Ten-Dollar Daughter here, reporting on today's outing with my mom. Uh huh. Don't mind me puffing out my chest, huffing out exhalations, polishing my fingernails on my lapel. I earned a 100% raise since my last daughterdom report.
It's the last Friday of the month, you know. Bill-paying excursion day for Val. Actually, I paid ahead yesterday, on my day off for the funeral. That's because icky weather was in the forecast again for today. So I got it out of the way just in case. But I DID promise Mom that if the roads weren't bad, I would still come pick her up and drive her over to Bill-Pay Town to get some fries at Rally's.
Mom already had one outing this week, when we took her along to get that free computer part. She refused fries that day, but sampled a couple. I knew she wanted some. Even though she didn't ask. When I picked her up today, she (of course) had a story of strange coincidence to relate.
"I heard a car at my mailbox around noon. I looked out, and it was red. My newspaper lady has a red car. I wondered why she was so early, but I figured I'd just wait until I went up to get the mail, and bring in the paper then. I closed the shades and forgot about it. About an hour and a half later, I heard the awfullest noise out front. I looked again. There was a red car revving it's engine, sitting in front of my mailbox! I was starting to get worried. What in the world was going on?"
"Was it the same car?"
"I don't know. It was a red car. And I didn't know what it was going to do."
"Had it been there the whole time? Or did it come back?"
"Well, I don't know. I quit looking out, but I didn't hear anything until later. Then I got to thinking...'my friend Freda has a red car. I wonder if she put something in my mailbox?' She's always doing things like that, leaving me food on the porch and not knocking and not telling me."
"Like that cinnamon roll that she left on the porch, and you came home and found it, and saw a bite out of it when you went to eat it, and thought a dog unwrapped it to sample it, then wrapped it back up?"
"Uh huh. So I called her, and she said yes, that she had put a card in the newspaper box for me. When the mail came, I went up and got it and the paper. And would you believe that there was no card in my paper box? Just the paper! I looked and looked. I guess the newspaper lady thought I had put a card in there for her, and she took it! I'll see if I get it back tomorrow. If not, I'll have to ask her about it."
"You have more trouble with people leaving and taking random stuff! Good thing she didn't get your three bags of hedgeapples."
"Oh, and yesterday I caught the mail lady trying and trying to stuff my medicine package that I've been waiting on for two weeks into my mailbox, and it wouldn't fit, so she BACKED DOWN THE DRIVEWAY! I went out and got the package from her and told her she didn't have to do that."
"Good thing she did. Who knows WHEN you would have gotten it if it went back to the post office."
"I guess you're right."
We were in line at Rally's by then. Mom decided that she would like a Diet Coke, also. She had put off making one at home because she knew I was coming by to get her. We were also picking up a meal for The Pony, who was waiting at Mom's house with high-speed internet.
"Here. Take this ten for my food, and The Pony's. Keep the whole thing."
I'm back in the high life again. Ten-Dollar Daughter, signing off.
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Val's Blog Post For the Reluctant Reader
My mom is back to giving me ten dollars when I take her somewhere.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Thursday, January 30, 2014
My Hunter-Gatherer Excels
Hick and I headed to school this evening for different reasons. He went to see The Pony play on his Smartypants team, and I went to put things in order after an absence today. I tried to haul my work to the room to listen, but we were late, coming from a funeral service, and the match was already in progress.
Unlike years past, the contestants were not set up around the teacher desk, backs to the door, leaving room for a small audience to enter and spectate. They were facing the door. Like a semi-circle of tooth-gnashing wolves, a sight a bit off-putting, if not downright pants-wetting. An adult man and woman (as opposed to infant man and woman, I suppose, after writing that and not wanting to back up and erase it) sat on the floor of the hall, backs against the painted concrete-block wall. It appeared that they had abandoned all hope, they who had not entered there. A few sets of parents could be observed, gloating along a wall behind the contestants. They must have camped out overnight for those spots.
I started back to my room, and passed Hick, who had just arrived from a stop by his doctor's office for a shot. "They've already started. I'm not dealing with it. I've go work to do."
Hick the big dumb doofus brave warrior opened the unlocked door and entered between quarters as substitutes were switched out. When that match was over, he headed to my classroom to await the start of the next round. Having not partaken of our nighttime repast, both Hick and I were feeling a mite peckish. He headed off to seek a machine soda while I remained 44-oz.-Diet-Cokeless.
"Hey, you can go in the teacher workroom. There's a snack machine. And while you're at it, bring me a little pack of that Sweet and Salty Mix. I think it's D4." That stuff is tasty, full of sunflower seeds, peanuts, raisins, and generic blank M&Ms. Off Hick went, a modern-day hunter-gatherer, in no danger of being gored by a vending machine while plying it with bills.
