Before Sending Your Son Out Into the World, Make Sure You Belt Him First

The Pony is on his way to Missouri Scholars Academy. This will require living out from under my thumb, off my apron strings, for three weeks. THREE WEEKS!

This is a kid who does not even comb his hair. I slick it down in the morning at the kitchen sink if it is unruly from being slept on wet after his nightly shower. At least he is potty-trained, and brushes his teeth, and knows how to apply antiperspirant. I've been harping at him that he must eat something each meal, even though chicken may not be served three times a day. I've told him to drink plenty of water. How to do his laundry by using Tide Pods. How to declare that he would like to dance, but alas, does not know how, because girls simply LOVE a project like that.

Hick, on the other hand, gave him three pieces of advice. 1) A clip-on tie is good enough. Genius nearly had a conniption over this. He has a bit more sartorial flair. 2) Boys part their hair on the right side; girls part their hair on the left. I think I've mentioned this Hick Rule before. It drives me batty. And not just because I part my hair on the left. 3) Boys put on their belt by poking it through loops and sending it around the left side of their waist; girls put on their belt by poking it through loops and sending it around the right side of their waist. Seriously. Have you ever heard such a thing? I think belt looping depends on left- and right-handedness. Whichever way is easier to put that thing on and yank it back and put the lever through the holes. I know buttons are different for men and women. But that belt rule I've never heard of.

Needless to say, The Pony is a bit confused. Not about his gender, but about these arbitrary hair and belt rules. He has a double crown, as his old daycare-lady-the-former-beautician used to say when she cut his hair for free. His hair parts best on the left, though. And when Hick spoke sharply to stop his "wrong-way" belt-threading, The Pony said, "Wait. You mean there are loops all the way around, not just in the front?"

I need to keep a close eye on Hick, lest he start passing out business cards for House of Hick: Grooming and Etiquette Lessons for the Modern Man.

Val is No Relation to Petey the Our Gang Dog

Perhaps I have revealed a bit of personal details concerning my recent dalliance with blood-thinners. Shh...do not violate my hippy HIPAA rights by distributing my medical information to unscrupulous parties. I do not need traveling salesmen hawking corks and stoppers to arrive on my porch in an effort to sell me supplies for staunching the flow of my life fluid should an unfortunate blood-letting accident occur.

I must remain ever-vigilant so as not to waste a drop. Oh. Sorry about that if any of you faint at the sight or mention of blood. Perhaps you should sit down, put your head between your knees, and think about cotton candy and golden retriever puppies and rainbows and unicorns. There now. The rest of us are continuing on this adventure.

I only noticed about three days after my hospital discharge that I had an egg buried under my skin around the waistline area. An ostrich egg, it felt like. Each day, it decreased a bit, to a double-yolk, a regular egg, a banty egg, then a jawbreaker. It's still there. But now I know what it is. My doctor said that when I got my third shot of intra-fat bloodthinner, the nurse must have nicked a small vein. So that blood leaked out and formed an egg. Okay, he didn't say it in those exact words, but that's what he meant. Now that midriff area is all colors of the rainbow, no longer deep purple, and itches like the dickens.

Each day, I am careful not to enter an MMA title match, moonlight as a crash test dummy, climb into the dryer for a spin, or walk through a juvenile detention center like that of Sean Penn and Esai Morales in the original Bad Boys (caution, clip is rated R for raging bloody violence) after angering one of the detainees, lest I be beaten with several cans of cola in a pillowcase. And for the same reason, I do my best not to mess up Full Metal Jacket basic training drills for my fellow soldiers, lest they try the same trick with bars of soap in a pillowcase after I have succumbed to slumber in my upper bunk. I do everything possible to protect my network of veins and arteries from undue pressure.

On Wednesday morning, I awoke with a sinus headache. My nasal cavities were congested. Since I did not think it prudent to swallow an aspirin, I reached for the bug-shaped mini-vibrator on the table next to Hick's La-Z-Boy. Don't go there. It's a little doodad off the shelf at Walmart. I put two of the feet on my head, and it vibrates that snot loose and relieves the headache. Of course, I have to blow my nose about twenty times, but it's worth it to lose the headache. Sometimes, I also have to apply those vibrating bug feet to my cheek area, and also push the ball of my nose to one side to get proper vibratage. I was doing just that Wednesday morning, when a bug foot slipped past my nose ball and whacked me really hard under my left eye, right on that orbit bone at the top of the cheek.

