The Backroads Thevictorians

Sometimes, Val's got nothin'. Which does not necessarily prevent her from posting.

Come and listen to a story 'bout a gal named Val.

Poor educator feels like throwin' in the towel.

'Cause one day as she opened the garage,

The door spring snapped and she felt a need to dodge.

(Flying metal, that is. Sidestepping a head injury.)

Well the next thing you know, ol' Hick commenced to clamp.

The kinfolk said, "Val, let's not forget your lamp."

Said, "A proper spring is the thing you need to have,"

But Val ducked behind her T-Hoe, and went shopping for some salve.

(Ointment, that is, to cure a puncture wound.)

Now it's time to say goodbye to Val, maybe for good.

If that clamped spring snaps, as we all know it could,

Val would be a goner pure and simple that is true,

Despite the healing claims of that antibiotic goo.

(Y'all remember Val now, y'hear?)

It was months ago that my garage door spring snapped as I closed the door, nearly trapping The Pony and me and T-Hoe in the garage the next morning. Luckily we had Hick to get us out, and tell us how to proceed with the manual pull chain. Then he got out a clamp on the weekend, and said that would hold the giant spring until we could get a new one made, like I did last summer for HIS garage door. Yet Hick will not take the broken one down so I can haul it to the garage door place for measurement. Their records did not include details on our other spring, only the date and cost and check number.

Every time I enter or leave the garage, I fear for my life. I even wait until The Pony is out before I open or close that garage door. I lean my head over beside the garage wall, under the shelf that now holds the black roaster pan full of cat kibble, and reach around inside the garage to push the doorbell-like button that opens and closes the deathtrap, so that the spring does not shoot off and pierce my skull, splattering gray matter across the sidewalk and porch. Seriously. A clamp is not a permanent solution.

I'm like Meryl Streep as Aunt Josephine in Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events. I must protect myself and my little Pony from the doom that could befall us due to this giant spring. I stop short of warning The Pony not to touch the doorknobs because they might explode, or to stay away from the refrigerator because it may fall on him. But I don't mess around with that clamped spring.

One of these days, Hick will take a precious 30 minutes out of his schedule and remove the two pieces of that garage door spring so I can get a replacement. Until then, I'm living dangerously.

Where the Wild (and Some Tame) Things Are

Ah...the perks of being a Backroads dweller. Today the wildlife was out in full force.

As I started to town, just down the gravel road, at the second neighbor, a deer stood in the gravel road. Doe. A deer. A female deer. She looked me right in the eye, but not in a playing-chicken kind of way, then looked over her shoulder behind her. She bounded off into the woods on the right. Well. Being a country gal, I know what that look means: more deer to follow. I crept along, watching the underbrush between the gravel road and the woods on the left. There it was! A fawn scrabbled across the road mere feet in front of me. It looked neither left nor right, but was intent on a reunion with its momma. It was not a new-born fawn, all leggy and wobbly, but a sturdier one, still with white spots. My mom had seen this pair a couple weeks ago when she was sitting with me during my early convalescence. Oh! Did I mention I was in the hospital at the end of May?

I made a trip to the bank, then dropped by my mom's house to school her on her new DISH remote. The serviceman got her all hooked up to DISH, so she's packing in the cable boxes tomorrow. Not letting any grass grow under her feet, or those cable boxes. Mom doesn't count as wildlife. Yet. But when I came out of her house, I saw that T-Hoe's black hood was covered with tiny white flower petals. Mom has a flowering tree right beside the driveway, but those flowers are bigger. I looked around, but did not see where these tiny white petals were coming from. I hopped in and tried to disengage myself from conversation with Mom. As I backed up the driveway, a couple of those tiny white flower petals blew in my open window. WAIT! They were BUGS! Bugs with long oval white wings! I jammed my finger on the window-raising lever forthwith! Those buggy things on T-Hoe's hood held on for a quarter-mile on blacktop. I hope I did not bring home an infestation.

Hick reported last night, after dark, when of course I could not go look, that we had acquired 12 or 14 new chicks overnight. Uh huh. Chickens are sneaky like that. If you don't catch them when they first start sitting, and count ahead 21 days, you're never quite sure when those chicks are gonna pop out and need putting up in a special pen. Since they were already out, parading around with their two moms (not that there's anything wrong with that), Hick did not think he could catch them all. He did snap a picture this evening, though.

Next time I will demand that Hick crawl towards them on his belly like a serpent, in order to get a better photo. If you count, I think there are 13. Not sure. Some of them are doubled up with a buddy of the same hue. And Hick said some of them kept getting under the moms. They will raise a racket as they walk around cheeping.

