moved my feet, it was like my tractiony New Balance soles had been replaced with tiny Bambi hooves that scrabbled to gain purchase on an icy pond. Of course neither back-row dweller told the usher about their accident, at that time, or as they walked past him after the show was over.
I dumped the dregs of the popcorn in the wastebasket, and got in line with my empty bag for Mom's refill. She got right in line with me, like a supervisor. Normally, she waits against the lobby wall. The girl on the other end of the counter that had tried to foist stale popcorn on me disappeared. One minute she was there, then she was gone. Her line still waited hopefully. The guy serving our line finished up with the lady and little girl ahead of us, and went to the other end of the counter. Darn that girl clerk and her spiteful, revengy ways! I had bested her fair and square, but she Even-Stevened me right back. The guy clerk saw the bag I put on the counter. "Is that all you need, a refill?" I nodded. "I'll come get it for you." He pushed the soda filler button and scooped up Mom's fresh popcorn from the popper. She handed me my purse, and was crunching away before we were even out the door.
I don't know why we can't have a normal, everyday outing without added drama. At least Mom left her tiny phone in the car.
Monday, July 1, 2013
It's All Over But the Roof-Cryin'
I think it's safe to let this cat out of the bag now. Ninety-nine percent sure. So I'm going to let it slip. Let it rip. Run where it may. Whirl around the innernets like an over-full balloon just released, screaming willy-nilly to and fro.
Last week I sent off my final approval on the galleys of my upcoming story that is about to be published in Not Your Mother's Book...On Home Improvement. Sunday I got the go-ahead to share this information.
Short of me committing an unknown, unforgivable, prima donna faux pas, that little story, along with its 64 companions, went to print today. It should be released on September 10th. Yum, yum, get you some! My very own mother has already committed herself to three copies. Because I'm her nine-dollar daughter, you know. She's grabbing one copy for herself, and two for gifts. I'm sure the NYMB line will be able to survive on Mom's loyal business.
Here's the cover:
My tale is about a Hick-rigged lamp. You may think you know what it's like to share a domicile with a lesser-known MacGyver, but you have no idea. I didn't mention this in the story, because it's on a need-to-know basis. And as my loyal readers, you need to know: No headless basement men were harmed in the rigging of this lamp. That's a story for another anthology.
Even if you don't feel like paying to read a Valerism when you can get the milk for free right here, consider other uses for this tome. It can prop a mean table leg, dispatch a creepy crawler, sit on your coffee table until you get a book about coffee tables, start a couple of hundred fires for you in survival mode, give you somewhere to look instead of making eye contact with strangers in waiting rooms, on subways, city buses, and the MetroLink. Start saving now. Don't let those trees die in vain.
My doctor is already camping out in line for his free autographed copy.
Oh, and I didn't disturb the rooftop peace back on June 2nd, but I have also been informed that my story about cheese-cutting will be included in Not Your Mother's Book...on Being a Parent. Also scheduled for release September 10, 2013.
Two stories! In two books! Both being released on the same day! I'm going to call that a bifecta. A headband trick. The Double Crown of Val anthology publication.
WooHoo! I'm a little fish in a big pond!
Last week I sent off my final approval on the galleys of my upcoming story that is about to be published in Not Your Mother's Book...On Home Improvement. Sunday I got the go-ahead to share this information.
Short of me committing an unknown, unforgivable, prima donna faux pas, that little story, along with its 64 companions, went to print today. It should be released on September 10th. Yum, yum, get you some! My very own mother has already committed herself to three copies. Because I'm her nine-dollar daughter, you know. She's grabbing one copy for herself, and two for gifts. I'm sure the NYMB line will be able to survive on Mom's loyal business.
Here's the cover:
My tale is about a Hick-rigged lamp. You may think you know what it's like to share a domicile with a lesser-known MacGyver, but you have no idea. I didn't mention this in the story, because it's on a need-to-know basis. And as my loyal readers, you need to know: No headless basement men were harmed in the rigging of this lamp. That's a story for another anthology.
Even if you don't feel like paying to read a Valerism when you can get the milk for free right here, consider other uses for this tome. It can prop a mean table leg, dispatch a creepy crawler, sit on your coffee table until you get a book about coffee tables, start a couple of hundred fires for you in survival mode, give you somewhere to look instead of making eye contact with strangers in waiting rooms, on subways, city buses, and the MetroLink. Start saving now. Don't let those trees die in vain.
