Cat's In the Cradle of the Junk Tycoon

This is a travel day for Thevictorians. I am assuming we will arrive safe and sound, me with The Pony in his Rogue, and Hick in my Acadia with his own gaseous emissions. That second one could be a solution for a game of CLUE! Though it would be a terrible way to expire.

So, since The Pony and I want to watch our last episode of Big Brother together at 7:00, at the Holiday Inn Express, before he moves into his dorm on Thursday between 1:00 and 2:00...I have scheduled this little tale of Hick's excesses for you this evening.

On Sunday as I headed for the garage, I noticed a new bit of other people's junk on our side porch. It was still there mid-morning on Monday, when I left the homestead to head back to work, oh, wait a minute, I'm NEVER going back to work to go to town for my 44 oz Diet Coke. And, just like on Sunday, this new bit of other people's junk had an occupant!

Oh, it may look like a soiled fake-sheep-skin foot warmer/vibrator. But it's really our cat, Simba. The one who almost lost his eye in a fight with some unknown critter. The cat Hick nursed back to health by chasing him with a puff-powder bottle of cat eye medicine. Like he said, "The first time was easy." The rest, not so much.

I'm sure Hick would be touched that Simba is using his $3 Goodwill shoeshine box as a crib. Or not. Because Hick must be slipping. When I asked what this new bit of other people's junk WAS, he said, "Just a stool."

Hick must have heard me bantering with The Pony, who was relaying my interrogation up the stairs while I remained ensconced on my rolly chair in front of New Delly in my dark basement lair. Because I heard Hick yell, "Well, they had it labeled as a shoeshine box!" Like Hick doesn't know a shoeshine box from a stool! There must have been at least five or six episodes of Antiques Roadshow about one, after all these years. So I don't know why Hick was holding out on me as to what this new bit of other people's junk is.

The only thing I could say for sure, though, is that this new bit of other people's junk sure looks like it's good for a catnap.

Sometimes, There Are No Words

Aside from upcoming tales of our trek across Missouri into Oklahoma, this might be the last home-grown story of the wisdom of The Pony.

Several weeks ago, when a biorhythm chart of my weirdo magnet power might have shown a lofty peak...I turned T-Hoe onto our gravel road and saw more freeloading creek squatters.

"I find it especially annoying that they PARK BETWEEN THE NO TRESPASSING SIGNS! I want to hold up my phone. Like I'm taking a picture of their license plates for prosecution. Like the SIGN says. Or holler, 'Why are you here? Do you live here?' That's what Buddy used to do. He'd chase them in his truck. But even if I yelled, they would pretend they didn't hear me."

"We should put in a mine field."

"A minefield? I'm not THAT mad at them. Don't you think that's a little extreme? I don't want to blow their heads off! So I don't think a minefield will be necessary. I know you don't really care about helping people, but sometimes I start to worry that you want to--"

"No. I said MIME field! A field of MIMES! To make them stop."

"Heh, heh! What would they do? Stand up in their black pants and black-and-white striped shirt, and hold up a white-gloved hand? Palm out?"

"They could pretend to be behind an invisible wall. So the trespassers would stop, because they didn't want to drive into it!"

"And if they didn't? What could a mime do? Shake a finger back-and-forth. Stick out his bottom lip and wipe an imaginary tear?"

"If they drove past, the mime could pretend to lasso them!"

"Yeah! And reel them back in!"

"Click on handcuffs, toss them in the slammer, throw away the key, and grab the bars, looking in."

"And we could put up a big sign to warn them:

CAUTION: MIME FIELD. ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK."

I am sorely going to miss brainstorming with The Pony.

Let the Record Show that There IS a Method to The Pony's Pronunciation Madness

During our phone-buying, Bonus-Hole-feeding, ball-holding excursion on Saturday, The Pony pulled his Rogue up behind a car with a license plate starting with GYN. Since he is not a Seinfeld fan, I could not make a reference to the ASSMAN. Genius would have fully appreciated the ASSMAN. He practically cut his teeth on the ASSMAN. But not The Pony. The Pony wouldn't know the ASSMAN if that man bit him on the ass.