The Pony came charging through the door. "We won! By a lot. 270 to 60. I only played three quarters, and I scored 110 points. Here. Dad said to bring these to you."
"Wait! Why are there two bags? I only wanted one. I gave him a dollar. I know he didn't spend his own money on me."
"One was stuck. So when he put in money, two came out. Here. I've gotta get back."
Yes. My sweet baboo brought home the bacon x 2. Well...he SENT home the bacon x 2. That's a good quality in a mate.
Unlike years past, the contestants were not set up around the teacher desk, backs to the door, leaving room for a small audience to enter and spectate. They were facing the door. Like a semi-circle of tooth-gnashing wolves, a sight a bit off-putting, if not downright pants-wetting. An adult man and woman (as opposed to infant man and woman, I suppose, after writing that and not wanting to back up and erase it) sat on the floor of the hall, backs against the painted concrete-block wall. It appeared that they had abandoned all hope, they who had not entered there. A few sets of parents could be observed, gloating along a wall behind the contestants. They must have camped out overnight for those spots.
I started back to my room, and passed Hick, who had just arrived from a stop by his doctor's office for a shot. "They've already started. I'm not dealing with it. I've go work to do."
Hick the
"Hey, you can go in the teacher workroom. There's a snack machine. And while you're at it, bring me a little pack of that Sweet and Salty Mix. I think it's D4." That stuff is tasty, full of sunflower seeds, peanuts, raisins, and generic blank M&Ms. Off Hick went, a modern-day hunter-gatherer, in no danger of being gored by a vending machine while plying it with bills.
The Pony came charging through the door. "We won! By a lot. 270 to 60. I only played three quarters, and I scored 110 points. Here. Dad said to bring these to you."
"Wait! Why are there two bags? I only wanted one. I gave him a dollar. I know he didn't spend his own money on me."
"One was stuck. So when he put in money, two came out. Here. I've gotta get back."
Yes. My sweet baboo brought home the bacon x 2. Well...he SENT home the bacon x 2. That's a good quality in a mate.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
There's a Hacker, Darn Every Minute
Yesterday I waited for The Pony in the dentist's waiting room while he had his twice-a-year cleaning and inspection. Or, as The Pony might call it, torture. Yes, I waited in the waiting room. It's pretty obvious that's what one is supposed to do in such an area. It's not called the all-you-can-eat buffet room, or the auction-every-Monday room, or the extreme-log-rolling-championship room. A waiting room is for waiting.
The parking lot was full of cars, but only one person sat between me and The Pony and privacy. A woman sat near the restroom and inner sanctum door. The Pony and I chose seats in the opposite corner of the room. That's what normal people do. Perhaps you can sense the direction this tale is taking. If not, feel free to jump to the bottom and read about the point in my new feature: Val's Blog Post For the Reluctant Reader.
The Pony was called back within five minutes. The Waiter was joined by a man and tweenage boy. Apparently, they were all waiting for a similar boy who was already being polished and readied for release. The tweenager inquired as to why he and one adult couldn't just go home. So the Waiter got up and left with him. The man was summoned to the inside counter to grow a long white beard while the anemic appointment-scheduler caught twenty winks. That left me, myself, and Val to rule the room. Revel in solitude for the first time since 5:00 a.m. But not for long.
A new gal came, on decidedly not-little, not-cat feet. She quickly surveyed my kingdom, said, "This looks good," and plopped down in the only cushiony armchair in the place. Which was right beside me, at a 90-degree angle. For those of you who are not friends of Euclid, that means the sitter of that chair faced my side. Were I a football player, and she pursuing me, she would have been the perfect candidate for stiff-arming. I was simply a waiter, though. A waiter in a wait land. A captive with an audience.
Armchairy brought nothing to read. Nothing to pass the time during her wait. She was too involved with sniffling. And hacking out phlegm. And breathing. All within reach of Val's throttling hand. I would not have dared touch her, of course. I could only imagine psychedelic swarms of bacteria and viruses swirling down her shirtfront, sliding over her knees like a waterfall, and beginning a surge towards me. I turned my head as far to the left as I could get it, facing the open door to the entrance hall, and tried to suck in untainted oxygen from that side. It was all I could do to keep from jumping out of my chair and charging across the vast waitland to stop stewing in her juices.
What the not-heaven is wrong with people?
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Val's Blog Post For the Reluctant Reader
A coughing woman sat way too close to me in the dentist's waiting room.