My doctor is already camping out in line for his free autographed copy.
Oh, and I didn't disturb the rooftop peace back on June 2nd, but I have also been informed that my story about cheese-cutting will be included in Not Your Mother's Book...on Being a Parent. Also scheduled for release September 10, 2013.
Two stories! In two books! Both being released on the same day! I'm going to call that a bifecta. A headband trick. The Double Crown of Val anthology publication.
WooHoo! I'm a little fish in a big pond!
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Friday in the Park With Mom
Okay, I didn't really spend Friday in the park with Mom. I picked her up at the park. Don't be hatin' because I didn't go all the way to her house. She wanted to meet. That's because she only had a quarter-tank of gas, and planned to get more. Never mind that her gas station of choice is a mile from her house, and the park is five. I deferred to her wishes.
Hick and the boys had their own thing going on, and I had promised Mom that she could ride with me to a neighboring town to pay my house payment. No, I don't trade eggs and goats. It's a check. But if I mail it, I don't get a receipt, and I don't get cancelled checks. Besides, we had plans for lunch. You never turn Mom down when she suggests lunch, because SHE PAYS.
We decided on Arby's, because that's where I wanted to go. Those commercials for the chicken salad sandwich drive me crazy. I don't think we've been there since last summer. So Mom was all for it. Of course, lunch with Mom is never just lunch. As I turned off T-Hoe in the parking lot, Mom's phone rang.
Mom is barely one step ahead of Seinfeld in the dated phone department. She does not have a giant shoe-box size cordless, but she does have a tiny one-piece cellular. It looks like something that came out of a plastic-bubble-filled quarter toy machine at the entrance of a supermarket. It's not even a flip phone. Just a minute lozenge with numbers that virtually need a GameBoy stylus to dial. Progress is not Mom's friend.
Anybody care to guess Mom's ring tone? That's right. It's the sound of a harvest-gold, kitchen-wall-mounted, land-line, rotary-dial phone. No need to fix what ain't broke. Besides, a phone is supposed to ring like that. That's how you know it's a phone, not some kind of alarm going off in your purse that you can ignore. As you might have guessed, being pretty smart cookies and shrewd blogreaders...Mom has phone issues.
To begin with, that ring must have been set to the same decibels as a jet engine upon takeoff. Mom is not hard of hearing. But we both may be now. It rang and rang and rang while Mom fumbled around in her purse. Seriously. How many places are there to look for a phone in your purse? "Oh! I'm sure it's your sister. She's going to get onto me for not answering. I put it right here. I can't find it! See? She's letting it ring a long time. She knows I'm looking for it. Now where is that phone?"
I should have just started up T-Hoe again to combat the upper 80s, but I was certain we'd be out of there and into the restaurant within seconds. Not so. Mom eventually snagged that charm-bracelet-sized phone and had a conversation with Sis, then handed the phone to me so Sis could ask why Mom was not home, because she said she'd be home in the afternoon, and it was AFTER NOON and she wasn't there. It was 12:30. I got rid of Sis, then asked Mom how she could lose that phone in her purse EVERY SINGLE TIME she put it RIGHT WHERE SHE KNEW to get it. "You've had the same purse and the same phone for ten years. How can you not know where you put the phone? She really did not have a satisfactory answer, but since we were both dehydrating and starting to blister like overcooked hot dogs on a charcoal grill, I let it slide.
Inside, Mom needed help ordering. Not because she can't read the menu, but because she's indecisive, and likes to make small talk with the workers. As she debated the merits of curly fries or waffle fries, I pushed her to the waffles. "The curly fries are spicy, Mom." That's what Genius says, anyway. Of course the counter girl had to add her two cents. "I don't think they're spicy." Yeah. She doesn't have the palate of a septuagenarian. Then she asked for a name. Mom looked at me. Hey, she was the one paying. I twisted her arm until she identified herself. Okay. I wouldn't do that. Septuagenarians have brittle bones. But I refused to give my name. I'm weird that way.
I'll warn you right now that Mom filled her soda cup with Mountain Dew. She's been off soda for about a month, because my sister suggested it. Took away Mom's daily Diet Coke pleasure, though she made her own at home in a Bubba cup rather than scamming free ones at Voice of the Village. Mom even whispered it to me over the table. "I have Mountain Dew in my cup!" Yes, she of the blood like pure Rocky Mountain spring water, same as The Pony, who gets all jacked up on that elixir.
