Veiled (Or Not) Judgement

Sometimes, people can be overly familiar. Take it from Val, the original (and high-powered) weirdo magnet.

Monday was Walmart day, and the checker kind of overstepped her bounds, IMO. Sure, the policy is to ask a customer if they found everything okay, or comment on some item to make small talk. I'm used to that intrusion. In fact, this checker asked me if I found everything okay, and I said, "Yes, I did." Figuring that would put an end to the chit-chat, so The Inquisitor could go on with her duties of ringing up my items and getting me out of there.

As with most things in Val's life these days...my check-out experience did not go as planned.

"Oh, is this good?" The Inquisitor held up a Blue Bunny Load'd Sundae. An individual ice cream treat, this one being Chocolate Brownie Bomb.

"Yes. I only found them last week. They're delicious."

The Inquisitor spun my Blue Bunny around, looked at it from every angle. If she'd had one of those flat wooden spoons, I daresay she would have popped off the top to sample it.

"Don't look at the calories!"

Excuse me. Is it now the job of the Walmart checker to fat-shame customers? Like how a few years ago, the optometrist started asking if you had guns in your house? I think we are giving employees too many cross-over duties! Let's get back to the basics. Let each employee do the single job that they were trained for!

Seriously. I wanted to tell that old gal, "Oh, I don't care about the calories! Next time, I'm going to get one of each flavor, and eat them one after the other!" But I didn't.

I'm glad I wasn't buying Preparation H.

Tuesday, I was in line at the Gas Station Chicken Store. Buying only my 44 oz Diet Coke, and a single $5 scratcher (loser, keeping my recent streak alive). I was next. Standing right there at the glass-top counter where the scratchers are kept, a box of impulse purchase items to my left.

A dude came in and got in line next to me. He looked at those impulse items, which this week happen to be individual slices of Hostess Iced Lemon Cake.

Dude pulled up his gray t-shirt to expose his belly. He rubbed it. There might or might not have been some bullet hole scars there. I was trying not to stare.

"They always get sumpin' to temp us fat people!"

Um. Yeah. Thanks so much. It's a wonder I can fit through the door, I guess.

Do you think it was just a trick to see if I'd pull up my shirt? That he was flirting with me, and wanted to roll off into the sunset with me in his heavy-duty truck?

Panic in the Lair

When I'm not putting Thero-Gesic on my dry hands in place of Neutrogena Hair Mask as lotion...and when I'm not brushing my teeth with Bengay...I devote my time to learning how to eat.

Uh huh. I have somehow forgotten how to pick up food on a spoon, lift it to my mouth, scrape it off inside, and swallow it. Either that, or I have a hole in the bottom of my chin that I am unaware of.

Tuesday night, I was having a snack. A dessert of sorts. Okay. Actually, I was just having ice cream for supper. Sometimes, you gotta treat yourself. Which in Val's case involves substituting that treat for a regular meal. Those hot dogs Hick grilled Monday will eat themselves. Apparently. They are disappearing at an alarming rate.

Anyhoo...there I was, happily wasting my time on the innernets, supper completed (quite deliciously, I might add), when I turned to pick up my 44 oz Diet Coke for a sip, and saw something on my shirt!!!

YIKES!

At first I got all spasm-y and apoplectic, having the urge to crawl out of my skin, or at least my clothing, because there was a BIG BLACK BUG on it!

That was several minutes of useless calorie-burning, because upon further inspection, it turns out that I did NOT have a BIG BLACK BUG on me.

No. I had a STAIN. On my shirt. Okay. It was actually more of a solid kind of ploppy blob, until I tried to lick it off my shirt. HEY! My shirt is clean! I just took it out of the dryer yesterday! Looks like it's going back in, after a detour through the washer with Tide.

You don't think I've ruined my favorite ratty old baby blue sweatshirt, do you?

A Tale of Two Tubes

Actually, make that four. FOUR tubes.

Saturday night, in my dark basement lair, I reached for the lotion. My hands were all dry from too much washing at the casino. Technically, I reached for the HAIR CONDITIONER that I've been using as lotion. Don't judge.

I was reading up on celebrity gossip on New Delly's screen, and squeezed that tube so a glop of lotion Neutrogena Triple Moisture Hair Mask plopped onto my right index finger. Except it was Thera-Gesic. A more powerful form of Bengay. That's definitely a lotioning faux pas. How was I supposed to know?

There those tubes were, like Carmen and The Devil walking, in that Take a Load Off song (actually The Weight, by The Band)...side by side. It was as if I'd invited Carmen to go downtown, but she had something better to do, and The Devil hopped in to ride shotgun. Or in this case, to be squeezed from that tube and onto my finger. Seriously. I was ready to rub that in for moisturization purposes, until I saw the tube in my hand.

