Whew! My first day back at work was a scorcher. It's not as if I was stringing electrical cables across the Mojave Desert. I was in a climate-controlled building. But the temps outside were frightful. So humid this morning, 90 percent when we left home, and temperatures in the seventies before 7:00 a.m.
As is my way, I bump up the thermostat when we're going to be away from the house all day. Our old thermostat used to have a program for that, but I don't think this new one does. You know. The new one the heating & cooling guy put on the wall when he "fixed" the air conditioner last summer, saying our thermostat was not working, and taking it with him in his truck. I'm sure some customer from Craig's List is enjoying it as I type. Anyway, this new thermostat requires a person to manually switch it from "heating" to "cooling" depending on the season. Crikey! It's like the stone age. Says the woman who still has no dishwasher.
This morning, after my shower, and before my recliner nap, I bumped up that thermostat from the overnight setting of 73 to the daytime setting of 74. You wouldn't believe how refreshing one more degree of cool is overnight. When The Pony and I started out the door for work, I put the thermostat on 78. No need to cool the house while we're away, only to have it dissipate and need cooling again every 20 minutes or so.
When we returned this afternoon, The Pony went in first. As I came through the kitchen door, I hollered, "Hey! Pony! Bump the air conditioner down to 74."
"Um. It's 75 in here. I can't bump it down to 74, because it's already set on 71. You forgot to lower it this morning."
"I did not! I set it at 78. There's no way it can be on 71. You're misreading it."
"YOU'RE the one who thought those turkeys in the neighbor's driveway were dogs! And just now, at the bank, thought that rolled-up green hose around the corner by the ATM was a car! YOU must not have seen it right this morning when you set it. Allegedly."
"I know what I put it on. I would never set it on 71 for the day. That's cooler than we have it at night!"
"All I know is what I see. Right now, it's on 71."
"Well, put it up to 74. No way would the temperature in here be 75 if the thing had been set on 71 all day! I think you moved it down too far when you came in."
"No..ooo..ooo. I went to change it, but it was on 71."
"There's no way! It even feels hot in here. Put it on 74, and it will eventually go down a degree and shut off."
"Okaaayyyy!" The Pony trotted downstairs to console himself with the two new computer games he bought while using Grandma's high-speed internet today. I cranked back in the La-Z-Boy to rest my achin' back that had been sitting all day.
"If you're talking about the thermostat, I just put it on 71 about 20 minutes ago."
WTF?
The voice came from the master bedroom, and sounded remarkable like Hick, who wasn't due home from work for another half hour. Mystery solved. The Pony and I were both right. But Hick was in the wrong. Very wrong. You don't tug on Superman's cape. You don't spit into the wind. You don't pull the mask off the ol' Lone Ranger...and you don't mess around with Val's thermostat.
Let the record show that Hick had a doctor's appointment today, and came home early from work, and rolled himself up in my grandma's homemade quilt like a hot dog in a tortilla. His head was covered by the quilt, of course, as is his way of sleeping. He knows the temperature I set for the house. I am the bill-payer. He is the frivolous money-waster. I'm sure he thought he could squeeze in a quick nap and reset the thermostat before I noticed.
I suppose one is not comfortable with one's head wrapped up in a quilt at 74 degrees.
Monday, August 11, 2014
Sunday, August 10, 2014
I Know Why the Paper Plate Rips
Do you know the paper plate man, the paper plate man, the paper plate man?
Do you know the paper plate man, who unintentionally drives Val crazy?
What's that? You DO know the paper plate man? And you say his name is Hick? Winner winner chicken dinner! Don't get your hopes up. I meant a figurative chicken dinner. Around here, a literal chicken dinner might mean a wandering bachelor rooster that was cooked instantly when Genius threw a pan of hot grease off the back porch deck. Not that he's done such a thing, of course. He asked first, and was refused permission.
For the past several weeks, I have been finding sections of torn paper plate around the old homestead. In areas frequented by Hick. They are pieces of the plate edge, about the size of an orange slice, unless you're talking about those tiny oranges they give the kids on their school lunch tray, which are the size of premature baby clementines. Sometimes the torn crescent of paper plate rests upon a paper plate with a crescent torn out of it. Which is kind of like finding a book about coffee tables laying on your coffee table.
I know why the paper plate rips. Hick uses the fragment for picking his teeth. Uh huh. Not very ladylike, I agree. He's kind of a Neanderthal. Not that Neanderthals had paper plates. I'm sure they had proper dishes for their womenfolk to wash up after a hard day of being dragged around by their hair.
It's not like I expect Hick to sit at the right hand of Emily Post, sipping tea from a dainty cup, pinky extended. Or to know the proper sequence for chowing down with an 11-piece formal dinner silverware setting. I barely expect him to limit himself to letting only silent farts escape in crowded elevators. Seriously. There is no need to dig at one's bicuspids with a scrap of Great Value Heavy Duty Grease Resistant plate. Not when there is a nearly-full container of toothpicks in the kitchen cabinet. I know Hick knows they're there. Didn't he break the top off the last pack stored there, because he couldn't figure out that it slides open so you can shake out a toothpick? Great mechanical minds are not immune from stumping, it seems.
Yes, this behavior is on par with that time Hick tilted his head back and shook the remaining crumbs from an individual bag of Lay's Potato Chips into his gaping maw, while sitting at a table along the main walkway from Harrah's hotel elevators to the casino. People watched him like he was an ape at the zoo. Thank goodness he didn't fling poop on them. Or that time he took me to McDermott's (now called Pat's Bar and Grill) for fried chicken, and proceeded to suck the tip of each finger and thumb loudly after each bite. Thank goodness most people in there were too sippy happy to notice.