I offered Mom some onion rings, because they were SO good, and not something she would have at home. She insisted that I try some waffle fries, which made me feel bad because they were TERRIBLE, all mushy and not tasty, and I had recommended them to her. She didn't seem to mind. Just ate my onion rings and informed me that she was used to watching TV while she ate. Huh! That Mountain Dew sure did loosen her tongue.
"Well, now you have me instead of TV, and I only have four channels: Hick, Genius, The Pony, and Big Brother." That, or the Mountain Dew, gave her the giggles. She carried on like a giddy school girl all through lunch. She especially liked the Hick channel, with the episode where Hick was a quarter short for the public toilet. As we left, Mom filled her cup with more Mountain Dew. It's a wonder I did not get a call to bail her out of the county jail after we parted ways.
Later in the afternoon, I tried to call and check in with her at home. Sis was going out to pick up Chex Mix that she strongarms Mom into making for her. But Mom didn't answer. I was a little concerned that she had not made it home. She was low on gas, you know. So I made a mental note to keep checking. About 45 minutes later, Mom called me back. "I took that Check Mix over to your sister's house. She said she was busy, and that would be easier for her. I saw on my answering machine that you called."
"Yes. I was getting worried. But I sure didn't want to call you on your cell phone."
"Oh! I had it on!" Mom started with the giggles again.
"That's what I was afraid of. I couldn't stand the though of you digging and digging for it, muttering, 'She's going to know I'm looking for it in this purse.'"
We're going to the movies tomorrow. Maybe I'll offer to keep her phone for her.
Hick and the boys had their own thing going on, and I had promised Mom that she could ride with me to a neighboring town to pay my house payment. No, I don't trade eggs and goats. It's a check. But if I mail it, I don't get a receipt, and I don't get cancelled checks. Besides, we had plans for lunch. You never turn Mom down when she suggests lunch, because SHE PAYS.
We decided on Arby's, because that's where I wanted to go. Those commercials for the chicken salad sandwich drive me crazy. I don't think we've been there since last summer. So Mom was all for it. Of course, lunch with Mom is never just lunch. As I turned off T-Hoe in the parking lot, Mom's phone rang.
Mom is barely one step ahead of Seinfeld in the dated phone department. She does not have a giant shoe-box size cordless, but she does have a tiny one-piece cellular. It looks like something that came out of a plastic-bubble-filled quarter toy machine at the entrance of a supermarket. It's not even a flip phone. Just a minute lozenge with numbers that virtually need a GameBoy stylus to dial. Progress is not Mom's friend.
Anybody care to guess Mom's ring tone? That's right. It's the sound of a harvest-gold, kitchen-wall-mounted, land-line, rotary-dial phone. No need to fix what ain't broke. Besides, a phone is supposed to ring like that. That's how you know it's a phone, not some kind of alarm going off in your purse that you can ignore. As you might have guessed, being pretty smart cookies and shrewd blogreaders...Mom has phone issues.
To begin with, that ring must have been set to the same decibels as a jet engine upon takeoff. Mom is not hard of hearing. But we both may be now. It rang and rang and rang while Mom fumbled around in her purse. Seriously. How many places are there to look for a phone in your purse? "Oh! I'm sure it's your sister. She's going to get onto me for not answering. I put it right here. I can't find it! See? She's letting it ring a long time. She knows I'm looking for it. Now where is that phone?"
I should have just started up T-Hoe again to combat the upper 80s, but I was certain we'd be out of there and into the restaurant within seconds. Not so. Mom eventually snagged that charm-bracelet-sized phone and had a conversation with Sis, then handed the phone to me so Sis could ask why Mom was not home, because she said she'd be home in the afternoon, and it was AFTER NOON and she wasn't there. It was 12:30. I got rid of Sis, then asked Mom how she could lose that phone in her purse EVERY SINGLE TIME she put it RIGHT WHERE SHE KNEW to get it. "You've had the same purse and the same phone for ten years. How can you not know where you put the phone? She really did not have a satisfactory answer, but since we were both dehydrating and starting to blister like overcooked hot dogs on a charcoal grill, I let it slide.
Inside, Mom needed help ordering. Not because she can't read the menu, but because she's indecisive, and likes to make small talk with the workers. As she debated the merits of curly fries or waffle fries, I pushed her to the waffles. "The curly fries are spicy, Mom." That's what Genius says, anyway. Of course the counter girl had to add her two cents. "I don't think they're spicy." Yeah. She doesn't have the palate of a septuagenarian. Then she asked for a name. Mom looked at me. Hey, she was the one paying. I twisted her arm until she identified herself. Okay. I wouldn't do that. Septuagenarians have brittle bones. But I refused to give my name. I'm weird that way.