The parking lot was full of cars, but only one person sat between me and The Pony and privacy. A woman sat near the restroom and inner sanctum door. The Pony and I chose seats in the opposite corner of the room. That's what normal people do. Perhaps you can sense the direction this tale is taking. If not, feel free to jump to the bottom and read about the point in my new feature: Val's Blog Post For the Reluctant Reader.
The Pony was called back within five minutes. The Waiter was joined by a man and tweenage boy. Apparently, they were all waiting for a similar boy who was already being polished and readied for release. The tweenager inquired as to why he and one adult couldn't just go home. So the Waiter got up and left with him. The man was summoned to the inside counter to grow a long white beard while the anemic appointment-scheduler caught twenty winks. That left me, myself, and Val to rule the room. Revel in solitude for the first time since 5:00 a.m. But not for long.
A new gal came, on decidedly not-little, not-cat feet. She quickly surveyed my kingdom, said, "This looks good," and plopped down in the only cushiony armchair in the place. Which was right beside me, at a 90-degree angle. For those of you who are not friends of Euclid, that means the sitter of that chair faced my side. Were I a football player, and she pursuing me, she would have been the perfect candidate for stiff-arming. I was simply a waiter, though. A waiter in a wait land. A captive with an audience.
Armchairy brought nothing to read. Nothing to pass the time during her wait. She was too involved with sniffling. And hacking out phlegm. And breathing. All within reach of Val's throttling hand. I would not have dared touch her, of course. I could only imagine psychedelic swarms of bacteria and viruses swirling down her shirtfront, sliding over her knees like a waterfall, and beginning a surge towards me. I turned my head as far to the left as I could get it, facing the open door to the entrance hall, and tried to suck in untainted oxygen from that side. It was all I could do to keep from jumping out of my chair and charging across the vast waitland to stop stewing in her juices.
What the not-heaven is wrong with people?
***************************************************************
Val's Blog Post For the Reluctant Reader
A coughing woman sat way too close to me in the dentist's waiting room.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Sometimes, Even the Universe's Conspiratory Machinations Are No Match For Goodness
A most curious event occurred this evening. More unexplainable, even, than the strange goings-on in the Val Thevictorian basement.
Last night, The Pony had a mishap. One minute he was happily ensconced on the new basement couch, pecking away at his laptop keyboard...and the next minute his world fell apart. His laptop slid off the edge of that dastardly divan, and hit the pressed-tile-over-concrete-covered-by-a-braided-rug floor. The plug-in thingy that connects to the cable of the power supply broke off in his laptop hole thingy.
The Pony was a brave little soldier. He came to my dark basement lair to report the damage. Neither sullen nor tearful was he, but simply resigned. Resigned to the fact that we had traversed the 8th continent of Backroads seeking that power supply. All because the original began emitting smoke one evening last summer. Possible replacements found on the internet all had comments such as: "I ordered this as a replacement, and after two days, it started smoking!" Yeah. We did not feel that such a purchase would be prudent. Much calling around resulted in ONE shop, a mere fifteen miles from home, that might possibly have such a rare jewel in stock.
The Pony managed to pry the offending stump loose from the hole. "Now all I need is that little part that sticks in. The power supply itself is fine." Fine, indeed. To the tune of fifty dollars.
Flash back to last summer...The Pony had felt the purchase well worth that price. The universal power supply unit offered by the TechyGuru store came with an array of ten or more sizes of connectors. The Pony did not have his laptop with him at the store. The counter guru tried to find the size by comparing parts on the old smoky power supply. He said that if the universal unit did not have a connector that fit, we could bring it back for a full refund. He showed The Pony how to change the power output or some such thing that showed up in a green light on the side of the unit. We got it home, and The Pony had it running in less than a minute.
Flash back to this evening...The Pony had packed up the whole kit and caboodle this morning at 5:30 a.m. I promised to take him to TechyGuru after school, after my traded duty, after his dentist appointment. TechyGuru was open until six. I was sure we could make it, and we did. The Pony took a deep breath. Grabbed his backpack full of laptop essentials, and headed toward the door. He usually hangs back, but this time he walked right up to the counter.
"Well, it seems I need another power supply. I broke mine off in my laptop last night." He removed the laptop and set it on the counter. Took out the strip of accessories and showed the space where the working one had been. "It's this one I need."
The counter guru headed to the back room. We heard him talking it over with somebody out of sight. He brought a connector out and tried it. It didn't quite fit tight enough. The Pony dug around in a side pouch on his red laptop backpack. " Here's what's left of it." He took out the miniscule end that had not fallen apart.
Counter Guru went to the back room again. We heard some muffled conversation..."only needs the connector...I don't know...how about five dollars...we have all kinds of them." He came back out front and pushed the connector into the hole. It was a perfect fit. He pulled it out and handed it to The Pony. "There's what you need."