"Look. A traveling gynecologist."

"Don't you mean JINE-a-cologist?"

"No. Why?"

"That's how you say it."

"No. It's not."

"That's how I say it. Makes more sense."

"Why would you EVEN say it? You haven't been pretending to be an online gynecologist, have you?"

"Nooo...I don't think you can do that online. But it SHOULD be JINE-a-cologist. Because of what the doctor works on. The 'gina."

I don't think he has plans to switch to pre-med just yet. Chemical engineering will have to do.

The Pony Farewell Tour

Over the past week, we have been having a lot of lasts.

"Pony! This is the last time we'll watch the live eviction on Big Brother together!"
"Pony! This is the last time we'll do the Walmart shopping together!"
"Pony! This is the last time you'll take the trash up to the end of the driveway!"
"Pony! This is the last time you'll put gas in T-Hoe!"
"Pony! This is the last time we"ll have lunch at Imo's together!"

As you might imagine, I'm a little more hyped about these lasts than The Pony.

After we bought his phone Saturday, The Pony suggested we stop for lunch. He is the one who suggested Imo's. You either like their pizza or you don't. I happen to like it. A lot. The Pony detests it. So he was doing this just for me. Woevn thoug I jbwv ge  Excuse me...I had something in my eye again. Even though I knew he would prefer Steak n Shake. I offered. But he insisted on Imo's. "Come on. I really like their breadsticks!" So in we went, with me ordering the sausage pizza lunch special, and The Pony having the toasted ravioli lunch special. And an order of breadsticks.

We don't eat at the Imo's adjacent to Backroads. No siree, Bob! It is staffed almost entirely by former students of Val, and the manager they all complained about. But the one in Phone Town has been a favorite of ours since before Hick and I were even married. We used to shop for $17,000 house accoutrements at Hoods or a Central Hardware in a plaza nearby. And would stop in to have pizza and salad and perhaps an adult beverage. Ah, the salad days. Literally. We always got the special with pizza and that large salad, and split it. Sometimes we had Hick's older boys, ours being just a twinkle in Hick's (good) eye back then. Those boys loved playing the golf video game. And Ms. Pac-Man. That's how long ago. Then our own boys joined in the tradition, with Genius pulling a chair over for The Pony to stand on and play golf. That place is not known for updating their dining room.

Anyhoo...The Pony and I got two dollars worth of change in quarters, so we could play the coin-pusher game. Which didn't take long. "Mom. Did you see the name of that game? It's called Bonus Hole!" I won't even go into that one. The Pony was in rare form on this day. Perhaps some of his words of horsy wisdom will show up over the next few days as we ship him off to Oklahoma. But here's what I wanted to show you from our last Imo's luncheon:

True to form, The Pony had picked up a fork for me, and somehow, he got one that was damaged, and somehow, it ended up at my place setting, and somehow, neither one of us noticed until I asked to see his fork for comparison. It was like eating with the tip of a ski. Or a sleigh runner. Or the toe of an elf shoe.

It's the last fork The Pony will ever get for me at Imo's!

Putting The Pony Before the Smart-Phone, and the Customer Before the Service

The Pony and I made a trip up north today to find him a new cell phone. Let the record show that The Pony has never had a new cell phone, except his very first one, which he did not even want, but which we pushed upon him so he could contact us for pickup after Smartypants Team practices and competitions.

Yes, The Pony has always made do with smartphone steeds culled from Genius's stable of broken-down nags. A lad who actually cared about things and people might have thought to object. But not The Pony. Let the record further show that Val herself, the glue factory of the family, has always received the leftovers of those nags that The Pony did not choose. Still, a nag from Genius's stable is akin to buying yard-sale gently-used outgrown clothing worn by the little girls of a local lawyer. Well taken care of, top-of-the-line when new. Not that I bought girls' clothes for my boys. But might know a certain ex-city-official's spouse who had a daughter who liked nice things.