The only consolation for my discovery of Hick's recent spate of misbehavior is that when we dine in public, he can't break off a piece of his plate to use for picking his teeth.
Do you know the paper plate man, who unintentionally drives Val crazy?
What's that? You DO know the paper plate man? And you say his name is Hick? Winner winner chicken dinner! Don't get your hopes up. I meant a figurative chicken dinner. Around here, a literal chicken dinner might mean a wandering bachelor rooster that was cooked instantly when Genius threw a pan of hot grease off the back porch deck. Not that he's done such a thing, of course. He asked first, and was refused permission.
For the past several weeks, I have been finding sections of torn paper plate around the old homestead. In areas frequented by Hick. They are pieces of the plate edge, about the size of an orange slice, unless you're talking about those tiny oranges they give the kids on their school lunch tray, which are the size of premature baby clementines. Sometimes the torn crescent of paper plate rests upon a paper plate with a crescent torn out of it. Which is kind of like finding a book about coffee tables laying on your coffee table.
I know why the paper plate rips. Hick uses the fragment for picking his teeth. Uh huh. Not very ladylike, I agree. He's kind of a Neanderthal. Not that Neanderthals had paper plates. I'm sure they had proper dishes for their womenfolk to wash up after a hard day of being dragged around by their hair.
It's not like I expect Hick to sit at the right hand of Emily Post, sipping tea from a dainty cup, pinky extended. Or to know the proper sequence for chowing down with an 11-piece formal dinner silverware setting. I barely expect him to limit himself to letting only silent farts escape in crowded elevators. Seriously. There is no need to dig at one's bicuspids with a scrap of Great Value Heavy Duty Grease Resistant plate. Not when there is a nearly-full container of toothpicks in the kitchen cabinet. I know Hick knows they're there. Didn't he break the top off the last pack stored there, because he couldn't figure out that it slides open so you can shake out a toothpick? Great mechanical minds are not immune from stumping, it seems.
Yes, this behavior is on par with that time Hick tilted his head back and shook the remaining crumbs from an individual bag of Lay's Potato Chips into his gaping maw, while sitting at a table along the main walkway from Harrah's hotel elevators to the casino. People watched him like he was an ape at the zoo. Thank goodness he didn't fling poop on them. Or that time he took me to McDermott's (now called Pat's Bar and Grill) for fried chicken, and proceeded to suck the tip of each finger and thumb loudly after each bite. Thank goodness most people in there were too sippy happy to notice.
The only consolation for my discovery of Hick's recent spate of misbehavior is that when we dine in public, he can't break off a piece of his plate to use for picking his teeth.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Not Suitable Reading for Pregnant Women, Folks with Heart Conditions, or Scaredy Cats
Sometimes, there are things more horrifying than discovering in the outpatient-surgery waiting room that the cracker crumbs on your husband's shirt are actually flakes of dry skin from his goatee.
Like when you are making yourself a delicious plate of super nachos for your lupper, the chips all layered with shredded extra-sharp cheddar, fajita chicken, Save A Lot Senora Verde Mild Salsa, sour cream, and black olives...and you hear a tiny "plop" from somewhere to the left of your visual field.
Oh, you might just think it's that 9x13 glass baking pan that you left on the stove from last night's Shake 'N' Bake pork steaks, heating up because it's on the burner, and you have the oven going to warm up your fajita chicken. Yes. That could be it. The congealed pan-drippings, perhaps, have released a bubble like a more-high-calorie, less-colorful, lava lamp. That would certainly make a sound like "plop."
And that little movement you sensed at the bottom of the microwave, just above that pork-steak dish, could have been a blob of grease plopping up high to hit the vent fan. Indeed. Anything is possible when you don't want to face the horror. Until the horror grabs your face with both hands, and MAKES YOU LOOK!
Uh huh. While glancing curiously in the direction of the perceived movement, the true gravity of the situation wrests the hands of horror from your cheeks, and splashes them with the ice-cold water of reality. AN EIGHT-SPINDLY-LEGGED HARVESTMAN AMBLES OUT OF THE PAN-DRIPPINGS, OVER THE BOTTLE OF SALINE NASAL SPRAY SITTING STOVE-SIDE, ACROSS THE LID OF THE PLASTIC BOTTLE OF XARELTO, AND TRIES TO LONG-LEG-IT BEHIND THE WOODEN PAPER PLATE HOLDER LABELED "EVERYDAY CHINA."
"Paula Deen in my front yard eating a lobster tail!" That's not an actual out-loud exclamation of shock. It's like that Saturday Night Live sketch long ago with Ray Romano as an ESPN host, hollering stuff like, "Sweet Pappy Johnson with an erection!" Only in print, and a bit more socially acceptable. Val Thevictorian's answer to Gretchen Wieners's 'fetch'. Let the record show that Val has been trying to make it happen since before the cataclysmic downfall of Ms. Deen.
Hopefully, you have a damp paper towel beside your plate of soon-to-be super nachos that you have just used to wipe up a dab of errant salsa, and you slam that select-a-size down on Mr. Harvestman and skoosh him until his life is a forgotten memory.
I swear. You would think I live in a dilapidated oak barn, the roof reduced to lattice suitable for growing grapes to later sell at a roadside stand, where insects run rampant and humans are the invaders.