I have been cautiously peering into the morning mirror to see if I have given myself a shiner. I must have few blood vessels across that thin-skinned bone, because as yet I do not look like I've taken a beating.

That might be hard to explain.

Re-Visiting Val's Watery Grave

Well. Someone who shall remain nameless, but has made a name for himself by being cranky and quizzing us on fake headlines every week, has deduced the true purpose of Val's in-creek tombstone. He thinks it is a fish trap. Here's another angle:

Pardon me. I am not a woman of the world. The extent of Val's travels are Montana to the north, Massachusetts to the east, Florida to the south, and Alaska to the northiest and west. But I must protest this fish-trap theory. Backroads is not so backward that its folks have not heard of a fishing pole. Yep. Even if it's a piece of twine tied to the end of a cane pole, we are privy (heh, heh, I said privy) to that newfangled method of harvesting our scaly friends from the drink. It's not like we're one big Dogpatch where our denizens dip into muddy pools near submerged logs at undercut banks, sticking our fists into holes to noodle for catfish. Nor do we chase along the shallow rapids like awkward hairless bears, grabbing salmon with our front paws. In fact, we do not even club halibut if they jump into the boat unsolicited. No, we are up-to-date on all the latest fishing lore and lure.

Neither are we those Naked and Afraid people left in the wilderness for 21 days with no food or water to sink or swim. They may have need for such a fish trap, but we Backroadsians do not. I wonder about the fine people of New Jersey, where the Fish Trap Theorist resides. Surely the citizens do not wander about, naked and afraid. Naked, maybe, after a few too many dirty-water cocktails. But I doubt they are afraid. Is this how they catch fish in New Jersey? My Magic 8 Ball says, "My sources say no."

Besides...it would take a mighty big fish to knock over this fence post of a stick. And then it would be crushed by that hefty Bedrock fish-smasher.

No. I do not think it is a fish trap here in Backroads. More like a marker to steer ne'er-do-wells in a certain direction for their ne'er-do-wellian activities. It is clearly visible from the county blacktop road.

I wish I was wrong. But the conspiracy theorist in me says I'm not.

Rumors of My Demise Have Been Locally Exaggerated

Hey! Have you heard? I recently spent some time in the big hospital. That's not like the big house, where hard-core prisoners are locked away with ten consecutive life sentences. It's the big hospital. In the city. Not our little Backroads hospitals where people tell you not to go because they'll kill you. Such healthcare snobs, we Backroadsian folk are.

Once I returned home, I was pretty much a homebody. Too weak to carouse. Too weak to make a sortie to town for the essentials of life: 44 oz. Diet Coke and gas station chicken. My mom drove me to a couple of doctor appointments. I didn't much look around. Just held on and watched out for oncoming traffic so I could scream at Mom: "Watch out! I'm on blood-thinners, you know. If that truck smashes into my side of the car, I will spout blood like Old Faithful. But just know this. I forgive you for my exsanguination."

Monday I drove to school to do some unauthorized work to wrap up the year. My mind was on getting there and back. Not on the local scenery. Yesterday I met Mom halfway, and she drove me the rest of the way for a lab appointment so she could drop me off at the door. And in case I felt faint from the bloodletting afterwards. Again. Not concentrating on the surroundings. Today, The Pony and I could put off our Walmart provisions trip no longer. I decided to dip my tootsies in the shopping pool again. I have been feeling a little stronger each day. So as we went down our gravel road, approaching the mailbox row, I turned my head to check the creek for any of those big gangly birds we sometimes see, who take off like awkward low-on-power helicopters.

This is what I saw:

Yeah. Somebody had erected a tombstone for me. Not just any tombstone. No slab of pink granite hoisted to ninety degrees by some world-class champion cow-tippers moonlighting as tombstone erectors. Nope. Somebody had to wade out in that creek, pry that slippery tombstone rock from the bottom, and balance it with a big stick.

