I Want You to Know
i saw
a ladybug
this morning
on the floor
of the
master bathroom
red against
the green tile
one month
but who's counting
since my mom's
last breath
Yes, there seems to be a theme around this house. I barely noticed it, sitting there on the toilet, me, not the ladybug, which was on the floor, try to keep up, won't you, and not sitting on the toilet LIKE THAT, but in clothes, on a folded towel, as I colored my hair, which is no secret, thanks to my sister the ex-mayor's wife.
It has been 31 days, a full month, since Mom died. Her birthday was on the 31st, but of an upcoming month. I don't know why my mind fiddles with the numbers and makes that connection. It's just something to do, I guess, while sitting on the toilet waiting for my hair to make me look younger than my little sister.
I took three squares of toilet paper and picked up the ladybug, after I was youth-enized, and had showered and dressed. I let it go out the front door, to join, perhaps, the one The Pony let go out the basement door LAST Saturday.
Maybe I should check the drop ceiling.
Oh, yeah. We don't have one.
Saturday, March 7, 2015
Friday, March 6, 2015
Seven Ways From Schoolday
Looky here! I got me an award, by cracky!
Val is a VIB, people! A VIB! See for yourself. That stands for VeryInsipid Inspiring Blogger. I'll take it and let Hick frame it and display it in his Little Barbershop of Horrors. He likes awards. Even if they're not his. He's the kind of guy who buys stacks of hardback books at an auction, not because he reads, but because he thinks the covers are pretty.
Thank you to blog buddy Sioux, who bestowed this award upon me. She is a very inspiring blogger herself, even if she doesn't devote every post to Seinfeld references, lacks that preposition-ending sentence flair, and is a little behind on her weekly allotment of ellipses.
So here's the deal. This major award, unlike the leg lamp from A Christmas Story, has strings attached. I can't just uncrate it from the wooden box marked FRAGILE (we all know that spells "frah-jee-lay"), dust off the straw, and put it in the front window for passersby to admire. Nope. Like taking care of a Mogwai, with it comes much responsibility. Not the same responsibilities, though. I can put it in bright light. I can get it wet. I can even feed it after midnight.
The Very Inspiring Blogger Award rules are:
• Display the award on your blog
• Link back to the person who nominated you
• State 7 things about yourself
• Nominate 15 bloggers, link to them, and notify them about their nominations.
You might think Val is a card-carrying rule-follower. You would be wrong. Val picks and chooses the rules as they suit her.
DISPLAY? You betcha! Val is all about showing off her awards. So here it is, in all its glory.
LINK? Sure thing. No skin off my nose. I'll even double this one: go visit Sioux.
STATE STUFF ABOUT MYSELF? This is right up my alley!
NOMINATE? Reeeeeee! That's the sound of the needled skipping across the vinyl grooves on my Best of Bread album, specifically, "It Don't Matter to Me." I can't nominate 15 people! I don't even KNOW 15 people! Besides, the ones I do know are much too hoity-toity to do the award circuit. They're too cool for school. But like Sioux, (there's a trifecta for you, buddy), I, myself, am not.
In fact, Val was not too cool in school. And because by now, you already know everything there is to know about Val, she not cut from the ladylike reveal-nothing cloth. Her 7 things will take you back to yesteryear, when she was just a li'l Val attending elementary school, when she didn't even know the meaning of the word valedictorian. Oh, who are we foolin'? Of course she knew the meaning of the word valedictorian! She was merely young, not fresh out of the wilderness, raised by wolves without dictionaries!
* Li'l Val had herself a mean streak half a mile wide. Not so much a mean streak as a mad as not-heaven and not gonna take it anymore streak. When a neighbor boy from two houses down kept riding by on his bike and hollering insults at Li'l Val and her friends, playing peacefully at the end of her grandpa's driveway, at the end of a long day at school, Li'l Val picked up a handful of pea gravel and threw it at him as he rode by. That gravel must have nicked an artery in Jean Dale's forehead, because he started spouting blood like a stuck pig, and rode home wailing about Li'l Val being a bully. Hmpf! It's not like she chucked a slab of granite at him. It was PEA GRAVEL, the kind that hurts your feet when you try to walk across the end of the paved driveway and out on the road. Crybaby. He should have had his bike taken away, not Li'l Val. We all know how much a facial wound bleeds...don't we?