YIKES! It was akin to HOS'S wife's sister sitting on her back porch one evening, texting, with her new puppy romping under her chair, brushing her ankles...then looking down to see a RACCOON. Okay. Maybe not exactly like that, because I'm pretty sure Thera-Gesic can't give me rabies. But shockingly close to that.

It's not like those tubes were facing forward, so I could notice the bright blue color of the Thera-Gesic. No siree, Bob! They had the labels facing me. And when you reach and grab only one, you don't have to ability to compare sizes. One flip-top tube feels pretty much like the next one.

Just like in the bathroom that morning when I was brushing my teeth. Let the record show that my toothpaste sits on Hick's side of the sink counter. Don't think I'm encroaching on his space! His cell phone sits on my side to charge. It's a mutual agreement. Except I guess Hick was having some aches and pains. Perhaps in his Poparm. Because he'd moved the Bengay from the fireplace mantel (as opposed to the anything-else mantel) in the living room to the sink counter in the bathroom. And put it right down beside my toothpaste, with me unawares. C'mon! Who actually LOOKS at their tube of toothpaste when they reach for it? Except maybe Hick, because he keeps his on top of the frame of the sliding door of the shower.

I actually had that Bengay in my left hand, ready to squeeze onto the toothbrush in my right, when I noticed, sensed more than saw, that my tube of Sensodyne Pronamel was still sitting on the counter. What's THIS then??? YIKES! Again. I'd almost brushed my teeth with Bengay! I stopped before putting it on my toothbrush. So I didn't have to rub it in anywhere, like with the future Thera-Gesic on the back of my neck.

I guess I need to be more observant. Surely I'm not senile yet. I just need to pay attention. And stop putting my Thera-Gesic so close to my hair mask "lotion," and wake up to the fact that since Hick is here now 24/7/365, he's going to upset the status quo.

I hope Hick is also aware, and doesn't rub my toothpaste on his Poparm.

Ohh, Mean Sweaver, I Believed You Could Get Me Home All Right

I'd just closed my eyes a tad
Climbed into the Mean Sweaver's A-Cad
Driver don't amp up my worries of this ride
Help me get back to the place where I reside

Ohh, Mean Sweaver, 
I believed you could get me home all right
Ohh, Mean Sweaver
How could you miss that obstacle in plain sight

Saturday, Hick drove us to the casino, and Hick drove us back. No ride with Hick is uneventful. First of all, about halfway there, Hick took the exit near his old workplace, to get us a free car wash. A-Cad was looking almost as scruffy as T-Hoe after that trip Monday with Sis and the Ex-Mayor. Almost, but not quite, since T-Hoe's black finish shows dried mud way worse than A-Cad's crimson red color.

The dealer where we purchased A-Cad threw in FREE CAR WASHES FOR LIFE. For the life of A-Cad, that is. Hick used to take it by sometimes when he was still working. Otherwise, we're not driving 30 miles for a car wash, unless it's on the way to or from somewhere else.

Barreling up the interstate at 67 mph (he sets the cruise two miles over the speed limit), Hick swiveled his head around to look at the dealer as we passed. "Yeah. They're open." He went down the exit ramp, which had two left turn lanes at the light. Apparently, Hick was in the wrong one, because all at once, we were waiting at the next light to get back on the highway from whence we'd come.

"Well, crap. I didn't want to get in this lane." Said Hick, who only worked at that place 23 years, using this interchange to exit and enter the highway.

"There's no getting out of it. You'll just have to go south and turn around next chance."

"Nah. I'll get it."

"That is a CONCRETE BARRIER!"

"I'll get around it here in a minute. There's nothing behind me." And with that, Hick veered right, just missing a concrete wall separating the highway-bound lanes from the outer-road-bound lanes.

We made it to the auto dealer, and wove around rows of parked cars, to the car wash in back. Which had the door closed, a black and white striped arm barricading that door, and a sign saying the car wash was closed. Uh huh. FREE CAR WASHES FOR LIFE, if you bring it on a weekday between 9:00 and 5:00, I suppose. Hick got us back to the highway without incident, and we continued to the casino.

On the way home, right in front of that very auto dealer, a white truck was backing up on the shoulder of the highway.

"LOOK OU---" I said, as Hick

DROVE OVER THE END OF A METAL LADDER that had two rungs in our lane.

THUMP...THUMP!

"What in the--?"

"I can't believe you didn't see that! You just ran over a metal ladder! When you stop for gas, you'd better check the tires."