Seriously. Some people have too much time on their hands. At least they threw up this monument, which I am SURE was for little old me, and left EmBee our mailbox alone.

I suppose everybody needs a hobby. I am awaiting the hobbyist who carves names in stone.

What She Needs is a Good Fence

My mom is at it again, silently feuding with her helpful neighbor. Maybe silently fuming would be a better description.

"I went out to sit on the porch last night, just before it got dark. I sit behind that tree with the flowers on it so that new neighbor can't see me. But here he came! He was just here yesterday with my mail that got left in his box."

"That's kind of odd. Your mailwoman knows you. She wouldn't put you mail in another box. Even though she took that thank-you card you put in there for your friend."

"I know. I wonder if we have a substitute carrier this week."

I didn't want to ask if she thought the neighbor might have taken the mail out of her box, and just SAID it was put in his. This is the guy who had the tree fall across his driveway, and Mom said she would not help him or give him food if he couldn't get out, because he has a wife.

"So, he came over and said that he's having a family get-together this weekend, and he wondered if he and his wife could park their cars on my side of the road, along my property. I told him, 'You can pull both of your cars down my driveway and park them on that concrete slab, but make sure you leave my driveway clear so I can get out.' He said he might have about 25 cars there."

"Didn't they do this last year? And they were parked all along the road?"

"Yes, but he asked. And I think he has room on his land to park 25 cars. I really hope they don't shoot off fireworks. That was terrible on the Fourth of July. I was afraid they might land one on my roof. And it was SO LOUD! He came over and apologized the next day. And do you know what I told him? I said, 'Well, I would think you were smart enough not to aim any at my house.' Then I felt like I probably shouldn't have said that. But it made me mad that they shot so many fireworks."

"I hope his people can get around that part of the tree trunk that's still there."

"I think they can."

My mom also has a passing relationship with an old man that lives down at the bottom of her hill. Passing relationship, as in, she waves at him every time she passes. "He's always out there, and he just WAVES, so I wave back. I don't even know his name."

"Maybe he'll bring you a couple bags of hedgeapples in about 11 years, since that other guy moved to Branson."

"Maybe."

You'd think Mom would be more receptive to that new neighbor. All he's ever done is try to help her during the snow. What's a few fireworks between neighbors?

When it Rains, it Deluges

Why don't we Thevictorians change our family name to Morton, and move into a giant blue cylindrical box?

That's a rhetorical question. Not a riddle. Not survey. Not a contest.

Perhaps you've heard about my unfortunate hospitalization last Friday for multiple bilateral pulmonary embolisms. If not, remind me sometime and I'll tell you about it. During that interlude, Hick backed T-Hoe out of the garage and broke off the passenger mirror. Genius came home this Friday, because the brakes on his truck don't stop him. In addition, his truck radio went kaput. Oh, and last night, while sitting in my dark basement lair chatting with my best old ex-teaching buddy, Mabel...I heard a giant POP!

The noise sounded like it came from Hick's basement workshop, on the other side of my office wall. Hick came down and combed the room to see what the hubbub was about. Of course he found nothing. The air conditioner was still cooling. The electricity was still powering my New Delly and the big-screen TV. Mabel was still conversing in my ear. All was right with the Thevictorian world. Or was it?

At 9:45, The Pony forsook me at the end of Cutthroat Kitchen to go upstairs for his nightly shower. I heard him turn on the shower. It's right above my head when I sit in my blue basement recliner. Then I heard a heated exchange between The Pony and Hick. Um. The Pony does not have heated exchanges. So I listened closer. It was more of an excited exchange. Something was wrong with the shower. As in, the shower was not showering The Pony with water.

Hick came tromping downstairs. In his tighty whities, but thankfully not in my navy blue Crocs like I caught him last week. He entered the workroom and started rummaging. Came out with a Bible-sized hunk of hardware that included a black cylinder with the top flapping, wires, circuits, thingamajigs and dealybobbers. "It's the well. The capacitor blew. We have no water. Tomorrow, when the drilling companies open, I'll swing by and see if they have a capacitor. I'll put it in and see if we get water. If not, I'm going to have to call a driller out here to replace the well pump. That will be about $1000. The capacitor is about $5. We'll get our water back."