I will worry tonight that a creeper will crawl into my mouth as I sleep.
Like when you are making yourself a delicious plate of super nachos for your lupper, the chips all layered with shredded extra-sharp cheddar, fajita chicken, Save A Lot Senora Verde Mild Salsa, sour cream, and black olives...and you hear a tiny "plop" from somewhere to the left of your visual field.
Oh, you might just think it's that 9x13 glass baking pan that you left on the stove from last night's Shake 'N' Bake pork steaks, heating up because it's on the burner, and you have the oven going to warm up your fajita chicken. Yes. That could be it. The congealed pan-drippings, perhaps, have released a bubble like a more-high-calorie, less-colorful, lava lamp. That would certainly make a sound like "plop."
And that little movement you sensed at the bottom of the microwave, just above that pork-steak dish, could have been a blob of grease plopping up high to hit the vent fan. Indeed. Anything is possible when you don't want to face the horror. Until the horror grabs your face with both hands, and MAKES YOU LOOK!
Uh huh. While glancing curiously in the direction of the perceived movement, the true gravity of the situation wrests the hands of horror from your cheeks, and splashes them with the ice-cold water of reality. AN EIGHT-SPINDLY-LEGGED HARVESTMAN AMBLES OUT OF THE PAN-DRIPPINGS, OVER THE BOTTLE OF SALINE NASAL SPRAY SITTING STOVE-SIDE, ACROSS THE LID OF THE PLASTIC BOTTLE OF XARELTO, AND TRIES TO LONG-LEG-IT BEHIND THE WOODEN PAPER PLATE HOLDER LABELED "EVERYDAY CHINA."
"Paula Deen in my front yard eating a lobster tail!" That's not an actual out-loud exclamation of shock. It's like that Saturday Night Live sketch long ago with Ray Romano as an ESPN host, hollering stuff like, "Sweet Pappy Johnson with an erection!" Only in print, and a bit more socially acceptable. Val Thevictorian's answer to Gretchen Wieners's 'fetch'. Let the record show that Val has been trying to make it happen since before the cataclysmic downfall of Ms. Deen.
Hopefully, you have a damp paper towel beside your plate of soon-to-be super nachos that you have just used to wipe up a dab of errant salsa, and you slam that select-a-size down on Mr. Harvestman and skoosh him until his life is a forgotten memory.
I swear. You would think I live in a dilapidated oak barn, the roof reduced to lattice suitable for growing grapes to later sell at a roadside stand, where insects run rampant and humans are the invaders.
I will worry tonight that a creeper will crawl into my mouth as I sleep.
Friday, August 8, 2014
Who Do You Have to Know to Get Decent Prok Around This Place?
Oh, dear. Tonight we had Chinese carry out.
I have tried and tried to find a dish from this restaurant that I can stomach, some kind of chicken, perhaps, that is not merely fried skin, which must be masticated like a Charleston Chew. The fare used to be really good. I have not given up hope. But now I have gone through General Tso's, Hunan Chicken, Hot Braised Chicken, and Cashew Chicken. Even the Doublemint Twins themselves, after years of practice with their Wrigley fringe benefits, could not have had jaws strong enough to enjoy such meals. I daresay, that the "No one ever pays ME in gum" guy would be jumping for joy with such a plate set before him.
A few Chinese meals ago, I chose Hunan Pork. Problem solved! It came with a couple of hoglegs of sliced meat, tender, tasty, but a little bit too spicy in the sauce department. Yes, I understand that "Hunan" is synonymous with hot spicy sauce. But it's all I've found that's acceptable lately. So I asked Hick to order it without the black peppers. You know. Those black pepper bean thingies that look like the charred inside parts of green beans. That worked out well. Until tonight.
I asked Hick if he had remembered to order my Hunan Pork without the black peppers. "Yes. But they were fussing at each other back in the kitchen, so I don't know what you've got." Hm. Sounds like some advance warning that he forgot. Setting the stage to let the cooks take the fall.
My first inkling that something might be amiss was the handwritten label on my stapled-lid styrofoam container. One word. "Prok." Ahem. Around here, we call it "pork," and reserve that backwards O-R thing for keeping connoisseurs of inappropriate-for-family-viewing videos from accidentally landing on one's blog. Somebody in that kitchen might have some 'splainin' to do if there's a big honkin' overage on the internet plan.
I pried open my container with a serving spoon, and saw that my white rice and prok were covered with pepper beans like black spots on a dalmation. Huh. I spent the better part of ten minutes hunched over the kitchen counter like a bell-ringer from Notre Dame, picking those hot spots out of my meal. It was not an easy task. My back started to seize up like a Tin Man left out in the rain. I needed one of those wide Walmart belt-harness thingies to prevent injury.
To make matters worse, not all the black pepper beans were in plain sight. I caught five of them hiding in a broccoli floret like clown fish in a sea anemone. In the way of my black pepper bean harvest were other assorted vegetables. Like those sweated strands of onion that were linked together at the middle like a centromere connecting sister chromatids during mitosis. And the mushrooms, for lack of a feather in their cap, concealed black pepper beans up under there. Working a double shift cleaning toxins out of puffer fish at a five-star restaurant would surely have been less taxing.
However...I must admit that, once de-peppered, my Hunan Prok was quite tasty.
