Val's Trash Dumpster Faux Pas

Did you ever watch Designing Women? Towards the end of the run, when Julia Duffy of Newhart fame came on board as Cousin Allison? When somebody did something embarrassing, Cousin Allison felt that it was her duty to inform them that they had a big ol' bird on their head.

Saturday, Val had a pterodactyl on her noggin. Cousin Allison was nowhere in sight.

I had put off bringing the trash dumpster down the driveway from Thursday's trash pickup. The weather turned cold, which wouldn't have stopped me in itself, but the wind was whipping around at 30 mph, and I just wasn't having it. I have a husband, you know, who doesn't work except for doing his own laundry every six weeks or so whether it needs it or not.

Let the record show that Hick later said that he WOULD HAVE brought the dumpster down, if I'd asked him. Let that record further show that Hick normally pulls the dumpster along with one hand while driving the Gator, but he told me that he would have walked up there to get it. Yeah. Right. He didn't score any Sweet Baboo points with that revelation, because I knew he was bluffing.

Anyhoo...the wind was still whipping, and the temps in the 40s, but I'd put it off long enough. I had a bag of trash waiting to be drawstringed in the kitchen. It was physically impossible to Jenga anything else on top. So off I went, in the too-bright December sunshine, to fetch the dumpster. I DID put on my jacket, and a cap to stop the whipping tendrils of my lovely lady-mullet from blinding me.

My loyal buddy Jack came from the Freight Container Garage construction site to greet me as I was parking the dumpster. I was sweet-talking him when I noticed something on top of the dumpster lid.

LADYBUGS!

They must have clung on there for dear ladybug life as I tilted that dumpster and towed it through the raging wind to get it back to the carport area.

"Just a minute, Jack! I want a picture of the ladybugs! Oh! Do YOU want to be in a picture, too?" I snapped one of Jack looking at me. Kind of. I made that smoochy noise that you do to get a dog's attention, and got a better one of him that I used a couple days ago.

"Okay. Now let's get that picture of the ladybugs! I hope they're not humping! That would be embarrassing!"

Well. What's embarrassing is my picture. And it's not ladybugs humping.

It's two nuggets of BIRD POOP.

Pretty appropriate, I suppose, for that big ol' bird on my head.

There Are None So Blind As a Man Doing His Own Laundry

Some people see a glass as half full. Others see the same glass as half empty. Val sees that glass with just a couple of drops left clinging to the bottom. So far empty that a certain blog buddy's wife wouldn't even bother to put a paper towel over the top to save her used water for later.

Having heard almost all there is to tell about the wacky adventures of Val and her Sweet Baboo, Hick...you are privy (heh, heh, I said privy) to the fact that Hick does his own laundry. That's not because he's such a selfless, caring, empathetic husband that he wants to relieve Val of part of the housework load. No. It's because shortly after the marriage vows echoed off the chat dumps of Backroads, Val informed Hick in no uncertain terms that clothing would not be picked up off the bedroom floor for washing, but would only be laundered if it was in the clothes hamper. Hick, being somewhat of a hard-headed, self-nose-biting, face-spiter...declared that he would do his own laundry, then, rather than kowtow to Val and her cuh-RAZY ideas on clothes-washing. Pretty brave talk from a man who used a uniform service for work clothes five days a week.

Flash forward 28 years to the present. No uniform service during retirement. Hick did his laundry Friday night, so he'd have a pair of clean shorts to wear under his Santa pants for Saturday's breakfast with a bunch of pre-schoolers. Let the record show that it IS mid-December, and while the weather has been unseasonable warm this winter, it seems a bit laundry-laggy for Hick to just now notice that he had no clean shorts.

Anyhoo...Hick does his laundry at night, while he's kicked back in his La-Z-Boy watching a Pickers show or a Moonshiner's show or an Off-Grid Building show or those relatives of Jewel in Alaska. He usually folds his laundry on our bed. Perhaps he didn't have the arm strength to turn on the light with his new click switch, or perhaps he was exhausted from a late return from the auction Friday night and put off the folding until early Saturday morning, while I was asleep on his usual laundry surface. In any case, it looks like Hick folded his clothes on the long couch in the living room this time.

No. Val is not psychic. Well...okay...I am...just a little bit. But I had a major clue this time.

