Val Thevictorian, Infant Dispatcher

Val is a woman of many talents. Why, just this evening, she delivered a baby. Oh, not only did she deliver that baby, Val delivered that baby faster than all the other baby deliverers, relying on her old standby of spouting hot air, without even using her hands, without dropping the baby as some butterfingered deliverers did, and without licking the baby's buttocks.

Okay. I went to my niece's baby shower. All attendees were given a plastic shot glass containing a Mardi Gras cake type plastic baby frozen in an ice cube. The first person to get the baby out of the ice cube, without using hands, sticking anything in the glass, taking the ice cube out of the glass, or submerging that shot glass in hot coffee, was the winner. Here is my prize:

It's a hermetically-sealed jar of chocolate-covered cereal, powdered-sugar-coated Puppy Chow. That's what my sister the ex-mayor's wife calls it, anyway. Oh, and there's the bouncing baby of indeterminate gender that I delivered. I can't believe the rest of the faux midwives were not happier for my victory. It kind of hurt my feelings that there was such a sigh of resignation, and several shouts of disbelief. Let's see...I think the glowing lady of honor's exact words were: "I should have known you'd win. You win everything. You must have cheated." So hurtful. I'm of half a mind not to participate in the Christmas contests at her mother's house this year. I'll show them! I won't win a thing.

Here's my baby-delivery strategy. First of all, when the tray of frozen babies is paraded around the room for selection, and you grab one with a big fat ice cube, hand it immediately to Hick, and take another one. Then start breathing. Yeah. Right into that little plastic shot glass. Nothing melts the ice like a blow-hard. Don't follow the tactics of the poor clueless males on either side of you. Much as he thinks he has cracked the code of baby delivery, The Pony's method of banging the cup on a plastic plate REPEATEDLY does not work. I suppose he was trying to crack it open like an egg. Nor do you want to adopt Hick's mode of putting that plastic shot glass containing an ice cube with a baby frozen inside down the neck of your long-sleeved gray T-shirt and into your hairy armpit. If you feel lightheaded from all that exhaling, don't take a chance on hyperventilating and losing valuable baby-thawing time. Swirl that shot glass so the baby's newly-exposed parts are bathed in the melt-water. That helps free the baby from the ice. When you hear the baby clinking against the cube, raise your glass high and shout, "My baby is loose!" Then nod and say, "Uh huh!" when those in charge say they don't think so.

The Pony's favorite part was the foot cookies. I kind of enjoyed the centerpieces. Yes. She's expecting a girl.

We left before the next game, and the drawing for the grand prize for those who also brought a package of Huggies. Our roads are ice-covered, and we didn't want to be out too late. Besides, if Hick had won the diaper drawing, I fear that the mob might have come after us with flaming torches.

Val. Always the victorian.

Some Days, the Non-Existent Sun Even Shines On Val's Ample...

You know that alarm horn thingy that goes off on a submarine just before it dives? Sure you do. Even if you've never been on a diving sub, you've surely seen and heard such a situation in the movies. That's what was playing in my head this morning when I opened the shades and looked out at 10 inches of snow. Oh, yes. I was alarmed. When I saw my dire situation, I realized that such a layer of fluffy precipitation mean only one thing:

NO 44 OZ. DIET COKE!

Yes, it was Val's own personal nightmare. A day off work, and no magical elixir to keep her company. Woe was Val. By 11:30, she had pulled herself up by her own bootstraps, turned her frown upside down, and taken matters into her own hands.

"Hey! Pony! Do we have any Diet Coke?" The soda is housed in the basement, right across from the ancient mini-fridge in the alcove under the stairwell, theoretically to be stocked for cool consumption by The Pony.

"I think so. Let me check. Yes. We have two."

"You'd better mean two cold, not two total. You're good about saying we have soda, and then admitting after the shopping trip that you meant we had two left, so we had soda."

"No, there are more in the box. I'll put some in now."