"Great! We were hoping you would have one."
I pulled my household cash reserves from my pocket. "Thank you! How much will that be?"
"No charge. We have a bunch of them."
"Thank you so much! That's a really nice thing to do. I'll be sure to recommend you to everybody."
A lady walked in. "They're the best computer store ever."
Ain't that the truth! I'm giving my proposed handbasket factory future employees the night off. I think those handbaskets can wait one more day.
Last night, The Pony had a mishap. One minute he was happily ensconced on the new basement couch, pecking away at his laptop keyboard...and the next minute his world fell apart. His laptop slid off the edge of that dastardly divan, and hit the pressed-tile-over-concrete-covered-by-a-braided-rug floor. The plug-in thingy that connects to the cable of the power supply broke off in his laptop hole thingy.
The Pony was a brave little soldier. He came to my dark basement lair to report the damage. Neither sullen nor tearful was he, but simply resigned. Resigned to the fact that we had traversed the 8th continent of Backroads seeking that power supply. All because the original began emitting smoke one evening last summer. Possible replacements found on the internet all had comments such as: "I ordered this as a replacement, and after two days, it started smoking!" Yeah. We did not feel that such a purchase would be prudent. Much calling around resulted in ONE shop, a mere fifteen miles from home, that might possibly have such a rare jewel in stock.
The Pony managed to pry the offending stump loose from the hole. "Now all I need is that little part that sticks in. The power supply itself is fine." Fine, indeed. To the tune of fifty dollars.
Flash back to last summer...The Pony had felt the purchase well worth that price. The universal power supply unit offered by the TechyGuru store came with an array of ten or more sizes of connectors. The Pony did not have his laptop with him at the store. The counter guru tried to find the size by comparing parts on the old smoky power supply. He said that if the universal unit did not have a connector that fit, we could bring it back for a full refund. He showed The Pony how to change the power output or some such thing that showed up in a green light on the side of the unit. We got it home, and The Pony had it running in less than a minute.
Flash back to this evening...The Pony had packed up the whole kit and caboodle this morning at 5:30 a.m. I promised to take him to TechyGuru after school, after my traded duty, after his dentist appointment. TechyGuru was open until six. I was sure we could make it, and we did. The Pony took a deep breath. Grabbed his backpack full of laptop essentials, and headed toward the door. He usually hangs back, but this time he walked right up to the counter.
"Well, it seems I need another power supply. I broke mine off in my laptop last night." He removed the laptop and set it on the counter. Took out the strip of accessories and showed the space where the working one had been. "It's this one I need."
The counter guru headed to the back room. We heard him talking it over with somebody out of sight. He brought a connector out and tried it. It didn't quite fit tight enough. The Pony dug around in a side pouch on his red laptop backpack. " Here's what's left of it." He took out the miniscule end that had not fallen apart.
Counter Guru went to the back room again. We heard some muffled conversation..."only needs the connector...I don't know...how about five dollars...we have all kinds of them." He came back out front and pushed the connector into the hole. It was a perfect fit. He pulled it out and handed it to The Pony. "There's what you need."
"Great! We were hoping you would have one."
I pulled my household cash reserves from my pocket. "Thank you! How much will that be?"
"No charge. We have a bunch of them."
"Thank you so much! That's a really nice thing to do. I'll be sure to recommend you to everybody."
A lady walked in. "They're the best computer store ever."
Ain't that the truth! I'm giving my proposed handbasket factory future employees the night off. I think those handbaskets can wait one more day.
Monday, January 27, 2014
I Need To Install Security Cameras In My Kitchen
The Pony spent Friday night with his grandma, who dropped him off at bowling league at noon on Saturday. I normally give The Pony his bowling money, but this time I forgot. Hick meets him there, so I knew he would have money for his games, and for lunch. After all, I am the one who doles it out. Hick made sure to inform me on Saturday night that he would be needing reimbursement of his $20 so he could afford his own league on Monday night.
Flash forward to Sunday afternoon, when The Pony and I were headed off to town to meet my mom. As I rounded the kitchen counter, The Pony already standing with one hand on the doorknob, I said, "Wait a minute! I need to leave your dad's $20 before I forget." I went back around and laid the bill under one of his unbunched bananas. I turned my back a minute to grab some leftover fortune cookies for Mom. We were already running late, so I hurriedly joined The Pony to make our exit.
As we drove down the gravel road, we saw that Hick had his Ford F250, his $1000 Caravan, and his Pacifica all parked in front of the BARn. Who knows what kind of Frankensteining was about to be perpetrated. I know that Hick had left earlier on his Goodwill/home show/tire tour, so I assumed he must have been eenie-meenie-minie-moeing to see which vehicle would need major repairs next.