On prom night, The Pony's phone slipped from his hand. Don't wanna know why. It received a diagonal crack across its face. Still worked fine, for a several-years-old phone. But nothing a National Merit Scholar should have to take away to college. We have been putting off the purchase, because with a new phone comes the end of the jailbreak. The end of unlimited internet sucked in by the phone, rerouted to flow through the laptop. Even The Pony can manage three days without internet on his laptop. He still has unlimited on his new phone.

Friday, we went to the local Sprint store. According to Genius, all we had to do was walk in there and buy a phone. Then The Pony's Google account would update all his contacts, and he could download his apps again. Except the store didn't have the phone he wanted, and the sales guy tried to sell him something more powerful than what he needed, and said it would cost $637 unless we leased it, or paid $26/month for 24 months. You know that comes out to $624, right? We knew it.

After getting Genius out of a meeting to call us back while we sat in T-Hoe, he informed us that the store could, indeed, honor the internet deal he had told us to ask for. "You may have to ask for a manager, but they can do it. We're grandfathered in. They don't like it. But they can do it. You'll have to push them. They're taught to upsell everything they can."

Back inside, I said, "I know you can't do this for new customers, but we have used Sprint for nine years now, and we'd like to buy this phone with an upgrade and a 24-month contract. It's offered for our account online."

A little wisp of a girl with a bleached-out pixie cut responded to our request, "Well, that's ONLIIIIINE!"

That rubbed retired-teacher, long-time customer Val the wrong way. "All right. You can't do it. Thank you for your time." I turned away from the counter and started out.

"Wait. I can call my manager...and see if we can do it..."

"No. Thank you. That's online. I understand."

The Pony wasn't quite sure what just happened. Back in the car, I apologized to him. "Sorry. We'll get you a phone. That wasn't going to end well. We can go up the highway to where Genius always got his phones. Before this store was here." Thing is, we live halfway between those two cities. We just happened to be there for banking purposes that afternoon, and planned to use that Sprint store.

The Pony decided he wanted to wait until Saturday morning to try the other place. And off we went at the crack of 11:00 this morning. When we entered, a jovial lady (no spring chicken, and not bleachy-blond, and not missing a tooth, as The Pony had later pointed out about Pixie) called to us, "We'll be with you in just a minute. I'm putting away some paperwork." The customers that had been with her started out the door.

A man came in after us. A big ol' man, with hair in a neck-nape ponytail (not that there's anything wrong with that) looking like he might be descended from Grizzly Adams. "Huh!" He said, not at all gruntledly, like he was disgusted to see other people in the store ahead of him. "You can have a seat, sir. We will be with you as soon as we can," said Fall Chick. But Grizzly IV stalked past The Pony and Val, and stood at the shoulder-high counter from behind which Fall Chick was paper-pushing.

Fall Chick looked up at us and motioned us over. "I'm sorry, sir. You can have a seat. These people were here ahead of you." Yet Grizzle IV stood his ground. I shouldered my way to the counter. Grizzly IV almost had to step back to allow me space, but he held his ground. Pinned between my right shoulder and a life-size poster of The Sprint Guy wearing a yellow shirt and black leather jacket. "I'm sorry, sir. Could you please step back so this customer can have some privacy?" Darn tootin'! Grizzly IV finally took the hint, and huffed a few steps back. Still not sitting in the waiting area, to encroach on other private moments with other being-helped customers.

And then the most magnificent thing happened! I announced that we would like to buy a phone with our upgrade, and a 24-month contract, and Fall Chick looked up our account and said she would hook us up! No questions asked, no sing-songy ridicule! She turned to the case to get the very phone The Pony wanted, the HTC 10...but that cubby was barer than Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard!

"Oh. I COULD have sold it to you, if somebody here hadn't just swiped the last one!" Turns out it was the girl finishing up a current transaction down the counter.