"When you come up to put away your laundry, bring those two cold ones."

Of course this was a simple task. I even told him to set them aside so there was no doubt as to which two cans were cold. The Pony galloped up the stairs and stashed his folded clothing. I saw him bring the two cans of Diet Coke with him. I gave him a few more chores. Carry the laundry basket back to the laundry room. Put the washed clothes in the dryer. Hang fresh towels. I went to whip him up some lunch. Put away the clean silverware, which included five spoons and 21 forks. Yeah. Gasp along with me. TWENTY-ONE FORKS! Apparently, forks are used around this house in a ratio of 4:1 where spoons are concerned. Sure, there's the matter of that remainder. But we won't count that. What do you think I am, an algebra teacher? Of course nobody admits to the excessive use of forks. It seems as if the dudes in my house march to the tune of their very own poetry:

Forks, forks, the magical utensil.
The more you use, the more Val wants your eye as a target for her pencil.

But we're not fighting the Battle of Excessive Forks today. We're talking about the weather becoming a disabler for my 44 oz. Diet Coke addiction. And The Pony acting as an accomplice. I turned to get those two cold Diet Coke cans out of Frig. I saw The Pony bring them up. And so he did. There they sat. On the cutting block. Three feet away from Frig.

After sighing heavily, hoping The Pony could hear me all the way down in the basement while playing with his Wii, I gathered those two cans and the rest of my makings. I detest the taste of Diet Coke in a can. So I scouted the kitchen for extra ingredients. There was a time when I loved me some Cherry Diet Coke from Sonic. Then it closed. I also developed a citrus tooth for Diet Coke with lime. But all I had was canned Diet Coke. I grabbed a 44 oz. cup normally reserved for my refills. Set Frig to 'crush' and filled the bottom compartment of the cup. Then added a few half-moon cubes. I knew I had no cherries. No limes. No lemons. Nothing to spice up metal-tasting Diet Coke. Wait a minute! What was that over on the table by the window? A tall rectangular plastic canister. TWO! Aha! Powdered drink mix. Hmm...cherry. And cherry limeade! That's right. Great Value Sugar Free Cherry Limeade Drink Mix.

I sprinkled some of that powder on top of my ice. Added the first can of Diet Coke. Let it foam down. Added the second can. Let it foam down. Stuck a straw in it. Mmm! Tasty! Just right. Now I have a backup drink when the weather conspires against me.

Thanks, Genius, for asking for that drink mix way back in the summer. Thanks, Hick, for not drinking the mix that you stashed in your special treat area.

I think I can ride out this storm just fine.

There Are None So Blind as Those Who Patronize The Charlatans Optical Delusions Emporium and Professional Prevaricators Shoppe

I know this might be hard to fathom...but Val has an issue.

You might recall that I had an optometrist appointment on November 15th, and ordered two new pairs of lenses. I am still waiting for a working pair of bifocals. Since NOVEMBER 15th.

Let's see. I had that appointment, then went in the next week to have my lenses put into my frames, since The Charlatans Optical Delusions Emporium and Professional Prevaricators Shoppe left me a message that they were ready. Wrongo. Only the distance lenses were ready.

I received another call when the bifocal lenses came in. I went to the Shoppe and had them put in. I told the lady I couldn't see, and she said my eyes had to adjust. I called the next day and took them back. I was chastised for not telling the Doc that I use them for computer viewing. Which I don't. I just wanted to see my gradebook laying on my desk. That gal said I needed them switched from a 12-inch distance to 14 or 16. I told her I didn't think that was enough to read material on the desk. She said she'd fix me up, even called in the newest opto kid doc.

Today I braved life and limb in a sleet storm to get those bifocals before becoming housebound. You guessed it. I still could not see with those bifocals. Here's the gist of the interaction. Keep in mind that I was the only customer in the whole establishment. The same quack technician that messed it up the last two times serviced me. Also remember that in my many visits, I  overheard THREE other people proclaim that they could not see out of their new glasses.