I'll warn you right now that Mom filled her soda cup with Mountain Dew. She's been off soda for about a month, because my sister suggested it. Took away Mom's daily Diet Coke pleasure, though she made her own at home in a Bubba cup rather than scamming free ones at Voice of the Village. Mom even whispered it to me over the table. "I have Mountain Dew in my cup!" Yes, she of the blood like pure Rocky Mountain spring water, same as The Pony, who gets all jacked up on that elixir.
I offered Mom some onion rings, because they were SO good, and not something she would have at home. She insisted that I try some waffle fries, which made me feel bad because they were TERRIBLE, all mushy and not tasty, and I had recommended them to her. She didn't seem to mind. Just ate my onion rings and informed me that she was used to watching TV while she ate. Huh! That Mountain Dew sure did loosen her tongue.
"Well, now you have me instead of TV, and I only have four channels: Hick, Genius, The Pony, and Big Brother." That, or the Mountain Dew, gave her the giggles. She carried on like a giddy school girl all through lunch. She especially liked the Hick channel, with the episode where Hick was a quarter short for the public toilet. As we left, Mom filled her cup with more Mountain Dew. It's a wonder I did not get a call to bail her out of the county jail after we parted ways.
Later in the afternoon, I tried to call and check in with her at home. Sis was going out to pick up Chex Mix that she strongarms Mom into making for her. But Mom didn't answer. I was a little concerned that she had not made it home. She was low on gas, you know. So I made a mental note to keep checking. About 45 minutes later, Mom called me back. "I took that Check Mix over to your sister's house. She said she was busy, and that would be easier for her. I saw on my answering machine that you called."
"Yes. I was getting worried. But I sure didn't want to call you on your cell phone."
"Oh! I had it on!" Mom started with the giggles again.
"That's what I was afraid of. I couldn't stand the though of you digging and digging for it, muttering, 'She's going to know I'm looking for it in this purse.'"
We're going to the movies tomorrow. Maybe I'll offer to keep her phone for her.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
And Now, a Word From Our Protagonist
Hick strolled out of the bedroom yesterday morning in his tighty-whities, and plopped down on the living room long couch to rub lotion on his feet. He's not some dermatologically-obsessed metrosexual, nor a captive I keep in a well, urging to rub the lotion on his skin, lest he get the hose again. No, he's not even trying to pave the way for an athlete's-foot-free world. It's prescription foot medicine for aching feet. But that's not the story.
"You know how you're always writing about my antics? I never get to read them. You just ask me to sign off on them."
"I handed you a copy and said you could read it! And you said, 'Naw, that's okay' and shoved it back at me!"
"All right. I admit that you gave me a copy. But here's one for you. Even Genius saw where this one was going:
Remember when I went out east? We were in Boston, and I had to go to the bathroom. I went in, and couldn't get into a stall until I put a quarter in. I yanked out a handful of change and finally found a quarter. When I got through the door, that toilet was nasty. I took some toilet paper and cleaned it up. I threw the toilet paper in the toilet and flushed it. Then I turned around and dropped my pants to go to the bathroom. I had just sat down when the door opened. It wouldn't close without another quarter. I didn't have another quarter! I couldn't get up. I hollered for one of the guys on the trip with me. 'Bob! Put in a quarter!' He had one, or I would have been sitting there exposed while I took a dump."
"That's a really good story."
"Yeah. You oughta use that one."
Vanity, thy name is Hick.
"You know how you're always writing about my antics? I never get to read them. You just ask me to sign off on them."
"I handed you a copy and said you could read it! And you said, 'Naw, that's okay' and shoved it back at me!"
"All right. I admit that you gave me a copy. But here's one for you. Even Genius saw where this one was going:
Remember when I went out east? We were in Boston, and I had to go to the bathroom. I went in, and couldn't get into a stall until I put a quarter in. I yanked out a handful of change and finally found a quarter. When I got through the door, that toilet was nasty. I took some toilet paper and cleaned it up. I threw the toilet paper in the toilet and flushed it. Then I turned around and dropped my pants to go to the bathroom. I had just sat down when the door opened. It wouldn't close without another quarter. I didn't have another quarter! I couldn't get up. I hollered for one of the guys on the trip with me. 'Bob! Put in a quarter!' He had one, or I would have been sitting there exposed while I took a dump."