When The Pony and I returned about an hour later, we forgot to spy on Hick across the BARn field. Going up the driveway, all out of sync with our routine because we had left the garage door open as a spring-saving method, we were discombobulated. "Oh. I forgot I don't need to push the door opener," said The Pony, standing, bent at the waist, reaching for the passenger side sun visor from his regular seat behind the driver's. "Huh. There's Dad's Pacifica. I guess he's home. I didn't notice the van, though. So give me the keys just in case." He headed off to carry in some unperishable Walmart spoils from Saturday.
Inside the house, I saw that the twenty was gone from under the banana. "Your dad must be here. His money is gone. Do you see him?"
"No. Everything's off. The front door is locked. Maybe he's gone in the van, or in the BARn."
That was as curious as we got. It's not like the temperature was 1 degree. It was upper 50s. For all I knew, Hick might have been cruising around on his Gator. Because nothing spurs a man to tool around in a bright green open glorified golf cart like spending nine hundred dollars on truck repairs three weeks ago, and a couple hundred on tires that very day, all while having a perfectly good Pacifica for driving anywhere, any time. No search party was being mounted by Val Thevictorian.
"Hey! Look what I found in my pocket!" The Pony pulled a folded twenty from the right front pocket of his camo pants. Not that money means anything to The Pony. He rarely spends. He's not a skimmer like Hick and Genius. "Where did that come from?"
"I don't know. Did you wear those pants to the auction with Dad last week? Maybe you left your money in there."
"No. I didn't put it in my pocket. It was in my wallet. And I don't know where that is right now."
"And I just got those pants off the dryer this morning. They've been washed since then. But that twenty is crisp. I never went through a wash and dry. Huh."
"Here. I know it's not mine."
"Good. Now I have an extra twenty!"
We went about our Sunday afternoon business. Hick returned with no word of his whereabouts. We ate supper. Went our separate ways again until bedtime. On Monday morning, as I was trying to catch a chair nap while Hick was getting ready to leave, I heard him call from the kitchen, "Remember, I need my $20 back for bowling." I had almost dozed off. Ding dang dong it! Hick always picks the worst times to speak.
"Okay. Because we might not be home before you leave for bowling. Wait! I gave you that twenty yesterday!"
"No. You may think you did, but you didn't."
"Yes I did! Right before The Pony and I left, I laid out a twenty under your bananas. It was gone when we got back. PONY! Didn't I lay out Dad's money when we left for town?"
"I don't remember you laying it there."
"Yes you do! I made you wait by the door. I laid it there right in front of you, under a banana so it wouldn't blow away."
"Well, I didn't see you put it there."
"I didn't get a twenty."
"Get one out of the inside of my purse, where I keep the house money folded, in the back left." Several minutes passed. "Did you get your money?"
"Well, I'm looking for it. Folded, did you say?"
"Just bring it in here! Turn on the light! What are you doing?" Hick had my whole checkbook out, digging through the middle, when any fool knows I keep the house money in the folds of the purse, and not with my allowance inside the checkbook. I grudgingly pried out a twenty for Hick. Off he went. Nap ruined, I picked up the phone to call my mom. WAIT A MINUTE!
"Hold on, Mom. PONY! You picked up that twenty and put it in your pocket, didn't you? The one under the bananas?"
"I don't remember doing that."
"It's the only explanation. Mom, you're not going to believe what I go through around here."
"Oh, I believe you."
And she's not just taking my side because I'm her precious five-dollar daughter to whom she gave not a shred of currency this leftover-donation time.
Flash forward to Sunday afternoon, when The Pony and I were headed off to town to meet my mom. As I rounded the kitchen counter, The Pony already standing with one hand on the doorknob, I said, "Wait a minute! I need to leave your dad's $20 before I forget." I went back around and laid the bill under one of his unbunched bananas. I turned my back a minute to grab some leftover fortune cookies for Mom. We were already running late, so I hurriedly joined The Pony to make our exit.
As we drove down the gravel road, we saw that Hick had his Ford F250, his $1000 Caravan, and his Pacifica all parked in front of the BARn. Who knows what kind of Frankensteining was about to be perpetrated. I know that Hick had left earlier on his Goodwill/home show/tire tour, so I assumed he must have been eenie-meenie-minie-moeing to see which vehicle would need major repairs next.
When The Pony and I returned about an hour later, we forgot to spy on Hick across the BARn field. Going up the driveway, all out of sync with our routine because we had left the garage door open as a spring-saving method, we were discombobulated. "Oh. I forgot I don't need to push the door opener," said The Pony, standing, bent at the waist, reaching for the passenger side sun visor from his regular seat behind the driver's. "Huh. There's Dad's Pacifica. I guess he's home. I didn't notice the van, though. So give me the keys just in case." He headed off to carry in some unperishable Walmart spoils from Saturday.