Quacky is one of those older women who make a statement and suck their teeth. Smich. That's what it sounds like. I kind of had the urge to smack her right in the smicher. But that would not have been a ladylike thing to do. I might as well sit with my beskirted knees splayed wide, wear white after Labor Day, or belch the Star Spangled Banner.

"Here. Do you need something to read to try them out?"

"Can't see. It's like I'm underwater."

"Oh, we don't want that. Smich. Maybe you need time for your eyes to adjust to them. Smich. They're new, and you're not used to them. Smich."

"That's what you said last time."

"Well. Smich. We've adjusted them from a 12-inch reading distance to 14 inches."

"I told you last time that wouldn't be enough. It goes from my head to the top of my desk. That's more than 14 inches."

"Oh. Smich. I know you're frustrated. Smich. Do you want to take them and try them at work?"

"No. I did that the first time. I know right now they're not going to work for me. My two-year-old bifocals are better than this. I've been using them for three weeks now."

"Do you have them with you?"

"I'll go get them out of the car." Yes. Through the sleet, on their slick sidewalk and parking lot.

"Let me see. Smich. I'll take them back and measure how we have them set. Smich." She took my black frames while I experienced a minor panic attack. No good comes of giving those people your frames with working lenses. "Huh. Smich. The new ones are the same as these. Minus one, plus two. Smich."

"I can't explain that. All I know is that I can't see. This has been going on for three weeks."

"Well. Smich. I don't know how to say this...smich. But, smich, as we get...smich...older...our eyes change, smich, and get more nearsighted...and don't adjust. Smich."

"That's funny. These glasses from two years ago seem just fine. My older eyes don't have a problem with them."

"Oh, honey. Smich. I know it's hard to have this problem. Smich. We'll get them fixed. Smich. I'll talk to your doctor. Smich. He's not in today. Smich. Because of the weather. I'll check with him and see what we need to do. Smich. I'll call you."

"If you don't get it straightened out this time, I'm done with it. I've been here too many times, and you can't get it right."

"I know how you feel, sweetie. Smich. We'll fix it. Smich. Do you want to take your frames?"

"No. Then it will take longer when I come back to get them. I wish I'd never had new bifocals put in. At least with the old ones I could see. And better than with these two-year-old glasses. I just want the old ones back now."

"We'll get it fixed. Smich. I'll call you when they come in."

Let's tally my trip count, shall we?
1-Initial appointment
2-Pick up distance lenses only
3-Pick up bifocal lenses
4-Return bifocal lenses
5-Pick up new bifocal lenses

When I go back to pick them up after the next adjustment, it will be trip number SIX.

WHO DO YOU HAVE TO WINK AT IN THIS TOWN TO GET A FUNCTIONAL PAIR OF BIFOCALS?

You'd Think She Was Talking About Jimmy Choos

My mom is at it again. I called her last night to see what she'd been up to fishing for a blog story, and she did not disappoint.

"You know how I said I was getting out today to run over to The Dollar Tree? I put it off, and put it off, and finally, around 2:30, I thought, 'If I don't go now, I'm never going to go. And it's supposed to snow later this week, so I'll want to stay in.'"

I don't know what was so urgent about The Dollar Tree. It's not like they sell bread and milk, the official storm staples. But that was the destination. Mom had even asked me earlier in the day, when I stopped by after my bloodletting, if there was anything she could pick up for me. No. Nothing came to mind, except Cookie Dough Bites for The Pony to take to our next movie. And since he was not impressed with the previews, he did not have a pressing need for Dough.

"I was getting ready, and you're not going to believe this, but I decided to wear my gray sweatpants. You know, the ones with the hole? Well, I sewed up that hole, but it's coming loose. I decided that I didn't care. They're comfortable."

Perhaps she was just needing attention, and wanted to pirouette about The Dollar Tree showing off her hole. Not like that. Like when she told the entire contingent of dining room customers and counter help at Arby's.
I have a hole in my sweatpants!"