* Li'l Val was a prankster. Shortly after her 3rd Grade class moved into the new elementary building, she decided the girls' bathroom was a good pranking place. The door opened in, and there was a concrete block wall to navigate before getting into the restroom proper, with its half-circle shower-spraying sink operated by a hose-looking semi-circular foot pedal. Li'l Val was not one to lock the door of the toilet stalls and crawl out under the door, necessitating would-be users to crawl under to get to the toilet. Not her style. She was into the big surprise. So she waited, behind the main door, in that alcove behind where it would open, and then jumped out and yelled "BOO!" as the door swung closed. Her 3rd Grade teacher did not find that funny when she came in to hurry the girls along. Who knew Mrs. Elvins would be so jumpy? And lacking of a sense of humor?
* Li'l Val loved the ham salad half-sandwich triangles served on chili or soup day. That's right. Not only did we have both cooked on the very same day, with a choice, but we also had half a ham salad and half a peanut butter with Karo syrup sandwich on our tray. Li'l Val always took the chili, because vegetable soup reminded her of a big pot of simmering garbage, and she always traded her peanut butter with Karo syrup for a ham salad. Kids back then just didn't know what was good.
* Li'l Val was a latchkey kid. Except she didn't have a key. Her dad worked for Southwestern Bell, strapping on metal spikes with leather straps over his jeans, and climbing telephone poles to work on wires. Her mom drove two hours to college with a gaggle of other mothers, taking classes to become a teacher. She was not home every day when Li'l Val and her sister got off the school bus. So Li'l Val had to let herself in. Which was not really a problem, since nobody locked their doors. Besides, Li'l Val lived in a house trailer on a lot next to her grandpa and grandma, one of which was always home, what with working mine shifts and post office shifts. So Li'l Val had only to slide back the metal square at the handle of her trailer's screen door, reach her arm up inside, and unhook the hook that held it closed. Then she could open the regular door and let herself and her li'l sis, the future ex-mayor's wife, inside. This worked out well until the day Li'l Val was working on one of her self-proclaimed sculpting projects, using a flat razor blade to cut the legs off a miniature plastic horse, and jammed that razor-sharp razor into her left index finger. We all know how finger wounds bleed, don't we? Li'l Val ran up the hill to tell her grandma, who took her to the bathroom sink and let the blood flow under the cold water faucet, saying that would cleanse the wound. These days several stitches would have been used to close that wound, but back then Li'l Val just had to lay off the sculpting for a week or two.
* Li'l Val was an outside-the-box thinker. She particularly loved that powdered pink soap in the girls' bathroom in the new building, and regretted that she could not have some around to play with whenever the mood struck her. She had nothing like that at home, just regular Ivory bar soap, which was interesting enough, floating in the tub, or that Sinclair gas station green dinosaur soap that she kept in its box and never got wet, or that can of GOOP that her dad used to clean his greasy hands after working on his truck. The powdered pink soap was pretty, it was good-smelling, and it turned from powder to a squeezy solid if you put just the right amount of water in it. Forget about washing your hands. The pink soap was too good for that. So Li'l Val concocted a plan to bring some back to class with her. Each trip to the bathroom, Li'l Val took just the right amount of water, and just the right amount of soap, and rolled it into a sphere the size of a jawbreaker. Then she concealed it in her hand until back in the classroom, where she set it gently inside her brown metal desk with the wooden flip top, in the pencil tray beside the others. Li'l Val had nigh onto seven soap balls when she got caught. Who knew the 4th Grade teacher, Mrs. Burns, did desk inspections while kids were at recess? Certainly not Li'l Val. Though she did hope, to herself while suppressing a smile, that Mrs. Burns had thought initially, "Oh! Gumballs! I'll just try one..."