Oh, and the biggest critter I saw was the dude with a long ZZ Top meth beard, riding his little red mini-tractor, scraping gravel off the road edges and into the road proper. AND he had an assistant, about a half-mile back, heading toward him pushing an empty wheelbarrow with only a shovel balanced in it. Sucks to have that job. That's what crazy ZZ Top Meth Beard Man used to do...fill in the individual holes with a shovel and a bucket of dirt. Now he has an assistant. I gave him the standard country wave. I actually like crazy ZZ Top Meth Beard Man, because he does this chore for the good of all who live on this sometimes gravel, sometimes hardpan road. I even stopped to thank him one day. When The Pony was with me, of course. Not so much for protection, but as a witness.

I wonder what sights I will see tomorrow. Hopefully not a man walking across my porch.

Mom Puts her Foot Down, and Simultaneously Puts Her Money Where Her Mouth Is

My mom has gone and done it! She canceled her cable service yesterday. I was in shock. She hadn't mentioned her obvious vendetta against that company since she was all up in arms about their new one box/one TV policy, in which they required EVERYBODY to update their receivers, and to pay an additional monthly fee of five dollars per converter box. Even though many people did not want the upgrade.

I might have related how one of my co-workers said her husband went to the cable office to get the boxes, and saw an armed guard in the lobby. And how the clerk told him that since he had been polite, he could have his for half price. That's no way to run a business. Either you can afford to give everybody a break, or you require everybody to pay the full amount. Pardon my barnyard linguistics, but that's horsepoo.

So, out of the blue yesterday, my mom left me a message. "I've gone to town to stop my cable service. Be back later in case you're trying to reach me." Huh. So unlike Mom, to do something without discussing it for several hundred hours first. AND...the Cardinals were playing at 6:00 p.m. Surely Mom would not cancel her cable and go without TV until she found another provider!

I gave her time to complete her mission, and rang her up. "Mom! What's going on? You haven't talked about this cable thing for a while. Did something happen?"

"No. It's been bothering me for a while. Yesterday, I called and got AT & T back as my phone service. Then I called DISH Network and they're coming out Thursday morning to install a dish and get me all set up. I'm still keeping that high-speed cable internet for The Pony, because he enjoys it so much. But I'm just tired of the way that cable company treats people. I don't care if I don't save ANY money, I will be happier like this."

"But...don't the Cardinals play tonight? You'll be without TV!"

"No I won't. I am paid with cable through the 18th. So I will have everything ready to switch over when my cable is disconnected. I still have it now to watch the Cardinals. After I went over to the cable office and told them what I wanted, a lady called me. She wanted to know why I was cancelling my service. I told her I did not like having to pay that extra five dollars per TV. I said it was just too much now that they'd increased their rates also. I said, 'I didn't mind too much paying up to $150 a month. But now it's $179, and I won't pay that.' And do you know what she said? She said, 'Well, we can reduce your phone bill to $19.99, and that will give you a monthly bill of $143. Let's do that, and you can keep our service.' And I told her no. Why didn't they offer me that in the beginning when I complained about the boxes? I'm not playing around with them any more. I don't care if my bill is higher now. I'm done with them."

"I know what you mean. Either they can afford to have lower rates or they can't. That's bull, giving some people cheaper bills. Hey! You may be the only person who was actually paying the full amount! Maybe everyone else complained and got theirs lowered."

"That may be. But I'm done with them! Except for the internet. For The Pony."

"He will be happy that you thought of him. I hope you like DISH. I'll help you with the remote, until you learn how to use it."

"That would be great. They're coming between 8:00 and noon on Thursday. I'll let you know what they say about switching over on the 18th."

"Yeah. Genius is gone. The Pony is gone. I guess Hick can help you out when he comes to mow your yard. Show you what you have to take back to the cable office."

"I feel so good now that I finally got rid of the cable."

Yep. My mom. She'll gladly pay more to teach that cable company a lesson. I'm about ready to do the same thing with SPRINT concerning my internet.

Like mother, like daughter. We are two peas in a pod. Two gals in holey sweatpants. We'll teach those companies a lesson in customer service.

Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

From the woman who broke the timely news a few months ago that ENGLAND IS AN ISLAND, Val Thevictorian proudly reveals her newest discovery: Hot Pockets are HOT!

I know, right? Who would ever have expected Hot Pockets to be hot? Sure, you don't eat them cold. Any fool knows to heat them in the microwave (preferably one with an original door handle and not two round drawer handles), or warm them in an oven (preferably one with an upper AND a lower heating element). Yeah. That's where the name comes from, isn't it? You increase the temperature of that frozen treat until, in comparison to its frozen state, it's hot. And inside that crispy crust, there's a pocket of goo with flavor (in my case the Philly Cheese Steak edition) that gives it the other part of its name. Hot. Pocket.