I needed to go to work today to finish up grades and check out for the summer. I wasn't supposed to, but I needed to. I planned to spend two hours there, with The Pony doing my heavy lifting. The thought of heading off without a shower or shampoo was not appealing. Thank goodness my knight in tarnished auction armor found a kit to fix that part for $80. He rushed home mid-morning and had water pumping before I even left for work. He rocks.

"I saw the neighbor out in his yard when I left for work at 6:00. He had a capacitor, but it was not big enough for our well. He said he always keeps a spare. It fits his and the neighbor's up the road. He says he's changed his five or six times. I could have ordered just the capacitor, but we would have had to wait to get our water back. And that might not even have been it. So I just bought the whole kit. Now I'll order a spare capacitor to have on hand."

Yes, Thevictorian is the new Morton. A pair of lungs that work clotfree? Arm-and-a-leg. A Tahoe folding side mirror? Three hundred dollars from a dealer. Brakes for a Ford Ranger? Seventy dollars in parts and free Hick labor. Radio for a Ford Ranger? Ten dollars at a junkyard. Capacitor for a well pump? Eighty dollars in a hurry.

My resident fix-it man Hick? PRICELESS!

The End of a Screaming Era

Screaming Mimi soon wore out her welcome. As if the constant berating and belittling and screaming were not enough, she snagged any person who walking into our room and bade them to do her bidding. She had the Bosnian food service lady helping her find a way to wash her face. She tried to waylay my RN, who made a quick getaway by saying, "I'll tell YOUR RN." She almost ran from the room as Screaming Mimi sneered, "SURE you will! You always leave! Nobody ever helps me!" Visits to check on Screaming Mimi grew fewer and briefer. Which also meant visits to ME grew fewer.

I was fairly self-sufficient. The staff had taught me to fend for myself. I'm surprised they didn't have me helping Screaming Mimi. I was the Tattoo to their Mr. Roarke. The Short Round to their Indiana Jones. The Ho-Jon to their Hawkeye Pierce. They taught me to turn off my pulse-ox machine before unplugging to get out of bed, so the alarm didn't go off. And how to turn it back on and adjust the volume so it didn't beep. I asked for very little. In fact, on shift change, one of the RNs told the new one, "This is Mrs. Thevictorian. She's a gem." Indeed. Compared to the raw ore in the bed beside me.

A new doctor came to attend Screaming Mimi, since the pulmonologist refused to listen to her rants. He even stayed for 30 minutes and helped the RN and two patient care technicians (one of whom was Bryce, her favorite fair-haired golden boy) change the dressings on her pressure sores while Mimi screamed that they were killing her. I think her exact quote was, "WHY DON'T YOU JUST STICK A KNIFE IN MY HEART?" The staff was good at tuning her out. The new doctor was a glutton for punishment. "We need a way to admit her. She's only in for observation. I think this one is infected. It is oozing. We're admitting her." I could feel the spirit drain out of the staff at that pronouncement. After all that effort, new sheets for the third time that day, a clean gown, and two spoons for her morning coffee, Screaming Mimi showed her thanks by hollering as they left the room.

"We'll be back. Use the call button if you need us."

"YOU WON'T BE BACK! NOBODY COMES BACK! YOU ALL GO OUT TO THE MOVIES, OUT TO LUNCH. COME BACK HERE!"

Bryce stuck his head around the curtain. "Sorry about that. Can I get anything for you?"

"You are SO good at your job! I don't know how you do it. You're her favorite. No, I don't need anything."

"Oh, I used to work in a psych ward. A guy threw a chair through the window one day. You get used to it."

Bryce got a call on his collar radio. He was quite busy that day. Somebody kept coming unhooked from their heart telemetry dealybobber, he had an old guy with diarrhea who needed frequent bed changes, patient switches that other care technicians asked for, and Screaming Mimi.