"Nah. If I'd split a tire, it would already be flat."

"Whatever. I can't believe you didn't see it!"

"I was watching that truck back up. I had a car behind me. I couldn't get over anyway. I was looking to make sure he didn't veer onto the road."

"Well, you could have SLOWED DOWN! That might have helped if the truck DID veer into the road, wouldn't you think? What if that ladder popped up and slammed into my window and KILLED ME?"

"Then that guy wouldn't have been backing up. He'd have taken off so nobody could prove it was his ladder."

Not exactly the answer I was expecting to my rhetorical question.

Let the record show that Hick claims there was no damage to A-Cad, after making a circuit around the body while pumping gas.

Thank you, General Motors, for making a car that stands up to metal ladders at 67 mph.

Val Needs to Go into the Crown-Selling Business

What in the Not-Heaven? I have never in my life seen so many ENTITLED people as I've encountered over the past year! Friday was an especially royal day.

I was third in line at Walmart. Lane 6. A skinny little dude with a man bun, in a blue vest, came up to me and said, "Ma'am, you can go to Lane 7, there's a shorter wait."

"Oh. I didn't notice the light on. Thanks."

As I started to wheel my cart over there, a man and woman from Lane 8 wheeled TWO carts into Lane 7 ahead of me. I guess they'd overheard my private conversation with Man Bun. The lady had a cart full of groceries, and a baby in the seat, while the man had a half-full cart. It was apparent that they were together. I rolled my eyes at Man Bun, and in answer to his proclamation that there was a shorter wait, I said,

"Not any more..."

As I came out of Walmart, pushing a cart with some Diet Coke and a few bags, there was a man ahead of me on a beeper cart. He was an unwritten-law-abiding fellow, heading toward the OUT door. Woe was him, though, because he had to slam on his beeper brakes when three gals came at him head-on.

Those three able-bodied women, with bodies abler to fend off starvation than an average woman, stormed right in. One of them threw something away in a trash can outside the doors. It was in the middle between the IN and the OUT. Instead of taking three steps to enter through the IN door, these scoff(unwritten)laws barged into the OUT door. They had the nerve to look at the beeper guy like HE did something wrong. Maybe he did. He didn't run over them.

From Walmart, I headed for The Gas Station Chicken Store. On the newer section of road behind the local high school, I encountered a Road Walker. He was not in my lane, but on the other side, facing the traffic he was walking toward. In fact, a car was coming at him. Do you think he stepped his dainty tootsies off the pavement, onto the five-foot-wide swatch of grass-covered shoulder? Nope. Road Walker stayed in the road.

I got over as close to the edge as I could, because that oncoming car was veering over the center line to accommodate Road Walker's arm-swinging space. It wouldn't do to clip him with a side mirror, you know. Because even though he was in the road, the driver would be frowned upon for not hitting T-Hoe head-on to avoid Road Walker. I don't know this guy's problem. He wasn't a student, because he looked around 20, and it was 11:50 a.m., and he was walking towards the turn-off to the school. He was wearing a backpack and shorts. So I don't think he was a homeless fellow, because they dress warmer in the 52-degree temperature, and generally carry more than a backpack.

As I neared the final downhill to The Gas Station Chicken Store, a dark blue sedan barrelled out of the gravel parking lot of the old can-opener factory. I'm not sure what they make there now, but business appears to be booming. This driver did not even tap the brakes. Did not even swivel his head to see if any oncoming traffic such as myself would broadside him as he entered the road. His passenger didn't look, either! Thank goodness, I still have a reaction time and a knee that bends enough to hit the brake pedal.

IF I could modify my proposed handbasket factory to make crowns on the side...I could have sold 8 crowns Friday! Plus a little baby crown. Well...I'd like to THINK that I could have sold them. But judging from how people behave these days...they would probably expect me to DONATE them. Because they're entitled.

This Week Just Didn't Make Cents!

I must be living in the Bizarro World. A whole week has passed, and I have not found a single penny! How am I going to make Future Pennyillionaire like this?

In addition, I am on a string of losing scratchers. The last 17 tickets I've bought have yielded nary a winner, and Hick says his last 7 have been duds. We should have had, at minimum, 6 winners out of that amount. The odds are 1 in 4 for a win. I'm hoping Genius has two winners and a grand fortune in his weekly letter, because otherwise these losses are like flipping a coin (such as a PENNY) 12 times and getting all tails.

The week was not a total loss for Hick. I found a special treat for him on Thursday.

Yes, it's a wheat penny! Hick collects them. I do not. This one is a 1953 version.