I have tried and tried to find a dish from this restaurant that I can stomach, some kind of chicken, perhaps, that is not merely fried skin, which must be masticated like a Charleston Chew. The fare used to be really good. I have not given up hope. But now I have gone through General Tso's, Hunan Chicken, Hot Braised Chicken, and Cashew Chicken. Even the Doublemint Twins themselves, after years of practice with their Wrigley fringe benefits, could not have had jaws strong enough to enjoy such meals. I daresay, that the "No one ever pays ME in gum" guy would be jumping for joy with such a plate set before him.
A few Chinese meals ago, I chose Hunan Pork. Problem solved! It came with a couple of hoglegs of sliced meat, tender, tasty, but a little bit too spicy in the sauce department. Yes, I understand that "Hunan" is synonymous with hot spicy sauce. But it's all I've found that's acceptable lately. So I asked Hick to order it without the black peppers. You know. Those black pepper bean thingies that look like the charred inside parts of green beans. That worked out well. Until tonight.
I asked Hick if he had remembered to order my Hunan Pork without the black peppers. "Yes. But they were fussing at each other back in the kitchen, so I don't know what you've got." Hm. Sounds like some advance warning that he forgot. Setting the stage to let the cooks take the fall.
My first inkling that something might be amiss was the handwritten label on my stapled-lid styrofoam container. One word. "Prok." Ahem. Around here, we call it "pork," and reserve that backwards O-R thing for keeping connoisseurs of inappropriate-for-family-viewing videos from accidentally landing on one's blog. Somebody in that kitchen might have some 'splainin' to do if there's a big honkin' overage on the internet plan.
I pried open my container with a serving spoon, and saw that my white rice and prok were covered with pepper beans like black spots on a dalmation. Huh. I spent the better part of ten minutes hunched over the kitchen counter like a bell-ringer from Notre Dame, picking those hot spots out of my meal. It was not an easy task. My back started to seize up like a Tin Man left out in the rain. I needed one of those wide Walmart belt-harness thingies to prevent injury.
To make matters worse, not all the black pepper beans were in plain sight. I caught five of them hiding in a broccoli floret like clown fish in a sea anemone. In the way of my black pepper bean harvest were other assorted vegetables. Like those sweated strands of onion that were linked together at the middle like a centromere connecting sister chromatids during mitosis. And the mushrooms, for lack of a feather in their cap, concealed black pepper beans up under there. Working a double shift cleaning toxins out of puffer fish at a five-star restaurant would surely have been less taxing.
However...I must admit that, once de-peppered, my Hunan Prok was quite tasty.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
36 Hours: It Could Be a Series, Filled With Attempted Murder and Ineptitude
Genius is home for 36 hours.
Some might call it a day, or two days, or a day-and-a-half. But it's Genius we're talking about here. You're lucky I didn't calculate the seconds.
This morning I took The Pony to registration at the high school. We left at 8:15, way before Genius rolled out of bed. I stopped by Hardee's to get The Pony some breakfast. On the way back, I was planning to run in Save-A-Lot for a couple things. I tried to call Genius, but he didn't answer. Once we parked at Save-A-Lot, I tried again.
"I don't want anything. All I did yesterday was eat."
"Okay. Are you going to be home for supper? I thought about making meat loaf. I know you like it."
"No. I'm going to a movie at 1:00, then surprising my friend's parents. He's at work until 5:30, but they haven't seen me in a long time."
"All right." I went about my business. When The Pony and I unpacked the stuff at home, Genius started nosing around.
"I can't believe you didn't get me anything!"
"You didn't want anything!"
"Well, I got up, and went to look for a Little Debbie brownie, and THE BOX WAS EMPTY!"
"The Pony hasn't eaten them all summer. It was probably YOU who left the box empty last time you were here. I was going to get you some little donuts, but you didn't want anything."
"Oh, but you got HIM Hardee's!"
"That was three hours ago. I don't think you would have wanted me to get you any then."
"What's this?
"Some kind of sugar-free drink for your dad. There are three kinds. You can have some if you want. He'll never know.
"They are all the same color. Mmm...strawberry lemonade! That's pretty good. Here. Try it."
"No thanks, Mr. Ebola. You're not going to trick me. You've only been on antibiotics since Tuesday night. I don't want your disease."
"Oh, yeah. That's right. Hey, I wanted some Golden Oreos!"
"Do you think Save-A-Lot has brand names? They don't. But I DID get you these fake Girl Scout Thin Mints."
"Nom nom nom. I LOVE them!"
"So, you're not going to be home for supper?"
"I think I will."
"Too bad. There's nothing for you to eat. I got two pork steaks for Dad and me. Your brother is having corn dogs. I can make you super nachos, with fajita chicken, nacho cheese, sour cream, salsa, jalapenos, and black olives."
"I'll take corn dogs. What am I going to have for breakfast?"
"The Pony has cinnamon toast every day."
Genius rifled through the cabinets. "Hey! Are we BUYING our cinnamon sugar now?"
"No. That's an old shaker that your grandma gave you back when you were a kid. We just filled it up last week. What kind of millionaire do you think I am?"
"Not a very good one?"
"The kind of millionaire without much money. Get that toaster out from under the cabinets! You'll burn the house down!"
"Blah blah blah."
Genius busied himself watching Ridiculousness. I switched to Roseanne, to see a Halloween episode. "I hate that show! I'm making some eggs."
"I almost bought some bacon for you, but you said you didn't want anything."
"I would LOVE to have some bacon with my eggs. But YOU didn't buy any. Now I'll have to use oil. That's not as good."
"Your dad fries HIS bacon in oil."