Oh, dear. I have been spending time alone during the day, what with Hick doing an honest day's work, Genius doing all his work quickly and efficiently and then being used as a picture-hanger or other menial-task-master to justify his salary, and The Pony being away at Missouri Scholars Academy with his people, as he calls his fellow 327 nerds, getting smarter by the hour. Because I am responsible for nobody's lunch but my own, I have not been whipping up seven-course gourmet spreads suitable for the cover of Seven-Course Gourmet Spreads Monthly. I know that may come as a surprise to a few of you. My lunches have been consisting of, perhaps, a cold hot dog with a side of red grapes. A hunk of extra-sharp cheddar and an individual bag of Combos, with fresh strawberries. Or a Hot Pocket with celery stalks and Hidden Valley Ranch dip.

If you ask me, Hot Pockets should be renamed to reflect their true character. Renamed as Molten Lava Squirting Tongue Incinerators. Uh huh. That's more descriptive. Lets people know what they're in for. So they can have a tub of ice ready to prevent their tongue from sizzling like a slab of tenderloin on a hot griddle. Or have a phone handy with 9-1-1 on speed dial. Or have Jackie Chiles on retainer.

I am no simple-minded rube when it comes to food. Food and I go way back. I've been around the block a time or two with food. I know that when something comes out of the microwave or the oven, it needs to rest a bit. To let its molecules slow down. Dissipate that thermal energy into the atmosphere.

I did not grab that Molten Lava Squirting Tongue Incinerator Hot Pocket right off the pizza pan covered with foil that I took out of the oven with a mitt and pop it right into my mouth. No sirree, Bob! I let it sit for five minutes while I gathered up a bubba cup of ice water and my mostly-ice 44 oz. Diet Coke, and carried them down to my dark basement lair. And then, because my little Pony is away, I had to make another trip up to the kitchen to get my lunch. I fiddled about, squirting some horseradish sauce into an old plastic garlic butter cup from Little Caesar's. No ramekins here in the Thevictorian household.

Once I had all of my lunch items in place, I set to surfing the internet, broadening my horizons on all subjects but the blast-furnace temperature of Hot Pockets. It was a good twenty minutes after that Molten Lava Squirting Tongue Incinerator Hot Pocket came out of the oven until I took my first bite. Those who declare that Val Thevictorian has no taste are now literally quite right.

Tomorrow, I might go out for coffee with Cosmo Kramer and Stella Liebeck.

A Candid Juno From Any Other Angle is Still So Sweet, Sweet

My sweet, sweet Juno posed for a picture this morning as I was on my way to town. Please don't judge her. She's not looking her best. Her silky fur is not so silky, because in warm weather, she likes to lay in a dirt hollow she dug under where Hick parks his Gator. Of course, I could use her dull coat to frame her partner in crime, Ann, for eating eggs throughout the day. Wait! Did I say frame? What I meant to say was submit proof to Hick of Ann's clandestine activities. No egg-shiny coat for Miss Juno.

Oh, and Juno does not like to pose. It took five pictures to get one that wasn't a blur of fur. She must have grown tired of not being petted, so she sat down for the sure head stroke. Yes, this is not a flattering photo. Juno is looking a bit...um...doggy. Showing off her canines, ears back and not inquisitively perked. Her silky tail full of dust, not sweeping back and forth in joy at our reunion.

I must also point out that the bites taken out of Juno's doghouse roof are no doubt the work of Ann, the black german shepherd. Juno cannot be peckish enough to snack on asphalt shingles. After all, there are all those eggs handfuls of cat kibble that are dispensed as treats, and the best leftovers tossed out the kitchen door, and the giant pan of dog food every morning, and occasional dog biscuits from the auction. Juno is no goat. She takes care of her abode, even sweeping out the cedar chips onto the welcome mat by the kitchen door.

You can still see her human-like eyes, though. At least one of them. I really must have her sit for a proper picture one of these days.

Maybe I can bring her into the house while Hick is at work, and have her lay down on his side of the bed. And serve her some eggs for breakfast!

Portrait of the Genius as a Young Miser

Okay, so it's not an actual portrait, like an artist's rendering in oils on canvas. It's more of a written analysis of what currently makes Genius tick. Even though he has a real adult job this summer, working for $20 an hour at an electrical engineering firm, he still has that starving-college-student mentality.