"That's a really good story."
"Yeah. You oughta use that one."
Vanity, thy name is Hick.
Friday, June 28, 2013
The Needler Sticks It to Me
Apparently, my household ban on Auction Meat did not extend to Auction Grills. Here is Hick's latest auction acquisition.
Do not speak to me of proper lighting, photo composition, focal point, or damaged retinas. I shall whip out my smarter-than-me phone, cypher over it for ten minutes, succumb to vertigo looking for the pic-snapping button, and inflict these images on you as I please, by cracky!
So what if I captured a comet at the moment it landed on my back porch deck? I ain't braggin'. Never mind the Terminator 2 metal cop style doors on this bargain of a gas grill. Sixty-dollar purchasers can't be choosers, you know. They'll take their $350 value and worry about the non-functional flaws later.
Perhaps you're wondering about that attachment in the lower left, under the grill proper. No, it's not a bonus Auction Meat attachment. Nor is it a raccoon tail to flap behind the grill as you wheel it from one location to another to avoid sun, wind, and rain. Nor some tasty road kill garnered by all that wheeling. Nope. It's a cat. Not a good cat, mind you. A mailbox cat. The one that had the giant hole in her chest that warranted a vet visit. She's still basically wild, but will slink up to the breezeway edge every now and then so I'll scratch her misshapen ears while she waits to be let into the garage to consume mass quantities of dry food while turning up her nose at the occasional mouse. Cats are odd ducks.
Like Renee Zellweger as Ruby Thewes despises a floggin' rooster on Nicole Kidman's front porch in Cold Mountain, I despise a gas grill. I stop short of popping its head off and puttin' it in a pot, though. I am not a fan of gas. Though those around me might argue the point. I don't want a gas furnace, a gas fireplace, gas lanterns, a gas generator that kicks on as soon as the power goes off, and especially, I don't want gas canisters, aka bombs-waiting-to-explode, cooling their round metal heels on my breezeway, baking in solar energy from sunrise to sunset, with a two-hour break at noon.
That said...have you seen my new gas grill?
So what if I captured a comet at the moment it landed on my back porch deck? I ain't braggin'. Never mind the Terminator 2 metal cop style doors on this bargain of a gas grill. Sixty-dollar purchasers can't be choosers, you know. They'll take their $350 value and worry about the non-functional flaws later.
Perhaps you're wondering about that attachment in the lower left, under the grill proper. No, it's not a bonus Auction Meat attachment. Nor is it a raccoon tail to flap behind the grill as you wheel it from one location to another to avoid sun, wind, and rain. Nor some tasty road kill garnered by all that wheeling. Nope. It's a cat. Not a good cat, mind you. A mailbox cat. The one that had the giant hole in her chest that warranted a vet visit. She's still basically wild, but will slink up to the breezeway edge every now and then so I'll scratch her misshapen ears while she waits to be let into the garage to consume mass quantities of dry food while turning up her nose at the occasional mouse. Cats are odd ducks.
Like Renee Zellweger as Ruby Thewes despises a floggin' rooster on Nicole Kidman's front porch in Cold Mountain, I despise a gas grill. I stop short of popping its head off and puttin' it in a pot, though. I am not a fan of gas. Though those around me might argue the point. I don't want a gas furnace, a gas fireplace, gas lanterns, a gas generator that kicks on as soon as the power goes off, and especially, I don't want gas canisters, aka bombs-waiting-to-explode, cooling their round metal heels on my breezeway, baking in solar energy from sunrise to sunset, with a two-hour break at noon.
That said...have you seen my new gas grill?
Thursday, June 27, 2013
There's a Hole in My Beagle
There's a hole in my beagle, dear readers, dear readers!
There's a hole in my beagle, dear readers, a hole!
Yeah. Tank the beagle has a hole in his left haunch. The Pony saw it when he let the goats out Tuesday morning. "Hey, Mom! I think Tank got in a fight. He has a bite out of his side."
Let's not delve into the concept of karma too deeply. Tank is the dog who sank his teeth into our sweet, long-haired, yellow-duct-taped-board-horned Nellie. Sank them right into her side, and held on like a vicious snapping turtle waiting for thunder, while she trotted across the yard trying to escape. All over a piece of bread that he was too lazy to grab before that docile white goat, formerly owned by a little old lady as a backyard pet. He wasn't even attempting to get the bread, just venting his rage on Nellie's hirsute flank. I don't think he broke the skin, just chewed a mouthful of hair for about 50 feet until she jostled him loose.