Inside the house, I saw that the twenty was gone from under the banana. "Your dad must be here. His money is gone. Do you see him?"
"No. Everything's off. The front door is locked. Maybe he's gone in the van, or in the BARn."
That was as curious as we got. It's not like the temperature was 1 degree. It was upper 50s. For all I knew, Hick might have been cruising around on his Gator. Because nothing spurs a man to tool around in a bright green open glorified golf cart like spending nine hundred dollars on truck repairs three weeks ago, and a couple hundred on tires that very day, all while having a perfectly good Pacifica for driving anywhere, any time. No search party was being mounted by Val Thevictorian.
"Hey! Look what I found in my pocket!" The Pony pulled a folded twenty from the right front pocket of his camo pants. Not that money means anything to The Pony. He rarely spends. He's not a skimmer like Hick and Genius. "Where did that come from?"
"I don't know. Did you wear those pants to the auction with Dad last week? Maybe you left your money in there."
"No. I didn't put it in my pocket. It was in my wallet. And I don't know where that is right now."
"And I just got those pants off the dryer this morning. They've been washed since then. But that twenty is crisp. I never went through a wash and dry. Huh."
"Here. I know it's not mine."
"Good. Now I have an extra twenty!"
We went about our Sunday afternoon business. Hick returned with no word of his whereabouts. We ate supper. Went our separate ways again until bedtime. On Monday morning, as I was trying to catch a chair nap while Hick was getting ready to leave, I heard him call from the kitchen, "Remember, I need my $20 back for bowling." I had almost dozed off. Ding dang dong it! Hick always picks the worst times to speak.
"Okay. Because we might not be home before you leave for bowling. Wait! I gave you that twenty yesterday!"
"No. You may think you did, but you didn't."
"Yes I did! Right before The Pony and I left, I laid out a twenty under your bananas. It was gone when we got back. PONY! Didn't I lay out Dad's money when we left for town?"
"I don't remember you laying it there."
"Yes you do! I made you wait by the door. I laid it there right in front of you, under a banana so it wouldn't blow away."
"Well, I didn't see you put it there."
"I didn't get a twenty."
"Get one out of the inside of my purse, where I keep the house money folded, in the back left." Several minutes passed. "Did you get your money?"
"Well, I'm looking for it. Folded, did you say?"
"Just bring it in here! Turn on the light! What are you doing?" Hick had my whole checkbook out, digging through the middle, when any fool knows I keep the house money in the folds of the purse, and not with my allowance inside the checkbook. I grudgingly pried out a twenty for Hick. Off he went. Nap ruined, I picked up the phone to call my mom. WAIT A MINUTE!
"Hold on, Mom. PONY! You picked up that twenty and put it in your pocket, didn't you? The one under the bananas?"
"I don't remember doing that."
"It's the only explanation. Mom, you're not going to believe what I go through around here."
"Oh, I believe you."
And she's not just taking my side because I'm her precious five-dollar daughter to whom she gave not a shred of currency this leftover-donation time.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
You Get What I Pay For
This morning Hick took off to check out those automatic-kick-on
generators that run on propane from a tank outside your house that will
sit there, menacing, ever-ready to blow you sky-high, until just the
right instant when its services are needed to supply you with heat/AC
and light and computers and TV and washers and dryers and refrigeratiors
and ovens and microwaves to warm up and heat food instead of cooking.
There was a giant annual home show nearby.
Since the home show didn't open for a few hours, Hick informed me that he would be stopping by Goodwill to look for bargains, and then taking his tire for repair. Nevermind that he could have removed the broken spring from the garage so my mom could drop if off and have a new one created on Monday. Hick said he patched that behemoth with a clamp, like he did when HIS garage door spring broke, and it lasted a good six months before we had to deal with it. Uh huh. That was six months of spring and summer. Not below-zero temperatures that are in the forecast again all week. I am going to make Hick open my garage door when he leaves each morning, to make sure that spring doesn't break and trap The Pony and I inside and make us miss school. I would certainly hate to look for keys to the other four vehicles and wonder if they have gas and inflated tires.
And speaking of tires...Hick mentioned that the tires on that $1000, 2000 Caravan were in worse shape than he originally thought. WHAT?
"Didn't you just get snow tires put on the van last year?"
"Yes. ON THE FRONT!" He said that like any fool would know that you only put snow tires on the front of a 2000 Dodge Caravan. Like that's in the manufacturer's specifications in the owner's manual that nobody ever reads.