"I DID change my shoes. I was going to wear those ones that I have on all the time. You know. Those white Nikes. But they're a mess. I tried to clean them, but you couldn't even tell the difference."

"Did you use baby wipes? That's what I always cleaned the boys' shoes with. They work wonders."

"No. I don't have any baby wipes. I didn't know they clean shoes. I used Comet."

"You used COMET on your shoe soles?"

"No. Not on the soles."

"You used Comet on the LEATHER?"

"Well, I guess I did. It didn't help any. So I decided to wear my black tennis shoes. They look good with those gray sweatpants. But they're just not comfortable. I can wear those white ones all day, and my feet and legs don't hurt. But they were just too dirty to wear out in public like that."

"Yeah. They might have distracted people from the hole in your sweatpants."

"Oh, you're terrible! The Dollar Tree was SO busy. There were only two parking spaces out front. I hate it when the store is crowded. I get all nervous. I hurried up and bought some cornbread and some beans. I'm going to cook it with that leftover ham bone from Thanksgiving. I rushed out to the car, and I was so glad to be out of there that I completely forgot that I was going to drive through Burger King and pick up three of those dollar pork sandwiches to put in the freezer and have if I get snowed in."

"Well, at least you'll have beans and cornbread."

"Mmm...that's going to be so good. I have an onion to slice with it, too."

"And you can wear your dirty white shoes and be comfortable."

"That's right. I'm ready for the snow."

We won't go into the part where she decided her truck needed to run for a while to make sure the battery wasn't dead, so she started it up and let it run for ten minutes, because my nephew the son of my sister the ex-mayor's wife told her she didn't have to drive the truck to charge the battery, so she just left it in the attached garage, running.

Yeah. I tried to set her straight on carbon monoxide, and how she should back the truck out of the garage, into the open air, before trying that stunt again. But let's be realistic. This is the woman who decked herself out in uncomfortable shoes because they looked nicer, to wear along with her gray holey sweatpants.

Mom marches to her own drummer. In uncomfortable shoes.

Val Makes Yet Another Podiatric Insertion Into Her Oral Cavity

I had an appointment today to donate some blood to the lab vampires. That kind of stuff really doesn't bother me. I can imagine my best old ex-teaching buddy, Mabel, shuddering at the thought. Perhaps I'll tack on a picture of my inner elbow near the end. Or not.

In keeping with Val's regular schedule of timely faux pas, she put her size eight-and-a-half New Balance in her gaping maw first cat out of the bag this morning. I stopped by the window to sign in, and the little gal behind the glass said not to bother, she would check me in. The first order of business was to authenticate the address, phone, and next of kin. Val soared over that hurdle with flying colors. Then it was time for the insurance cards. Yes, I say card(S) because as you are well aware, Val has two insurances. Not that it seems to save her any time, effort, or money in getting prescriptions filled properly. I handed over my two cards. "That's the primary, and that's the secondary."

"Let's see. The secondary is still the same. The primary...no more Conglomerated Well-Being Concern?"

"No. I WISH!"

"So you have Banishment?"

"Yes. It is THE worst insurance I have ever had."

"That's what we have."

"Oh."

Well. She ought to know. It's not like I was letting a secret slip out like a fart in church. Oh. That's probably not a good simile. But I stand by it. Because Banishment Well-Being Concern stinks. I bet they thought they were putting one over on a lot of people, using that name, "Banishment." Like it sounds all cool or religious or Christmassy or comforting. But that is the actual meaning of the real word. "Banishment." I belly-laughed out loud when I consulted my BFF Google for a synonym. The joke's on all of us. Well, not on me. I didn't choose an insurance company for my employees with a name that means exclusion. No wonder we're having so much trouble with it.

Thank goodness the bloodsucker did not hear me disparage her very own insurance. She might have needled me about it. Heh, heh. Get it? I said a phlebotomist might have needled me. I crack myself up sometimes.