It's our own fault, I suppose, for allowing Tank to maintain possession of his babymakers. He has little dog syndrome, too. But he's pretty much too lazy to go looking for a fight. If it's not a bigger dog eating scraps to be snarled at, or a timid goat, he's all bark. So I was a bit surprised to hear that he had tangled with a critter. He doesn't chase after wayward yard dogs, or the horses across the road floating around under their summer blankets. Only barks, mostly from the safety of the porch. He's too lazy to roam far abroad. He used to run rabbits through the woods down by the creek every morning, but he's slowed down since his adolescent days.
I went to look at the wound. It was bigger than a quarter, but smaller than a half-dollar. Round. Right on that muscly side-hip area. It was, perhaps, a half-inch deep. He licked it intermittently. You know dog saliva. It's a miracle salve for what ails you. I told Hick about the crater that evening. And it hit me. "Do you think somebody shot him?" It's happened to our neighbor. Not the man. The man's dog.
Hick took a look. "No. It's a bite, not a shot. Something got ahold of him."
We're keeping an eye on the wound. It doesn't ooze. Looks like it's healing. Tank doesn't limp. We once took a mailbox cat to the vet because it was bitten on the chest, and the bite kept stretching open. A half-dollar size hole showed the transparent connective tissue holding in the muscles. We spent nigh on $100 for an exam and antibiotic ointment, only to have the vet say on the way out, "Cats get these injuries all the time. It looks terrible, but they heal right up on their own."
The patient is being monitored. He has voiced no complaints, and seems content to convalesce on the porch while waiting for leftovers to be tossed his way, or the FedEx driver to invade his space.
Something is afoot in the hinterlands, and that something has teeth.
There's a hole in my beagle, dear readers, a hole!
Yeah. Tank the beagle has a hole in his left haunch. The Pony saw it when he let the goats out Tuesday morning. "Hey, Mom! I think Tank got in a fight. He has a bite out of his side."
Let's not delve into the concept of karma too deeply. Tank is the dog who sank his teeth into our sweet, long-haired, yellow-duct-taped-board-horned Nellie. Sank them right into her side, and held on like a vicious snapping turtle waiting for thunder, while she trotted across the yard trying to escape. All over a piece of bread that he was too lazy to grab before that docile white goat, formerly owned by a little old lady as a backyard pet. He wasn't even attempting to get the bread, just venting his rage on Nellie's hirsute flank. I don't think he broke the skin, just chewed a mouthful of hair for about 50 feet until she jostled him loose.
It's our own fault, I suppose, for allowing Tank to maintain possession of his babymakers. He has little dog syndrome, too. But he's pretty much too lazy to go looking for a fight. If it's not a bigger dog eating scraps to be snarled at, or a timid goat, he's all bark. So I was a bit surprised to hear that he had tangled with a critter. He doesn't chase after wayward yard dogs, or the horses across the road floating around under their summer blankets. Only barks, mostly from the safety of the porch. He's too lazy to roam far abroad. He used to run rabbits through the woods down by the creek every morning, but he's slowed down since his adolescent days.
I went to look at the wound. It was bigger than a quarter, but smaller than a half-dollar. Round. Right on that muscly side-hip area. It was, perhaps, a half-inch deep. He licked it intermittently. You know dog saliva. It's a miracle salve for what ails you. I told Hick about the crater that evening. And it hit me. "Do you think somebody shot him?" It's happened to our neighbor. Not the man. The man's dog.
Hick took a look. "No. It's a bite, not a shot. Something got ahold of him."
We're keeping an eye on the wound. It doesn't ooze. Looks like it's healing. Tank doesn't limp. We once took a mailbox cat to the vet because it was bitten on the chest, and the bite kept stretching open. A half-dollar size hole showed the transparent connective tissue holding in the muscles. We spent nigh on $100 for an exam and antibiotic ointment, only to have the vet say on the way out, "Cats get these injuries all the time. It looks terrible, but they heal right up on their own."
The patient is being monitored. He has voiced no complaints, and seems content to convalesce on the porch while waiting for leftovers to be tossed his way, or the FedEx driver to invade his space.
Something is afoot in the hinterlands, and that something has teeth.
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