"Yeah. That's so wrong. All you need is bacon grease. Not oil to thin it out."
"What's that noise? That popping?"
"Just my oil getting hot."
"That's TOO hot! It will get all over my stove and counter."
"Blah blah blah. I'm using the big pan. It's easier that way. Did you know your big pan is coming apart? The handle is half off."
"Well, I would tell you something, but I fear the consequences."
"Tell me."
"Um. It's coming apart? Huh. The bottom is all dirty now, too. I might just throw it away. But I'm afraid to tell you that, because I can picture you turning it over to look at the bottom, and spilling your eggs and oil all down the burner."
"You know, I probably would have done that. Where's the spatula?"
"Where do YOU think it is? It can only be three places. It's either clean in the drawer, dirty on the counter, or clean in the sink."
"What do I do with this used oil?"
"Take it out back and pour it off the back porch. WITHOUT spilling it all through the kitchen."
"Huh. If there's a chicken down on the ground, can I pour the hot oil on it? Fry it up right now, and miss a couple of steps?"
"No."
"Whoa! You missed it. There really WAS a chicken down there. I had to stop myself when I saw it."
Let the record show that Genius used a good glass plate to get all eggy with his three fried eggs. They were gone in less than three minutes.
"Make sure you put that in the sink to soak."
"I AM!"
"Too bad you lost my Stubs movie card. You could earn me points on your ticket, and get a discount on your movie snacks."
"I get in FREE. My friend works there. And I think we get snacks, too."
"What do you get?"
"Probably a small slushie and small popcorn."
"Oh. What they give the kids when they go on a field trip."
"Maybe. I've got to get going. Can I have your bank card? I need to get some shoes and school supplies."
"It's in the purse. Don't go overboard. Remember what kind of millionaire I am. Anyway, I'll take it out of your account."
"What do you mean, TAKE IT OUT OF MY ACCOUNT?"
"Your college savings. It's stuff for college."
"Oh. I thought you meant out of MY money."
Funny how it only works one way, isn't it? Genius grabbed the plastic money and took off. I was just taking a deep breath, getting back to my life, when I heard someone on the porch and say a tall head at the glass thingamabob on top of the door. Great. What kind of stranger was up in here now? I knew I did not have any packages coming from that crazy UPS label-picture-drawing dude. I smoothed down my hair and went to open the door.
It was Genius. "Lock yourself out?"
"Yes. You can open that knob from the inside, even when it's locked. That's the stupidest thing! You know, I could have died if I did this last night."
"I don't think so. It was 75 degrees. You could have slept on the back porch."
"Well, if it was winter, I could have died."
"You're the kind of Genius who isn't very smart.
Some might call it a day, or two days, or a day-and-a-half. But it's Genius we're talking about here. You're lucky I didn't calculate the seconds.
This morning I took The Pony to registration at the high school. We left at 8:15, way before Genius rolled out of bed. I stopped by Hardee's to get The Pony some breakfast. On the way back, I was planning to run in Save-A-Lot for a couple things. I tried to call Genius, but he didn't answer. Once we parked at Save-A-Lot, I tried again.
"I don't want anything. All I did yesterday was eat."
"Okay. Are you going to be home for supper? I thought about making meat loaf. I know you like it."
"No. I'm going to a movie at 1:00, then surprising my friend's parents. He's at work until 5:30, but they haven't seen me in a long time."
"All right." I went about my business. When The Pony and I unpacked the stuff at home, Genius started nosing around.
"I can't believe you didn't get me anything!"
"You didn't want anything!"
"Well, I got up, and went to look for a Little Debbie brownie, and THE BOX WAS EMPTY!"
"The Pony hasn't eaten them all summer. It was probably YOU who left the box empty last time you were here. I was going to get you some little donuts, but you didn't want anything."
"Oh, but you got HIM Hardee's!"
"That was three hours ago. I don't think you would have wanted me to get you any then."
"What's this?
"Some kind of sugar-free drink for your dad. There are three kinds. You can have some if you want. He'll never know.
"They are all the same color. Mmm...strawberry lemonade! That's pretty good. Here. Try it."
"No thanks, Mr. Ebola. You're not going to trick me. You've only been on antibiotics since Tuesday night. I don't want your disease."
"Oh, yeah. That's right. Hey, I wanted some Golden Oreos!"
"Do you think Save-A-Lot has brand names? They don't. But I DID get you these fake Girl Scout Thin Mints."
"Nom nom nom. I LOVE them!"
"So, you're not going to be home for supper?"
"I think I will."
"Too bad. There's nothing for you to eat. I got two pork steaks for Dad and me. Your brother is having corn dogs. I can make you super nachos, with fajita chicken, nacho cheese, sour cream, salsa, jalapenos, and black olives."
"I'll take corn dogs. What am I going to have for breakfast?"
"The Pony has cinnamon toast every day."
Genius rifled through the cabinets. "Hey! Are we BUYING our cinnamon sugar now?"
"No. That's an old shaker that your grandma gave you back when you were a kid. We just filled it up last week. What kind of millionaire do you think I am?"
"Not a very good one?"
"The kind of millionaire without much money. Get that toaster out from under the cabinets! You'll burn the house down!"
"Blah blah blah."
Genius busied himself watching Ridiculousness. I switched to Roseanne, to see a Halloween episode. "I hate that show! I'm making some eggs."
"I almost bought some bacon for you, but you said you didn't want anything."