Okay. Look away if you don't want to see something hideous. And I'm not talking about Kramer's leathery skin after he turned his apartment into a smoking lounge.

"The time has come," The Valrus said,
"To show you many things:
Like pale and fat and aging spots,
Thick fingers with no rings...
And just for you a view of what
My phlebotomist brings."

Enjoy.

The Immaculate Reception (and I'm NOT Talkin' Steelers Football)

My name is Val, and I am a cobbler.

No, I'm not a tasty, deep-dish fruit pie in a 9x9 Pyrex dish, with sugared crust oozing syrup out of slits in the top.

No, I'm not an old-fashioned shoemaker, of the sort who might whip up a lying, long-nosed boy out of spare wood.

No, I am not a proud male fanning my tail feathers, almost the national bird. Oops! That was close. I still have Thanksgiving on my mind.

My name is Val, and I am a cobbler. I make do. Forget my hair pick back at home in the dark with no mirror? I simply grab a plastic fork out of my classroom cabinet, and fluff my coif with those four tines. They can darn near take an ear off, too.

Perhaps you've gathered that I live in the black hole of wireless transmissions. My home could be the Island of Misfit Electronic Gewgaws. It's not their fault. They're misunderstood. Underpowered. Abandon all hope of connection, ye who enter here. No phone nor laptop shall communicate with the outside world if my local geography has its say.

Last week, I wanted to listen to our school team play in a Thanksgiving basketball tournament. I knew that I could not stream it over my feeble internet. That was Hick's idea. And why we roll our eyes and say, "Phhtttt" every time he opens his mouth. I sent The Pony on a search for my old-style bulky cassette player/AM/FM/CD player radio. It's not a rectangular boom box, but shares a branch on that family tree. It's kind of a cobalt blue fat disc with a silver plastic handle on top, and two speakers in silver screen mesh that look like fly eyes.

In years past, I've tried to listen to the game while baking my Thanksgiving goodies. There's no good reception in the kitchen, even with Ol' Big Eyes sitting on the kitchen counter. Or the cutting block. Or on the table, right in front of the window. Black hole. This year, the game was the last of the evening. My goodies were strewn about the kitchen, awaiting their last ride. The Pony found Ol' Big Eyes silently watching us from the top of Frig. The three of us headed to my dark basement lair, leaving Frig to ruminate on his overactive icemaker.

In a deleted scene from Frankenstein, we unplugged the laser printer, plugged in Ol' Big Eyes, pulled out his antenna, pulled out the drawer full of past tax returns, plopped OBE on top, spun him around a couple of times, clipped two magnets of a yellow chip clip on OBE like an erstwhile permanent defibrillator, draped an empty Slim Jim box on top of the antenna, and wedged a losing scratch-off ticket between the handle and the chip clip.

My name is Val, and I am a cobbler. A cobbler who listens to high school basketball games in her dark basement lair with virtually zero electromagnetic waves penetrating the underground concrete walls.

My Neutralest 2.5 Hours Were Spent Here With You In the Dark

The Thevictorian family hauled their stubs to AMC movie theater this morning to see The Hunger Games: Catching Fire. Only $5 a ticket before noon, you know! Of course we had to dig up some sock cash from the back yard for snacks (that were not hauled inside in my movie purse).

I would give you a movie review, but the goings-on around us were much more interesting. Not more interesting than the movie, mind you...more interesting than my review.

I thought we would arrive 30 minutes before showtime. Somehow Hick's estimate of the journey was shorter than the real thing. Which surprised me entirely. One would think he would have had those items reversed. So...we were only 20 minutes ahead of showtime. That meant that other people were already inside the theater! Thank Even Steven, nobody had taken our 4-row of seats in the back. Oh, two old ladies were in the very last row, also a 4, but ours was still available. I felt a little bit bad about sitting down in front of them, what with them having gotten there early to pick their seats (heh heh, I said pick their seats). I could almost hear their eyes rolling in their heads as we settled in.