I spied a Bounce (Walmart generic version) on the floor Saturday afternoon. In defense of my slovenly home, allow the record to show that the carpet is not discolored, but rather showing different sunlight patterns from the front window, and indentations from the lugs on the soles of Hick's boots.

You might think that Val would be thrilled that Hick does his own laundry. That she'd be hoisting that full glass in a toast to her Sweet Baboo's chore ethic. But no.

"I see there's a Bounce on the floor."

"Huh. Maybe you dropped one."

"Maybe in the laundry room. But I found one in the living room."

"Huh. I must have dropped it when I folded my clothes. I see it now."

"Uh huh."

Let the record show that Hick is not one to take a hint. That Bounce is still there. You don't think I'M going to pick up, do you? I'm busy refilling my glass. Trying to get it to half full.

Be Careful What You Nag For

A while back I had a fear that our bedroom, the place the magic happens (and by magic, I refer to the continued inhalations and exhalations of Hick nightly, courtesy of his breather), might spontaneously burst into flames due to a faulty light switch. A couple weeks ago, Hick replaced that light switch. Let the record show that Hick is not renowned for scrubbing his hands to surgical standards before working on light switches, or turning them on and off.

I am not a fan of the new one. You might wonder what's to like or not like about a light switch. It fits on the wall, and has a lever to flip to turn a light on. Or off. Leave it to Hick to find a way to displease Val. He's a master of that trade, even while jacking around with a plethora of others.

Hick had informed me that he fixed the light switch while I was in town. I had no reason to doubt him. I don't turn on that light much, since the bedroom is plenty light during the day, from the french doors onto the back porch that face east and overlook Poolio. At night, I don't need a light to find my way into bed. However...when straightening up the kitchen for Thanksgiving, I took my goblet of Future Pennyillionaire pennies to the bedroom, and set it on a desk in the corner by the french doors. Now when I find a penny, I need to turn on the light to look at the date on it with a mini magnifying glass.

So there I was the other day, gleefully be-bopping into the bedroom, a found penny in my left hand, glasses in my right (can't walk with my bifocals on, I get discombobulated). I entered the room and stuck out my left elbow to flip on the light. You do that, right? It's not like you have to grasp that light switch lever with your fingers and lift it up. You just hit it. Elbow. Side of your forefinger. Heel of your hand.

REEEEEE! Cue the screeching tire sound effect. (So sorry the phonograph needle reference is now a casualty of technological progress.)

That new light switch didn't budge! In fact, it hurt my elbow. What in the Not-Heaven...I stopped my be-bopping and turned back. Figured my timing was off, and it was my mistake. I tried to flip that switch by putting the side of the middle joint of my index finger under it, giving it a quick lift. YOWCH! It didn't budge. I added my thumb to the grip, and STILL couldn't lift that lever!

In fact, I had to put the fleshy part of my thumb under that switch and almost grunt with effort to move it. That's not how a light switch should work. It IS a small lever, you know. Val is quite knowledgeable about her simple machines. But THIS lever needs to be about three feet long to make moving it not strenuous. Like a giant wall switch in a cartoon that takes a whole arm to pull it up or down. No way can you just bump it up with your elbow as you walk into the room. A skeleton himself could chip his ulna attempting this everyday feat. You almost need a crowbar to assist in turning on the bedroom light now.

I asked Hick what the deal was with the bedroom light switch.

"Can't you loosen it up? I just about broke my elbow on it. It almost takes two hands now to turn it on or off."

"It's a switch, Val. You complained, and I put in a new switch."

"It shouldn't be that hard to flip."

"It's a click switch."

"Nobody wants a switch that takes that much effort. Why did you get that kind?"

"I just got a switch. A good one."

"You got the wrong kind, didn't you? You didn't mean to get that kind, but you did, and you didn't want to admit it, so you put it in. Right? Now I'm stuck with a light switch that takes two hands."

"It's just a switch, Val. It works fine."

Dang it! I need some kind of protective gear, like a thimble. Or an accessory. Like a guitar pick. I'm not sure if living in fear of flames shooting out of that wonky light switch was worse than using so much effort to turn it on now.

In other news, today I found a penny! I know. It's such a rare happening that I felt like I should document the occasion.

I had stopped by Country Mart for some Bugles to put in the Chex Mix. You can't find them at Walmart, you know. At least I can't. My rightful parking spots were taken. All three of them! So I parked way down at the end, next to my 3rd choice rightful space. I glanced back while walking in, and saw the gleam of a 2014 (no significance for me) beauty from the empty space next to T-Hoe. Of course I snapped a pic and picked it up.