It's not like I found it on a parking lot or the floor of a convenience store. I found this one in my change cup that sits on the console of T-Hoe. However...that top layer of change came from the casino we went to on Monday with my sister the ex-mayor's wife and her husband (the ex-mayor).

Don't go thinking I had a bit of luck in getting this wheat penny. My luck is on the fritz. I had handed Hick my tickets as we were getting ready to leave the casino, with instructions to cash them in while I made a trip to the bathroom. When I came back out, Hick handed me a wad of bills, and a heaping handful of change. I try to cash out in even numbers, because I don't want fives, and I don't want ones. I make sure my tickets add up to round numbers, except for incidental change. The cash-out machine usually adds them all, so I could never get more than a max of 99 cents in coins.

Hick said that the cash-out machines at this casino would only take one ticket at a time. What in the Not-Heaven? That's archaic! Anyhoo...I put all that change in my gambling purse, and then when we got home, I transferred it to my change cup in T-Hoe before I left the garage.

While I was counting out my exact change for a 44 oz Diet Coke on Thursday, one of the pennies didn't look right. I didn't have my glasses on, but upon further inspection, I could tell that I had a wheat penny. I slipped it into my shirt pocket, and fished out a substitute from the change cup.

I don't think Hick has much chance of becoming a Future Wheatpennyillionaire. Those things are not easy to find these days.

Back-of-the-Book-Blurb #99 "The Potty Mouth"

Blog buddy Sioux is hosting Back-of-the-Book-Blurb. I have 150 words to convince you to fake-buy my fake book. This week Val brings you a profile of a soon-to-be-famous feline. He's not quite as grumpy as a certain furry celebrity, but he's undoubtedly cleaner. Speaking of cleaning...it's springtime, so maybe you should sift through your couch cushions for odd Cheerios and Cheetos and spare change, and let Val's fake book help you get rid of that clutter. You can keep the odd Cheerios and Cheetos. Just send the spare change. Get Val's latest fake book while it's hot. Nobody likes a cold fake book.

The Potty Mouth

Cat A. Clysm rules the roost. He was quite perturbed when Grumpy Cat hit the social media scene, taking Cat's rightful place in pop culture. So Cat has devised a way to get noticed.

Eschewing his litter box, Cat waits until he hears a human coming, and crouches over the toilet. He even paws the handle to flush. Cat's human family gets rid of the litter box, and installs a special small toilet just for Cat, not realizing that Cat can't tear off the toilet paper for proper wiping. Try as he might, the roll ends up unwound, and on the floor. So Cat must resort to cleaning himself the old-fashioned way.

Cat's people can't quite figure out Cat's unquenchable thirst and surly attitude after a visit to his new toilet. Cat can't figure out how to request a bidet. Will a cat psychic save the day before the poop hits the fan? (153 words)
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Fake Reviews for Val’s Fake Book

Grumpy Cat..."I'm sending along a complimentary bottle of GermX. To Cat. Thevictorian will get lye soap for washing out her fingers. Shame on her for foisting this fake book upon us." 

Katzenjammer Kids..."Thevictorian's fake book is cruel prank on the literary world. She should be soundly spanked for her naughtiness, and sent to bed without gas station chicken."

CATherine Zeta Jones..."I'm sure that if Cat A. Clysm could speak, he would do so with an English accent, much like the one I developed after attending college in Springfield, Missouri. I am embarrassed to admit that this fake author attended the same university as I. Please do not let that influence your future donation to this fine institution."

Catapult..."This fake book should be flung as far as humanly possible with rudimentary man-made tools. Preferably over the edge of the flat Earth, where it will never be seen again."

Catnap..."I dozed off before I was done with the first fake page. This book serves no purpose other than as a sleep aid."

Catalytic Converter..."This fake author is full of hot air. Her work is toxic, and there should be regulations to keep her in check."

Catacomb..."This fake author's fake career is as dead as my occupants."

Cataract..."This fake author clearly has no vision. Her plot is cloudy, and I see no future for her in the literary world."

Catsup..."If Thevictorian was a catsup, nobody would ever smack the bottom of the bottle, trying to get her out. They'd leave her sealed inside indefinitely."

Catwalk..."This fake book's plot is thinner than the models who strut my surface."

Cattails..."Thevictorian's fake writing is nothing but fluff. She is so deep in the weeds with this fake book that even a big ol' hungry gator would leave her be. Somebody needs to drain the swamp to rid us of Val Thevictorian."

Cat-O-Nine-Tails..."If ever a fake author deserved a reminder to cease fake-writing fake books, it's Thevictorian. I and my nine tails will be sure that she never forgets. Such a flogging should stop her from slogging through any more half-hearted literary fake efforts.