"I would LOVE to have some bacon with my eggs. But YOU didn't buy any. Now I'll have to use oil. That's not as good."
"Your dad fries HIS bacon in oil."
"Yeah. That's so wrong. All you need is bacon grease. Not oil to thin it out."
"What's that noise? That popping?"
"Just my oil getting hot."
"That's TOO hot! It will get all over my stove and counter."
"Blah blah blah. I'm using the big pan. It's easier that way. Did you know your big pan is coming apart? The handle is half off."
"Well, I would tell you something, but I fear the consequences."
"Tell me."
"Um. It's coming apart? Huh. The bottom is all dirty now, too. I might just throw it away. But I'm afraid to tell you that, because I can picture you turning it over to look at the bottom, and spilling your eggs and oil all down the burner."
"You know, I probably would have done that. Where's the spatula?"
"Where do YOU think it is? It can only be three places. It's either clean in the drawer, dirty on the counter, or clean in the sink."
"What do I do with this used oil?"
"Take it out back and pour it off the back porch. WITHOUT spilling it all through the kitchen."
"Huh. If there's a chicken down on the ground, can I pour the hot oil on it? Fry it up right now, and miss a couple of steps?"
"No."
"Whoa! You missed it. There really WAS a chicken down there. I had to stop myself when I saw it."
Let the record show that Genius used a good glass plate to get all eggy with his three fried eggs. They were gone in less than three minutes.
"Make sure you put that in the sink to soak."
"I AM!"
"Too bad you lost my Stubs movie card. You could earn me points on your ticket, and get a discount on your movie snacks."
"I get in FREE. My friend works there. And I think we get snacks, too."
"What do you get?"
"Probably a small slushie and small popcorn."
"Oh. What they give the kids when they go on a field trip."
"Maybe. I've got to get going. Can I have your bank card? I need to get some shoes and school supplies."
"It's in the purse. Don't go overboard. Remember what kind of millionaire I am. Anyway, I'll take it out of your account."
"What do you mean, TAKE IT OUT OF MY ACCOUNT?"
"Your college savings. It's stuff for college."
"Oh. I thought you meant out of MY money."
Funny how it only works one way, isn't it? Genius grabbed the plastic money and took off. I was just taking a deep breath, getting back to my life, when I heard someone on the porch and say a tall head at the glass thingamabob on top of the door. Great. What kind of stranger was up in here now? I knew I did not have any packages coming from that crazy UPS label-picture-drawing dude. I smoothed down my hair and went to open the door.
It was Genius. "Lock yourself out?"
"Yes. You can open that knob from the inside, even when it's locked. That's the stupidest thing! You know, I could have died if I did this last night."
"I don't think so. It was 75 degrees. You could have slept on the back porch."
"Well, if it was winter, I could have died."
"You're the kind of Genius who isn't very smart.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
From the Small World and Revenge Departments
The Pony and I stopped for haircuts today after his dentist appointment. Yes, we went to Terrible Cuts. I had a coupon. If I was smart, which obviously I'm not, I would have used the coupon on me today, then taken The Pony back tomorrow to use the $2.00 off savings from my receipt. Too bad, so sad. Hindsight is worth $2.00.
The story today is not about our terrible cuts. They're actually presentable. The story is about the cutter. I had a new girl. That happens frequently at Terrible Cuts. In the middle of our haircuts, The Pony's gal asked if he was ready to go back to school. Of course he is. He's a Thevictorian, after all.
My cutter asked what grade he is in. Seems that she has a brother in the same grade, at our same school. A brother who is one of The Pony's friends, who he competes with neck-and-neck in the math contest each year. Small world.
My mom called this afternoon. I don't know why. I can't remember anything urgent that needed telling, other than she had been out in the yard weed-eating this morning, cutting the heads off those weeds that sprout up. But she said she was disappointed that I had not called her after The Pony's dentist appointment to ask if she wanted to ride over to Culver's for some frozen custard. Can you believe the nerve of her? After not bringing me any free expired frozen custard only Monday! I guess I showed HER!
"We went to get haircuts after the dentist. You'll never guess who cut my hair. I'll give you 2001 guesses, though. We have plenty of time."
"Oh. I don't think I can guess."
"That's the easy way out. Give it a try. You have a lot of guesses."
"Do we know each other?"
"No."
"Well, I don't know how I can guess if I don't even know who it is!"
"If you knew who it was, you wouldn't have to guess!" Mom seems to find my interrogation techniques hilarious. She was already gasping for breath. "That's why I'm giving you so many chances. But all I can answer is YES or NO. You have 2000 guesses left."
"Is it a former student from your school?"
"No. But that is very close."
"Does this person have red hair?"
"No. That is not a very good guess. I gave you a major hint. What's next, 'Does this person have false teeth?' Try to use the hints!"
"Oh, you've got me tickled. I can't breathe. I was going to change clothes and run to town before it rains, but now I don't know if I have the strength."
"You shouldn't have been out in the yard weed-eating, using all your energy! Think of this game as me giving you exercise. Guess again."
"Is this person blond?"
"No."
"Brunette?"
"YES! I'm sure you'll guess it now that you've narrowed it down like that!"
"Oh, stop! Does this person go to my church?"
"No."
"Did this person talk about me?"
"No. This person doesn't know you, remember? You're not very good at this game. Hey! Pony! What's that game Genius had that was a little disc that answered whatever you were thinking about in twenty questions?"
"You mean TWENTY QUESTIONS?"