"So we didn't get four new tires last year?"
"No. Just two. On the front. It's a back tire that's flat. They were on it when we bought the van from Missy from work. They weren't her original tires. Bob at work got new tires on his van, and his old ones were better than the ones on Missy's van, so he gave them to her. Then we bought it, and they were those tires."
"Huh. Shame he didn't give her a speedometer needle that would actually spin instead of laying on its side at the bottom of that dial."
"Whatever. I don't see the point in getting an old tire like that fixed. It's going to need a new tire."
"Doesn't that mean you'll have to get TWO new tires?" Even I know you don't keep one threadbare.
"Yeah. I'm going to need two tires."
Between car insurance with our two teenage male drivers, and all the Frankenstein parts we've put on that $1000 Caravan, I figure we could have bought a brand new one with the outlay.
At least we're saving money on that garage door spring.
Since the home show didn't open for a few hours, Hick informed me that he would be stopping by Goodwill to look for bargains, and then taking his tire for repair. Nevermind that he could have removed the broken spring from the garage so my mom could drop if off and have a new one created on Monday. Hick said he patched that behemoth with a clamp, like he did when HIS garage door spring broke, and it lasted a good six months before we had to deal with it. Uh huh. That was six months of spring and summer. Not below-zero temperatures that are in the forecast again all week. I am going to make Hick open my garage door when he leaves each morning, to make sure that spring doesn't break and trap The Pony and I inside and make us miss school. I would certainly hate to look for keys to the other four vehicles and wonder if they have gas and inflated tires.
And speaking of tires...Hick mentioned that the tires on that $1000, 2000 Caravan were in worse shape than he originally thought. WHAT?
"Didn't you just get snow tires put on the van last year?"
"Yes. ON THE FRONT!" He said that like any fool would know that you only put snow tires on the front of a 2000 Dodge Caravan. Like that's in the manufacturer's specifications in the owner's manual that nobody ever reads.
"So we didn't get four new tires last year?"
"No. Just two. On the front. It's a back tire that's flat. They were on it when we bought the van from Missy from work. They weren't her original tires. Bob at work got new tires on his van, and his old ones were better than the ones on Missy's van, so he gave them to her. Then we bought it, and they were those tires."
"Huh. Shame he didn't give her a speedometer needle that would actually spin instead of laying on its side at the bottom of that dial."
"Whatever. I don't see the point in getting an old tire like that fixed. It's going to need a new tire."
"Doesn't that mean you'll have to get TWO new tires?" Even I know you don't keep one threadbare.
"Yeah. I'm going to need two tires."
Between car insurance with our two teenage male drivers, and all the Frankenstein parts we've put on that $1000 Caravan, I figure we could have bought a brand new one with the outlay.
At least we're saving money on that garage door spring.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
The Official Spokesman and the Conclusion-Jumper
Hick is working himself to the bone for no good reason. Why should he crawl around in swarf pits, take machines apart and put them back together, dangle high above the concrete floor on ladders and man-lifts while entwined in electrical wires which he assumes are un-live...when he could simply be the official spokesman for a company with something to hide? Not that Hick is crafty like a fox, or a silver-tongued talker. Or even evasive. Well, I'll concede that Hick attempts to be evasive. But he's no good at it. If his job depended on him being deliberately evasive, he would never win an Oscar.
This morning Hick left for work at the regular time, an hour before I arose. He works half days on Saturday, then meets The Pony at the bowling alley for the youth league. I called my mom to see how she and The Pony weathered the night, took a shower, wrote out some bills, paid for Genius's new semester books with an eCheck, and called Garage Door Springs R Us to see if they could solve my new carport predicament. They could not.
Just as I was packing up my cell phone to head to Walmart, I got a text from Hick: "I have a flat tire. I noticed it when I got to First Blacktop Road." Oh, dear. Had Hick been sitting in his $1000 Caravan for three hours, waiting for me to wake up and come help him? Surely not. He's smarter than that. In the very least, he would have no qualms about calling and waking me up the minute he needed a ride. So what was he up to now? This tire business could throw a monkey wrench into my plans. I called Hick. He didn't answer. Huh. You'd think he would still have his phone handy. Oh, well. I sent him a text back: "What do I need to do? Since you won't bother to answer your phone." Nothing. Deader than a doornail was my cell.
I started out the kitchen door. The house phone rang. I hurried back inside to grab it before the machine picked up. You'd think that Hick would have called me right back on the cell. The one I texted from not two minutes earlier. You see, around here, the cell only works outside or on the main floor. When I'm in my dark basement lair, cows could text me to say, "Quit dancing. We're coming home." And I'd never know. Once I'm in the basement, my cell phone ceases existence. I only answer the house phone. So it should have been obvious to Hick that I was either out about town, or within arm's reach of my cell.