Inside the store I found Hick and The Veteran (Hick's second son) at the deli. Hick was buying him lunch for helping put up some stuff inside the Freight Container Garage. Hick had the fried catfish, and The Veteran had a BBQ pork steak, which looked delectable. My mom used to buy me one when I was working late at school, and bring it over to me. Anyhoo...Hick offered to buy me lunch so I could join them, but I was on a mission, and it was going on 2:00 and I still didn't have my 44 oz Diet Coke.

More on the Freight Container Garage soon if Hick sends me pictures. I'm hoping he doesn't install click switches for the lights.
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This was penny # 71 for my Future Pennyillionaire collection.
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Val's Thirteen-Year-Old Self Has a Field Day

Some days, you can't buy a story to write about for your daily blog. Other days, a story falls right in your lap.

Today, Val's lap was the surprised recipient of a magnificent cock!

A Ring-Necked Pheasant cock, to be exact.

Take a look at this beauty:

I was on the way to town, turning the curve where that working dog watches over the sheep in the field opposite this one. This bird was strolling across the blacktop, not in any hurry. I stopped in the road, which we do often here in the country, though usually not with the purpose of getting a better look at a cock. I had no idea what this was! I needed a picture for Hick.

At first the cock was uncooperative. He was playing hard-to-get, I suppose. But I persisted, and was eventually able to...wait for it...

...get some head. It's a magnificent specimen. A classic textbook example from the Missouri Department of Conservation website. A Ring-Necked Pheasant, in the wild, far away from the areas he's supposed to inhabit.

I sent a picture to Hick, and he said it was a peacock. Um. No. So glad he never went bird hunting and brought me back a peacock to roast. We used to live up the street from a house that kept peacocks, and they are much larger, and have those freaky antenna-like things sprouting from their head, not to mention longer legs and fatter bodies and more colorful tails. And a scream like a woman that is quite annoying.

Anyhoo...my journey only got better when I harvested TWO PENNIES from the floor of Waterside Mart today. One in the area out front of the counter, and another on the way out the door. Let the record show that I was closing T-Hoe's door before going in, and remembered that my phone was on the console. I almost opened the door again to get it, in case of a penny discovery, but decided against it. Bad decision. Gotta follow my hunches.

Here they are after the fact. A 2010 from in front of the counter, and a 1967 from the door area. Nothing I know of happened those years. Except it looks like Lincoln's likeness was updated for penny purposes.

I was toying with a title idea of "Cock and Certain Cents." Kind of in honor of Genius's graduation ceremony music, coming up on Saturday.
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These were pennies #69 and 70 for my Future Pennyillionaire collection. Only 99 more, and I can afford a 44 oz Diet Coke with them!
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The Jack Formerly Known as "Puppy" Is Oft-Maligned

Poor Jack. My little dog can't seem to catch a break. Only last week, he was highly-regarded by Hick as an empathetic rescue dog, one step below a St. Bernard bearing a cask of rum, when he clambered up on the belly of fallen Hick to see if he was okay. Or had bacon grease on his lips.

Friday, Jack was again canine non grata.

Remember back when Hick accused then-Puppy Jack of climbing up on the trunk of his 1980 Olds Toronado and taking a poop? As IF that squatty stocky heeler-dachshund with his extra-long spine could get up onto a car trunk! And remember when Jack ate the bacon sandwich Hick provided for him in a paper-plate place-setting on the seat of the Gator and left it unattended? Well, Hick is back in his accusatory mode.

Let the record show that we've been having trouble with the garage pooper again. In the past, all the way back to 2014, we've had a mystery pooper that gets in the garage, probably through the pet door. It's a small door with a swinging piece of plastic, set low to the ground, for the cats. I even had documented proof of previous poopings from my supersecret blog. From January 2014, and February 2014, and September 2017, when the pooper branched out to the side porch.

Now the mystery pooper has left several puddles of pee along the wall on T-Hoe's driver's side, and keeps pooping under the shotgun seat. Hick has cleaned out the garage of fallen mud that drips from T-Hoe's flanks in messy weather. Swept it out so clean you could eat off it. Though I wouldn't want to, because something has been peeing and pooping there.

Here's the garage and T-Hoe, the side of the crime against garage-ity.