"Yeah. I guess that was it. Well, even that game would not be able to answer Grandma's guess in twenty questions. She's terrible at this! Okay, next question."
"Is it a male or a female?
"Um. That's not a yes or no question."
"Is it male?"
"No."
"Is it female?"
"Yes. That kind of wasted a question. But you have SO many more to go.You have not paid attention to your clues. What did I tell you in the beginning? That you were very close when you asked if it was a former student from my school."
"Was it a teacher from your school?"
"No. They already have jobs."
"Are they under 30?"
"Yes. I think so."
"Was it Mabel?"
"No. She is retired. Not under 30."
"Was it your secretary from school?"
"No. We already established no red hair. And she's not under 30."
"Oh, I am exhausted. I'll never guess!"
"Probably not. Next question? We've only been at this 15 minutes. We have a long way to go. Here's another hint. It has a connection to The Pony and his friends. The Pony is at the top of his class. What's next to the top of the class?"
"The bottom?"
"NO! The bottom of the class is not next to the top. The almost-top of the class is next to the top."
"Is it that math teacher's son?"
"No. He's in a different class. He's older. But it has something to do with the math contest every year."
"Was it that math teacher?"
"NO! Teachers already have jobs. They are not cutting hair the week before school starts."
"Oh...I give up."
"You just expect me to TELL you? After I've given you all of those hints?"
"Yes. I have to go to town."
"All right. You know that kid who sometimes beats The Pony in math competition, the one he raced to get the medal one year because they tied again, and The Pony didn't want to wait 12 weeks for the duplicate medal to come in this time? It was that kid's sister."
"Oh."
"I can't believe you didn't guess it! We're going to have to practice until you get better at this game."
Was that too rough on her? You know. For not bringing me that free expired frozen custard? I don't think it was. But I also don't think she will make the connection.
The story today is not about our terrible cuts. They're actually presentable. The story is about the cutter. I had a new girl. That happens frequently at Terrible Cuts. In the middle of our haircuts, The Pony's gal asked if he was ready to go back to school. Of course he is. He's a Thevictorian, after all.
My cutter asked what grade he is in. Seems that she has a brother in the same grade, at our same school. A brother who is one of The Pony's friends, who he competes with neck-and-neck in the math contest each year. Small world.
My mom called this afternoon. I don't know why. I can't remember anything urgent that needed telling, other than she had been out in the yard weed-eating this morning, cutting the heads off those weeds that sprout up. But she said she was disappointed that I had not called her after The Pony's dentist appointment to ask if she wanted to ride over to Culver's for some frozen custard. Can you believe the nerve of her? After not bringing me any free expired frozen custard only Monday! I guess I showed HER!
"We went to get haircuts after the dentist. You'll never guess who cut my hair. I'll give you 2001 guesses, though. We have plenty of time."
"Oh. I don't think I can guess."
"That's the easy way out. Give it a try. You have a lot of guesses."
"Do we know each other?"
"No."
"Well, I don't know how I can guess if I don't even know who it is!"
"If you knew who it was, you wouldn't have to guess!" Mom seems to find my interrogation techniques hilarious. She was already gasping for breath. "That's why I'm giving you so many chances. But all I can answer is YES or NO. You have 2000 guesses left."
"Is it a former student from your school?"
"No. But that is very close."
"Does this person have red hair?"
"No. That is not a very good guess. I gave you a major hint. What's next, 'Does this person have false teeth?' Try to use the hints!"
"Oh, you've got me tickled. I can't breathe. I was going to change clothes and run to town before it rains, but now I don't know if I have the strength."
"You shouldn't have been out in the yard weed-eating, using all your energy! Think of this game as me giving you exercise. Guess again."
"Is this person blond?"
"No."
"Brunette?"
"YES! I'm sure you'll guess it now that you've narrowed it down like that!"
"Oh, stop! Does this person go to my church?"
"No."
"Did this person talk about me?"
"No. This person doesn't know you, remember? You're not very good at this game. Hey! Pony! What's that game Genius had that was a little disc that answered whatever you were thinking about in twenty questions?"
"You mean TWENTY QUESTIONS?"
"Yeah. I guess that was it. Well, even that game would not be able to answer Grandma's guess in twenty questions. She's terrible at this! Okay, next question."
"Is it a male or a female?
"Um. That's not a yes or no question."
"Is it male?"
"No."
"Is it female?"
"Yes. That kind of wasted a question. But you have SO many more to go.You have not paid attention to your clues. What did I tell you in the beginning? That you were very close when you asked if it was a former student from my school."
"Was it a teacher from your school?"
"No. They already have jobs."
"Are they under 30?"
"Yes. I think so."
"Was it Mabel?"
"No. She is retired. Not under 30."
"Was it your secretary from school?"
"No. We already established no red hair. And she's not under 30."
"Oh, I am exhausted. I'll never guess!"
"Probably not. Next question? We've only been at this 15 minutes. We have a long way to go. Here's another hint. It has a connection to The Pony and his friends. The Pony is at the top of his class. What's next to the top of the class?"
"The bottom?"
"NO! The bottom of the class is not next to the top. The almost-top of the class is next to the top."
"Is it that math teacher's son?"
"No. He's in a different class. He's older. But it has something to do with the math contest every year."
"Was it that math teacher?"
"NO! Teachers already have jobs. They are not cutting hair the week before school starts."
"Oh...I give up."
"You just expect me to TELL you? After I've given you all of those hints?"
"Yes. I have to go to town."