Genius called me Friday to say that he was considering chucking it all and starting his own think tank. WAIT! That was Moira Kelly to D.B. Sweeney in The Cutting Edge, and she was kind of making fun of his dumbness. What I meant to say was that Genius decided he might as well forget about college and gainful employment, and take pictures for a living. He had just networked a gig to take wedding pictures for a four-hour stint at $50 per hour.

Genius is not some casual cell-phone-photo snapper. He develops his own film and has many exotic lenses and knows his way around an f-stop. He is also not averse to making some quick cash off this learned talent. Hick has standing orders to buy up cameras he finds at flea markets and auctions. Genius then resells them online for pocket money. Hey! At least he's not selling his plasma for beer money. Thursday night, Hick found an auction camera with two lenses, and texted Genius to see what he should spend. Genius told him to go up to $40, because more would cut too deeply into his profit margin. Crafty Hick got it for $25. He had also bought another camera earlier in the week for $10.

Saturday, Genius had plans to swing by the old homestead after a Friday night trip to his college town to work on the solar car, to pick up clothes he needs for his job as an IT staffer at Missouri Boys State this week, and before his wedding photo shoot.

"I won't have much time. Make sure you tell Dad to lay out a five-dollar bill. I owe him $35, but I only have two twenties." Indeed. Wouldn't want Daddy Dearest to make an extra five dollars for his trouble. Hick really needs to negotiate a finder's fee.

The Pony and I were in the midst of a three-hour packing extravaganza when Genius arrived. The Pony was heading off for the Missouri Scholars Academy for three weeks. A sojourn which would require LAUNDRY before he returned. On last week's trip to Walmart, I sent The Pony to the back aisle for some Tide Pods. I don't use them myself. Imagine my consternation when I reached into the bag of 31 that The Pony had picked up, and found them to be the consistency of a human eyeball. Not that I am in the habit of plucking human eyeballs out of a plastic bag, of course. I put four in a ziplock bag for The Pony to take with him, and set the rest on the mantle of the fake electric fireplace that Hick was all gung-ho about buying after the Great Icepocalypse of Ought Six.

"Hey. Trade me two dollars for this." Genius held eight quarters in his fist. "That's what HE gave me in change for my cameras. Three ones, and eight quarters. I don't need these quarters. Or, you can take the ones, too, and give me a five."

"I'll do it. But you have to take the eight quarters out to the garage and put them in my change cup in T-Hoe."

"Oh, all right. As long as I get a five."

Genius circled the living room, his plan to plop on the long couch or the short couch foiled by The Pony's Academy accoutrements. "Look, Genius. Tide Pods. How much does something like that cost?" I had no idea. I'm not the type to go over my receipts with a fine-tooth comb. Two of which we bought for The Pony's trip. I figure there were probably smaller packages of Tide Pods, but The Pony is not a comparison shopper.

"Huh. Thirty-one pods. I'd say about twelve dollars." Genius put the bag back on the mantle. Gave it a double-take. Said no more.

"It's a pity those pods will go to waste. I don't use Tide Pods. I use the powder."

"Why is there a package of ALL Pods on the kitchen counter?"

"Oh, your dad bought those at the auction. Said he thought The Pony could take them. But I said no. I don't want him having an allergic reaction to new detergent while he's away for three weeks. My mom switched detergents when I was in high school, and it took me two weeks to figure out that rash under my athletic socks was caused by All Tempa Cheer."

"Huh."

"Yes, it's too bad those Tide Pods are going to go to waste."

"I use Tide Pods. But I'm not paying you twelve dollars for thirty-one of them."

"Um. There are only twenty-seven left. Besides, did I ASK you for money?"

"No, you did not."

"My point is, I'm not going to use them. So if you want them, you can take them."

"I'll take them. Ocean Mist. I use Alpine Breeze. I guess Ocean Mist will go okay with my Spring Fresh dryer sheets."

"I'm sure it will be fine. Take them. For free. You can have the ALL Pods, too."

"Okay. Thanks."

Genius only had time to grab the big red wheeled suitcase that The Pony had planned to take, jump in the shower for forty minutes, and command The Pony to carry out the stuff Genius needed for Boys State. He told The Pony that if there was anything else I planned to give him, I needed to lay it out on the counter, because he was getting ready to leave. I made Genius walk into the kitchen. I withdrew two twenties from a stash my mom gives me every now and then "to give the boys, when they have a special trip or something for school, so you don't have to come up with spending money for them."

"This is from your grandma."

"Aww...thanks. Tell her for me."

And with that, he was off to see a movie in the city, then get dolled up for his job as wedding photographer.

It's always good to have several irons in the fire, I suppose.

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

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

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

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

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

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