The Pony had his nose out of joint because Hick dared to sit between us. Everybody knows the child comes between the parents. Besides, it's usually just The Pony and me. We are accomplished adjacent-seat-mates. It's like being one of those Hindu deities with multiple arms. We can juggle two sodas, popcorn, candy, cell phones, glasses, Kindle, mini-spiral-notebook, pen, car keys, Butter Buds, and Kleenex without speaking a word. Hick agreed to switch places when we went out for snacks.

We got back just in time for some lackluster previews. The Pony was especially all "No way!" about Vampire High. For a moment I thought Divergent looked promising. However, The Pony nixed that one as well. Nor was he impressed by 47 Ronin. Looks like we'll not be padding the pockets of AMC for a while.

Our feature presentation was about ten minutes underway when a lady came through the swinging doors. She stood there, jangling her keys. A signal, perhaps, to folks she was meeting. But no. She just stood. Then she came over towards us. Uh uh. Not happening. If she wanted a seat, she was going to have to scale the heights of Val Thevictorian and skootch over next to Hick. Val moves down the row for no latecomer. However...a rumble was not in the cards for me today, my friends. Lady-Come-Lately sat directly behind me. Oh, well. Let her peer through my lovely lady mullet for 2.5 hours minus ten minutes. Then she started jangling those confounded keys again. Like she was trying to make a baby look at the camera. I'm not sure what the other two old ladies thought about being trapped in their row. I couldn't hear they eyes rolling over the sound of those confounded jangling keys.

Don't think orbiting oculars and clashing metal were the only barrier to Val's full enjoyment. Our very own Hick made his contribution on the noise pollution front. After The Pony was done with the feedbag, he passed it to Hick. A noisier popcorn eater you'll never hear than Hick. He's one of those people who jam their ham-fisted hands into the bag, smashing all the kernels to confetti, then squeeze a palm-full like making a dry popcorn ball, and crush it onto his face area, herding it into his gaping maw. He sounded like Bigfoot stomping through a swimming pool full of cornflakes. Then The Pony eased into his line of melody, trying to open a cellophane bag inside the Cookie Dough Bites box. It's a good thing the sound was cranked up for our movie.

The Hunger Games: Catching Fire was the shortest 146-minute movie I've ever seen. The time did not drag. I almost squeezed out a tear at one certain scene. And then it was over! Only a couple of years to wait for the last movie. As the credits were rolling, a voice behind me jolted me out of my reverie.

"You're a much taller lady than I thought."

HUH? The Lady-Come-Lately dared to comment on the statuesqueness of Val, who was rightfully in her seat BEFORE Lady-Come-Lately came in and picked her seat (heh heh, did it again). Well, I never! The boldness of those Lately folks apparently knows no bounds. And THEN, Lady-Come-Lately had the nerve to place her hand upon my shoulder, lean over, and ask, "Is that your son?"

No. I just waltzed in here a mere nine minutes after showtime, and sat down by a random stranger. Like you. That's what I wanted to say. But I did not. I'm no common Lately.

"It's me. Lady Lately. Remember, I used to substitute? Where is your oldest boy going to school?"

Dear me. Lady Lately! Of course I remember her. It's just unfortunate that she was standing directly behind me in a dark movie theater. How uncoordinated of me not to see her clearly for recognition. Then I did feel kind of bad. Because I, in my own noncommittal way, harbor no ill will toward Lady Lately. She's a good egg. And her being a widder-woman and all, with her three strapping sons serving in various and assorted branches of the armed services, one of them even with that anagrammed entity that scans the skies for Santa every Christmas Eve, and ne'er-do-well intruders the other 364.

Sorry, Lady Lately. I DO remember you, and wish you well. I'll even forgive the key-jangling.

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If you're not an old country music aficionado, you won't get the title, a line from Clint Black's "Walkin' Away."  My finest hour spent here with you in the dark, just before I saw the light.