"That's okay. I like the other one just as well." So we stood OUR ground, and bought The Pony a Samsung Galaxy S7 Gold Platinum for $245. Which I thought was pretty reasonable, even though ONLINE I saw the Black Onyx version on special from Best Buy. But it was ONLINE, you know, and we wanted that phone now, not at some future shipping date, IF it wasn't back-ordered. And it sure beat the not-heaven out of that $637 price quoted to us Friday.

Because Fall Chick was so cheerful and helpful, and got all of The Pony's data transferred (his current HTC did not want to share with the Samsung), including his apps, even though it took a connector and 20 minutes...I threw in a case and car charger for my little Pony, which Fall Chick promptly discounted.

Somebody's gettin' a stellar review on the customer satisfaction survey!

Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday #21 "The Blockhead: Callous Shrugged"

Blog buddy Sioux is hosting Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday. I have 150 words to entice you to fake-buy my fake book. What with it being back-to-school time for SOME folks, Val is offering a half-price sale on her fake book this week! Or you can get a two-fer. TWO of Val's fake titles for the fake price of ONE fake title! Can't beat THAT with a fake stick!

That typed...let's not forget that The Pony needs a new pair of shoes. He's headed off to college next week, you know. And while he already has two new pairs of shoes, he needs shorts and shirts and socks, and toilet-cleaning supplies, and an extension cord and ethernet cable, and some notebooks and composition books and folders and pens and pencils, and oh yeah, a 32-inch TV.

So pony up, people, and get to buyin' Val's fake books!

The Blockhead: Callous Shrugged

Sal Thethicktorian does not suffer fools gladly. Like the short, self-important, 20-year-old salesman with gauges in his ears trying to upsell her son The Roan-y a different phone. "Let me discuss this with my electronics consultant." Sal stashes Gauge’s business card, and calls her elder son, Savant.

"You are NOT paying $637 retail. It’s $200-something online because you are an established customer. They can do it in the store. Ask for management."

Back goes Sal. "We want a two-year contract, no leasing, no installments. That deal is online."

"Well, that's ONLINE!" Sing-songs Tinkerbell, a bleachy-haired associate.

"All right. You can't do it." Sal takes her leave.

"Wait. I can call my manager...and see if we can do it..."

"No. Thank you. That’s only online."

Will The Roan-y despair because Sal is a blockhead? Will Sal seek satisfaction up the road at a different branch? (144 words)

__________________________________________________________________

Fake Reviews for Val’s Fake Book

Ayn Rand…”Sorry, I cannot be objective. This author should be strapped to the railroad tracks, and any pieces left should then be tossed over the edge of a quarry.” 

Budhha at Wat Phra Mahathat…”Thevictorian should make like a tree and leave...the author scene!” 

The Easter Island Gang…”This author is a colossal blockhead.” 

The Thinker…”I think that I shall stand up and get while the gettin' is good, rather than be hornswoggled into fake-reading this fake book!” 

The Lucy Statue…”I am beside myself with consternation over Thevictorian's fake book. If only her townspeople would pitch a fit to have somebody rewrite this monster of a faux tome!"

The Four Presidents at Mount Rushmore…”If only we had bodies, we would run far, far away from Thevictorian's monumental failure of a fake book."

Same Savior, Different Deal

So here's the deal with those extra refunds that my sister the ex-mayor's wife and I were getting on Mom's medicare premiums that were automatically taken out after she had died...

Sis fought that original refund battle with the SS folks, went to her local government reps, then all the way to Washington. She's tenacious, my sister the ex-mayor's wife! After almost a year and a half, we got that money back. When I wrote about it here, I mistakenly thought that money had been deposited in Mom's account that we had left open for that purpose. Nope. Sis had gotten a check for the full amount, and cashed it and gave me half, back in the middle of June. She did not, however, make a copy of that check, which came with no tear-off stub. Same as the one I got for half that amount a couple weeks ago. No tear-off stub. At least I made a copy.

So here's the problem. I waited for Sis to get HER new half so we could go together to turn in our new checks to the local Social Security office. No need to do hard time for fraud. I don't need to be on my feet all day breaking up boulders with a sledgehammer. And Hick is sure not astute enough to bake me a cake with a file in it.