Screaming Mimi decided that she needed to call her husband. "HELP! HELP!" It took a few minutes for the villagers to come see what new wolf Mimi was crying about. "I want to make a call." Never mind that Bryce had already showed her how to dial an outside number on her phone. She wanted the RN to do it for her.

"Okay. I have the phone. What number do you want me to dial?"

"ONE SIX SEVEN."

"Uh...that doesn't sound like the right number. Who are you trying to call? Your husband? I'll go check your records to find that number for you."

"NO! COME BACK! YOU'LL NEVER COME BACK!" Not if she was smart, she wouldn't. Mimi Screamed for help again. Bryce returned.

"What can I do for you?"

"I NEED TO USE THE BATHROOM!"

"No, you can't go to the bathroom. Here. I'll get your potty. Now, let me get your legs over the edge so I can help you out of bed."

"DON'T TOUCH UNDER MY ARMS!"

"I'm not. I'm using this gadget, like last time. It goes around your waist so I can lift you. Ready?"

"OWWW! OWWW!"

Another patient care technician came in to see what was wrong. Bryce got Mimi on the potty. "I WANT TO MAKE A PHONE CALL!"

"Here. Here's your phone. Dial 9 to get out. I'll be back when you're done. Use the call button."

"NO! YOU NEVER COME BACK!"

"I'll be back. But right now we're all going to Rome and Paris and London. Call me when you're done." Screaming Mimi was so taken aback by his humor concerning her earlier claims that she shut up. I heard her fiddling with the phone. And I heard Hick out in the hall. He was waiting for her to get off the pot. And I heard another voice. It was Screaming Mimi's husband!

Mr. Mimi came in and told Mimi he had brought her a few things. She had her back to him on the pot, and talked to him like he was on the phone. A crafty one, that Mimi. The staffer that brought him in said, "No, he's right here. Look. It's your husband. He came to visit." Well. That changed everything. Mimi started right in screaming at him for having her brought to the hospital. I had to feel sorry for the old guy.

"Maybe they can take care of you better than I can. They'll make you better. I'm sorry. I tried. Can I get you anything?"

"YOU CAN GET ME OUT OF HERE! THIS PLACE IS A SHITHOLE! TAKE ME HOME!"

"Now don't start. You're better off here right now. I can't do it." Mimi carried on with her screaming. Finally, Mr. Mimi said, "I have to run down to the car. I left my cell phone in there. John is supposed to be getting in today. I don't want to miss his call." He left the room, as Mimi screamed away. Bryce came in to check on the hubbub and saw that Mimi had finally done her business on the pot. She demanded a new gown.

"I don't think you need one. That's just a tiny spot. It's not pee. It's a little drop of coffee you spilled with your spoon. It's okay for now. I have another patient waiting on me."

Hick came back in. My RN came in and asked if I'd seen the doctor. I told her that he had said two hours ago that I could go home. She couldn't find it in the records, and went to call him. Physical Therapy came to make me take a walk around the nurses' station and lay down in bed unassisted. I passed the criteria on oxygen levels to go home. So all we had to do was hurry up and wait. Hick filled me in that Mr. Mimi went out in the hall and said, "I have my cell phone. I just had to get out of there. I don't know how your wife has survived being in that room with her. I can't take it anymore."

So...my orders finally came through around 3:00 on Sunday. I was parked in the hall in a wheelchair until Bryce had time to wheel me out. Mr. Mimi asked if I had gotten any sleep for the past two nights, and I told him, "About three hours." Bryce said he told his other patients, who kept asking what was up with all the screaming, that I was a saint. He pushed me past the nurses' station while the RN said I wasn't cleared yet. "Clear her!" said Bryce, without slowing down. "We'll be going out the main entrance."

Just as we passed though the double doors, halfway into the sunlight, Bryce got a call on his collar radio that I was not supposed to leave, because I had a prescription waiting for me. He told the RN to bring it down. I think she was shocked. She got even, though, because she went to the wrong entrance, and stepped out and waved the paper, and made Bryce run to get it. Whew! I was afraid my getaway had been halted.

I don't know what happened to Screaming Mimi and her poor put-upon husband. But something tells me if she's still at MoBap, the nurses just might be trying to find a way to legally give her heroin. Or at least chardonnay.