Anyhoo, I grabbed that house phone, and one of the most inane conversations ofall time this week commenced.
"Why didn't you pick up?"
"I guess my phone was still on silent. I was in a meeting."
"You texted me from a meeting. Then got my text. How could you not know I was calling?"
"I'm not in a meeting."
"Where are you? What do I need to do about your tire?"
"I'm at work."
"How will you get home?"
"Drive."
"Driving on a flat ruins the tire."
"I KNOW that."
"Well, what are you going to do about your tire?"
"I'll get it fixed."
"Do you have a spare?"
"I don't know. I might."
"Well, how are you getting it fixed?"
"I'll take it off and get it looked at."
"What about The Pony? Do I need to get him from bowling?"
"No. I'll get him at bowling."
"You're getting your tire fixed."
"I don't have to do it TODAY."
"But how are you getting to bowling?"
"I'm driving."
"You can't drive on a flat tire!"
"I KNOW that!"
"But your tire is flat!"
"Yeah. On my van. In the garage. I drove The Pony's truck."
"Then why did you text me about your flat tire?"
"Just to let you know."
You'd think, perhaps, that Hick might have let me know from the beginning that he came back and got The Pony's truck, and that eventually he was going to need a tire repair or new tire. But that's not the way Hick's communication skills are wired. He's going to keep this up until I totally disregard any communique that others immune to his ways might see as vital. In simpler times, Hick might have been the boy who cried wolf, only to explain to the villagers that he was merely showing them he knew what to do in case of an attack emergency.
Hick. The man who called flat.
This morning Hick left for work at the regular time, an hour before I arose. He works half days on Saturday, then meets The Pony at the bowling alley for the youth league. I called my mom to see how she and The Pony weathered the night, took a shower, wrote out some bills, paid for Genius's new semester books with an eCheck, and called Garage Door Springs R Us to see if they could solve my new carport predicament. They could not.
Just as I was packing up my cell phone to head to Walmart, I got a text from Hick: "I have a flat tire. I noticed it when I got to First Blacktop Road." Oh, dear. Had Hick been sitting in his $1000 Caravan for three hours, waiting for me to wake up and come help him? Surely not. He's smarter than that. In the very least, he would have no qualms about calling and waking me up the minute he needed a ride. So what was he up to now? This tire business could throw a monkey wrench into my plans. I called Hick. He didn't answer. Huh. You'd think he would still have his phone handy. Oh, well. I sent him a text back: "What do I need to do? Since you won't bother to answer your phone." Nothing. Deader than a doornail was my cell.
I started out the kitchen door. The house phone rang. I hurried back inside to grab it before the machine picked up. You'd think that Hick would have called me right back on the cell. The one I texted from not two minutes earlier. You see, around here, the cell only works outside or on the main floor. When I'm in my dark basement lair, cows could text me to say, "Quit dancing. We're coming home." And I'd never know. Once I'm in the basement, my cell phone ceases existence. I only answer the house phone. So it should have been obvious to Hick that I was either out about town, or within arm's reach of my cell.
Anyhoo, I grabbed that house phone, and one of the most inane conversations of
"Why didn't you pick up?"
"I guess my phone was still on silent. I was in a meeting."
"You texted me from a meeting. Then got my text. How could you not know I was calling?"
"I'm not in a meeting."
"Where are you? What do I need to do about your tire?"
"I'm at work."
"How will you get home?"
"Drive."
"Driving on a flat ruins the tire."
"I KNOW that."
"Well, what are you going to do about your tire?"
"I'll get it fixed."
"Do you have a spare?"
"I don't know. I might."
"Well, how are you getting it fixed?"
"I'll take it off and get it looked at."
"What about The Pony? Do I need to get him from bowling?"
"No. I'll get him at bowling."
"You're getting your tire fixed."
"I don't have to do it TODAY."
"But how are you getting to bowling?"
"I'm driving."
"You can't drive on a flat tire!"
"I KNOW that!"
"But your tire is flat!"
"Yeah. On my van. In the garage. I drove The Pony's truck."
"Then why did you text me about your flat tire?"
"Just to let you know."
You'd think, perhaps, that Hick might have let me know from the beginning that he came back and got The Pony's truck, and that eventually he was going to need a tire repair or new tire. But that's not the way Hick's communication skills are wired. He's going to keep this up until I totally disregard any communique that others immune to his ways might see as vital. In simpler times, Hick might have been the boy who cried wolf, only to explain to the villagers that he was merely showing them he knew what to do in case of an attack emergency.
Hick. The man who called flat.
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