Right under there is where the mystery pooper has been doing his business. Hick has shoveled it out and swept it clean. I think that's a stain there, because there was no new poop when I took the picture.

There's the frozen pee-puddle that appeared Friday morning, and some dead leaves that blew in when I opened the garage door.

I was in town Friday when my phone announced a text from Hick.

"Val I clean two big piles of looks like dog poop I'm not sure Jack's not the one getting in there and go and getting under your car but I cleaned it up"

That's quite detailed and lengthy for Hick. But even with his Hicklish language, I knew what he meant. He was ACCUSING JACK OF BEING THE GARAGE POOPER!

"It is not Jack. He can't get in. It's a possum. When I open the people door Jack goes in and looks for the cat. He does not go under the car. He goes to the cat food bucket and that house. You blamed him for pooping on your Toronado when he couldn't even get up there. Next time he should let you lay there when you fall! And not eat the bacon sandwich you share with him on the Gator."

"It just looks like dog poop that's all I'm saying but I don't know but he can fit through the door."

"I don't think so. Lock that door. Or set up your $100 game camera you used once at the BARn."

"Yeah. I may set the camera up to see what is getting in there"

"Focus it on that door. Or under my car. Did you see the pee by the driver's door? Jack would pee ON something. Not just a puddle on the open floor."

Hick forgets that we were having a pooping problem before we even got PUPPY JACK! I will be sure to point that out when he starts maligning my little buddy again. Meanwhile, he got the game camera, that was hanging on a tree up at HOS's place when he was looking for deer, and put it in the garage.

Last night, Hick left for the auction at 6:00. I was making a batch of Chex Mix, and I needed more containers to put it in. I'd left some in the back of T-Hoe, so I went out to the garage to get them. I forgot all about that game camera until I got back in the house.

I hope Hick doesn't accuse ME of being the mystery pooper when he sees me on the game camera.

I would take the fall, though, to protect this little guy.

The Pizza Swerver and Centsible Val

Last week, Hick said that when he was done selling at his Storage Container Store on Sunday, he'd come home and we'd go to the casino for a while. He wasn't sure of the exact time, because he wanted to take advantage of the teeming crowd of junk-shoppers while the weather was nice.

Since the time was uncertain, I didn't know if we'd be having lunch at the casino, or supper. Hick usually comes home at 2:00. I didn't go get my 44 oz Diet Coke, because I didn't want Hick to arrive soon after I'd started swilling it. You don't want Val in the car for an hour after she's imbibed a barrel of caffeinated beverage. Hick texted me a couple of times that he was getting ready to leave, but that he had a customer. No big deal. It's not like we have a schedule these days.

My gambling purse was all ready to go, and I was just marking time. When Hick showed up, all I had to do was shut down New Delly and make a last stop in the bathroom. I came out to find Hick eating a sandwich.

"I thought we were going to eat there."

"We will. We can have supper. I'm having a bacon sandwich. I didn't eat at the flea market today."

That meant Hick was planning on supper at the casino, so I rummaged through FRIG II for something to take in the car. I found a piece of Casey's pizza wrapped in foil. It was only about 3 days old. I'm a fan of cold pizza, so I just carried the foil to the car with me. I waited until Hick was off the curvy blacktop, and on the divided highway before trying to eat it.

I unwrapped the pizza slice and took a bite. The best part, that triangle tip at the end. I set the slice back on the foil, which I had laying on my thigh. Let the record show that Val's thigh is ample enough to use as a dining table.

All at once, that pizza slice jolted off my leg, and tumbled towards the floor of A-Cad, only to become entangled in the open-zippered top of my gambling purse, which was between my feet.

"I should have known that it wasn't safe to lay that down with you sweaving like you do."

"Val. I'm not sweaving, as you call it. I'm just driving. You are too dramatic. I didn't make your pizza fall on the floor."

The Not-Heaven he didn't! I only wish Sir Isaac Newton had a cell phone, so I could call him and then hand the phone to HIck to hear about Newton's First Law of Motion, which says that pizza does not jump sideways off a lap, no matter how depressed it has been feeling lately.

"How can that happen on a straight road at a constant speed?" 

Hick had no retort, pithy or otherwise. I picked up my pizza and continued to consume it. It hadn't hit the floor, and even if it had, A-Cad is almost like new, not even driven by a little old lady from Pasadena, but only by Hick for trips to Oklahoma, and Val to town if T-Hoe is out of commission.