Sitting at New Delly in my dark basement lair on Monday evening, I got a text from Sis. "I got the Medicare check today." After much back-and-forth, like trying to plan an outing with Mom, requiring just shy of the effort needed to mount the Allied Invasion of Normandy, we agreed on the time to meet to relinquish our ill-gotten gains. Then I got another text.

"Just opened my letter from the Social Security Administration, and there was no check. There was a letter that said it was returned to them??? Do you still want to go and I take this letter but make them give me something that shows I didn't get it?"

"I will still go, because I want to get rid of it."

THEN Sis sent me a picture of her letter. I have printed it and taken a closeup, because that ding-dang-donged new Office that I have doesn't let me crop pictures like the old one. It was a form with a letterhead and claim number that said:

We are writing to tell you that your payment of $XX.xx was returned to us. We need information below to reissue this payment.

Please indicate below whether the address shown above is your current mailing address. If it is not, please provide us with your current address.

Is the address show above your current address?

( ) yes     ( ) no

If, NO, write your current address here:

________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________

Please sign and date this letter and return it in the enclosed envelope. Please mail your response to:

AND HERE'S WHERE MY SCAMMY SENSE WAS ACTIVATED

See that little problem there? I got right back on the phone and sent Sis another text.

"That looks bogus. The K in Kansas City is not capitalized at the bottom. Somebody might have scammed your check!"

"Well they sent it in a social security administration envelope (just like the one I got saying I was going to be receiving a check), and also sent me a return envelope with postage paid. The envelope I got it in had no stamp."

"Then no wonder you couldn't get that money back, and are now getting DOUBLE MONEY, because that organization does not even understand the rudimentary rules of capitalization!"

What say you? Would this raise your suspicion hackles? Maybe it's just really hard to gain the trust of a former teacher. Unless you were a kindergarten teacher like Sis. They're more trusting, I suppose. Not as jaded.

Anyhoo...we got called back into the inner sanctum of the SS office, were given the cold shoulder and treated not very politely by a dude who acted like we ruined his day by being there. He looked at Sis.

"Can I see your ID?" He took it and made a copy. "What's going on?" Giving her the cold stare the whole time.

"We got this refund a couple of months ago, for Medicare my mom had taken out of her account after she had passed. Your people here told me I would not get it. The main agency said I would not get it. A person told me to contact my local representative. And after going through all that, THEY told me I would not get it. Now, after almost two years, we got it back. And now my sister has gotten half of it again, and I have a letter saying my half was sent back because of the wrong address, but it's the RIGHT address."

"I know that. I see it right here." He motioned to his computer monitor, which we only saw the back of. Dude was kind of snotty just to be snotty. I know a public employee attitude when I see it. After all, I spent five years working for the state unemployment office! He looked at me and said, "Why are YOU here?"

"I just want to give back this check. I've already gotten my half of the money back." I pushed the check across the desk.

"I'll need your ID."

"Can I get something to show that I turned that check in?"

"Sure. It'll cost you $XX.xx." He winked at me. I was not seeing the humor. Nor appreciating his demeanor. Sis was only worried about being exonerated from her attempted fraud.

"Can I get a letter showing that I did not get a check?"

"You already got one."

"But what if they send the check again?"

"We won't. I see it right here on screen. It's not going back out unless we do something to send it. And we're not going to."

"Okaayyy. I'm keeping this letter saying it was sent back."

"It's not going out again."

"All right, then. Thank you." We got out of there like a couple of would-be thieves making their getaway. Once we were out of the inner sanctum, Sis said, "I'm pretty sure he's the guy I talked to in the beginning. The one who kept telling me that I was not going to get that money back. I guess he was mad because I went over his head. But that's what somebody who used to work here told me to do!"

Heh, heh! Do you know who that was, that advice-giver? Our knightess in shining armor once again? It was the ex-mayor's sister! The one who stepped in front of the solar panel of the car Genius's team beat by 18 minutes in an 8-day race!

Even Steven apparently has a capricious sense of fair play.