"All right. You know that kid who sometimes beats The Pony in math competition, the one he raced to get the medal one year because they tied again, and The Pony didn't want to wait 12 weeks for the duplicate medal to come in this time? It was that kid's sister."
"Oh."
"I can't believe you didn't guess it! We're going to have to practice until you get better at this game."
Was that too rough on her? You know. For not bringing me that free expired frozen custard? I don't think it was. But I also don't think she will make the connection.
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Facing the Cold Soft Truth
Sometimes, there are things you don't really want to hear. Like when my boys were in elementary school, and their third grade teacher chose to explain the ingredients in hot dogs. Genius has rarely eaten one since. The Pony got over it much quicker. He would stuff himself with hot dogs if it was socially acceptable.
Then there was the elementary art teacher who told the second graders all about Santa Claus. Every year. Like they weren't hearing it enough from the older kids on the bus.
Okay, I admit to giving out a little too much info one time. But it had to be done. This was ninth grade. A kid asked me what pickles looked like before they were picked. Um. She didn't want to know that pickles were cucumbers before they became pickles. Seems she really, really didn't like cucumbers. And vowed never to eat another pickle. So sorry. She should be glad that only nine other kids were in class to lecture her about pickles. Not the entire general population of high school students. I did her a favor, really. Saved her from future embarrassment.
My own unwanted awakening came out of the mouth of my cousin. She was three years older than me. We were spending a few days at my grandma's house over the summer. Grandma used to take all of us grandkids for two weeks solid every summer. What she was thinking I can't imagine. Perhaps how GOOD it felt to thrash us all at croquet. Anyhoo...as a special treat, instead of sleeping in the back bedroom, or on the hide-a-bed, or on a pallet on the floor, Grandma sometimes allowed us to sleep in the camper. To the best I remember, it looked like this:
That's a 1956 Southland Runabout, I think. And if I remember correctly, it had a bed in the back like this:
But my rude awakening came in the kitchen. At the table that had been my bed the night before:
Uh huh. My grandma's camper was nowhere near this grand. But I am happy to find a reasonable facsimile on the innernets.
So...my cousins and I had been running around in the yard, perhaps throwing hedgeapples down the sinkhole by the driveway while adults were busy snapping beans or husking corn. Grandma never let anyone leave without a box of fresh produce. Any time our parents came to visit, they left well-stocked with garden goods. Fresh tomatoes warm from the vine were not what was dancing in our heads, though. We were waiting on the most important food preparation: ice cream.
I couldn't find a picture that reminded me of our ice cream churn. I think it was blue, and had a silver piece in the middle, and an area to fill with ice and rock salt, and a crank on the side. The adults took turns cranking. And, by magic, ice cream was formed!
There I sat, across the camper table/bed from my cousin, clicking my metal spoon against my olive green Melmac bowl, stirring my ice cream until I had it good and smooth, the way I liked it. My cousin asked what I was doing. She had already eaten her portion.
"I'm stirring it. I like it kind of melty."
"Yuck. Not me. Then it turns into what it was before it was ice cream."
NOOOOO! I loved my ice cream melty. Smooth. Like cold cake batter. No lumps.
Now that's what I think about every time I let my frozen treat get soft and smooth.
STILL TASTES GREAT, THOUGH!
Then there was the elementary art teacher who told the second graders all about Santa Claus. Every year. Like they weren't hearing it enough from the older kids on the bus.
Okay, I admit to giving out a little too much info one time. But it had to be done. This was ninth grade. A kid asked me what pickles looked like before they were picked. Um. She didn't want to know that pickles were cucumbers before they became pickles. Seems she really, really didn't like cucumbers. And vowed never to eat another pickle. So sorry. She should be glad that only nine other kids were in class to lecture her about pickles. Not the entire general population of high school students. I did her a favor, really. Saved her from future embarrassment.
My own unwanted awakening came out of the mouth of my cousin. She was three years older than me. We were spending a few days at my grandma's house over the summer. Grandma used to take all of us grandkids for two weeks solid every summer. What she was thinking I can't imagine. Perhaps how GOOD it felt to thrash us all at croquet. Anyhoo...as a special treat, instead of sleeping in the back bedroom, or on the hide-a-bed, or on a pallet on the floor, Grandma sometimes allowed us to sleep in the camper. To the best I remember, it looked like this:
So...my cousins and I had been running around in the yard, perhaps throwing hedgeapples down the sinkhole by the driveway while adults were busy snapping beans or husking corn. Grandma never let anyone leave without a box of fresh produce. Any time our parents came to visit, they left well-stocked with garden goods. Fresh tomatoes warm from the vine were not what was dancing in our heads, though. We were waiting on the most important food preparation: ice cream.
I couldn't find a picture that reminded me of our ice cream churn. I think it was blue, and had a silver piece in the middle, and an area to fill with ice and rock salt, and a crank on the side. The adults took turns cranking. And, by magic, ice cream was formed!
There I sat, across the camper table/bed from my cousin, clicking my metal spoon against my olive green Melmac bowl, stirring my ice cream until I had it good and smooth, the way I liked it. My cousin asked what I was doing. She had already eaten her portion.
"I'm stirring it. I like it kind of melty."
"Yuck. Not me. Then it turns into what it was before it was ice cream."
NOOOOO! I loved my ice cream melty. Smooth. Like cold cake batter. No lumps.
Now that's what I think about every time I let my frozen treat get soft and smooth.
STILL TASTES GREAT, THOUGH!
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