In other news, I found a penny on the Walmart parking lot yesterday.

It was in that differently-abled walkway by the differently-abled parking spaces. I usually cut down that walkway from my spot over halfway to the end of the lot, but yesterday there was a man walking a differently-abled gal along there, so I kept to the car lane as I went inside. Coming out, I took that route, and couldn't believe my eyes. A special penny, just for me.

This was a 1982. The year I went from my first teaching job to my second, halfway across the state.

Today I stopped by Orb K and parked way around at the end. I found no pennies on the way in. The wind was chilling at 37 degrees, whipping my lovely lady mullet into a disheveled haystack on my noggin. The wind also made my eyes water, in combination with the bright sun. On the way out, I had a different angle on the sun and wind. Something caught my eye.

Yup. By the red car. I couldn't quite me sure. I stood on the edge of the curb, looking. A NICKEL! A nickel on the lot is worth five pennies in the pocket! As I was getting my phone ready for a picture, holding new scratchers between my teeth, lest the wind carry them to Oz, I saw A DIME! Wow!

I swear it's in there. The nickel is to the left of that blob on the yellow stripe. And the dime is to the right of the stripe, almost at the bottom right corner of the picture. You have to zoom in, or take my undisputed word for it. Undisputed! No disputes allowed!

You're not going to believe this, but as I looked down to see if stepping my sore knees off that curb for a better picture would be feasible, I saw A PENNY!

Of course I hobbled down and snatched up that penny, and forgot all about a better picture. People were in cars at the gas pumps, anyway, probably at that very moment calling the cops about a weirdo taking pictures of the parking lot, or casing cars. I took the money and ran.

I might reach pennyillionaire status sooner than anticipated.
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These were pennies # 67 and 68 for my Future Pennyillionaire collection. I don't keep a tally of the other coins. First Penny this post, 1982. Second Penny 1972, Dime 1974, and Nickel 2000.
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Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday #88 "Sleeping With the Dishes"

Blog buddy Sioux is hosting Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday. I have 150 words to convince you to fake-buy my fake book. This week, Val brings you the tale of a spoiled little rich girl. Unfortunately, her riches only went as far as her daddy's mansion door. Marriage has made getting what she wants more challenging. Even the tiny things. I hope this fake book's fake sales go swimmingly. C'mon! Don't be a drip! Order your fake copy today!

Sleeping With the Dishes

Margo's having second thoughts about her tiny house. She'd persuaded her husband, Chip, to withdraw his teacher's retirement money to finance the itsy-bitsy home. Now that it's built, Margo wonders what she's gotten herself into. Right now, it's the bathtub. Technically, it's the country sink. Chip, against it, put in an extra large one to make a point. It would also act as bathtub and washer.

Chip decrees they'll cut back on other items. Cleaning supplies. Margo's eyebrows double as Brillo pads for dish scrubbing. Which bathe with her, as Chip drives the tiny house to its new location, sloshing water acting as an agitator for the three pairs of his pants Margo wears to wash. And keep warm. No water heater here. Only Margo's body heat.

Will Margo come clean about her change of heart? If so, will she be sleeping with the fishes instead of the dishes? (149 words)

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Fake Reviews for Val’s Fake Book

A Kitchen Sink..."They can cut back on everything but me! Speaking of cutting back, a certain fake book editor had better not show her face around here. This whole debacle could have been prevented if Thevictorian's fake book had been trimmed of fat."

Garbage Disposal..."I am willing to do my part in making the world a better place. Toss Thevictorian's fake books this way."

Dish Drainer..."Thevictorian is all wet."

Dawn Dish Soap..."A little duck told me that if he has to see another fake book from Thevictorian, he will seek out an oil slick and let death take him."

Alan Jackson..."I's all right to be little bitty, it's all right to live in a little bitty house, but it's NOT all right to have not even a little bitty bit of talent, and fake-publish fake books. Who's cheatin' who, Thevictorian?"

Surendra Kumar Apharya..."A grain of rice is too much space to allot to Thevictorian for her next fake book."

Texas..."No room here for Thevictorian and her fake books. Hit the road, Val."

Rhode Island..."It pretty much goes without saying that I stand with Texas."

A Certain Part of Michelangelo's David..."Thevictorian shows her shortcomings as a fake author with this fake book. If only she shared certain attributes with the Venus de Milo, the literary world could have been spared. Eighty-eight times."