* Li'l Val was a champion of the underdog. Li'l Val sat behind poor Patty in second grade, in the very old school building with its creaky dark wooden floors, hissing gray radiators, and wet-mitten-yellow-raincoat-smelling cloakrooms. Some days, poor Patty had a nervous stomach and upchucked all over the hardwood, which meant that Li'l Val had to hold her nose and breathe through her mouth so she didn't also upchuck while waiting for the janitor to show up with that magic sawdust to sprinkle on poor Patty's refunded breakfast. But that was nothing compared to the day poor Patty was too timid to make a scene when Mrs. Thompson did not see that her hand was raised with one finger up in a request to go pee. Poor Patty held it as long as she could, which was not long enough to make it to bathroom break. Li'l Val's first clue was the sound of water dripping, then the splash of droplets on her bare legs swinging from her wooden chair attached to her brown metal desk. The final clue was the gasp of the kids seated around her and poor Patty, as their eyes grew as wide as the puddle spreading around poor Patty's desk. Still. Li'l Val walked home with poor Patty every day (it was on the way, really) and even asked permission to stop and play one day. It made no nevermind to Li'l Val that the other kids were wont to exclaim, "I wouldn't touch Patty with a ten-foot pole!" Poor Patty was a nice enough gal. She didn't upchuck or pee herself outside of class. "My mom says just ignore them, Patty, and they'll get tired and shut up."
* Li'l Val has never been a fan of milk. The times Li'l Val got in trouble at school were few and far between. Even the Great Bathroom Boo Debacle only resulted in an admonition from Mrs. Elvins: "You know you are supposed to use the bathroom, wash your hands, and come out to the hall to line up, don't you?" Which cut Li'l Val's heart to the quick. But years before, Li'l Val almost found herself in hot water over Milk Break and Nap Time. Li'l Val was not one for laying down in a group of annoying kids and falling asleep. Even though she had a wonderful purple piece of carpet remnant for that purpose. So she merely laid down and closed her eyes with no intention of sleeping. And got away with it. It was the milk that tripped her up. Kindergarten kids were given two cookies of whatever kind happened to be stowed away in the bottom cabinet. Usually they were not at all tasty, something like vanilla sandwich cookies, or vanilla wafers. Each student was also given a half-pint of milk, Foremost brand, in the orange and white squatty square carton. The teacher walked around the room through the tiny tables, opening the carton for each kid. Then they could put their paper straw in the spout to drink. Li'l Val tried to drink the milk. She liked the idea of the straw in the spout. But that milk tasted like white nothing. Cold. Not quenching. Bland. Blech! So Li'l Val did not drink her milk. The teacher, Mrs. Newcomer (old Mrs. Cucumber), noticed. She gave Li'l Val the stinkeye, and told her to drink the milk. Li'l Val was nearly shaking in her patent-leather buckle-strap shoes with her lacy fold-down socks. What to do, what to do? So Li'l Val, from that day forward, put her straw in her milk carton and sucked that milk up to her lips, but not into her mouth. So old Mrs. Cucumber could see that Li'l Val was "drinking" her milk. At clean-up time, Li'l Val had only to carry her "empty" carton to the trash can. Nobody the wiser. Li'l Val...already learning the con.
Whew! I'm exhausted from those 7 reveals. As I'm sure you are, as well. Blame Sioux. She perpetuated this monster.
Val is a VIB, people! A VIB! See for yourself. That stands for Very
Thank you to blog buddy Sioux, who bestowed this award upon me. She is a very inspiring blogger herself, even if she doesn't devote every post to Seinfeld references, lacks that preposition-ending sentence flair, and is a little behind on her weekly allotment of ellipses.
So here's the deal. This major award, unlike the leg lamp from A Christmas Story, has strings attached. I can't just uncrate it from the wooden box marked FRAGILE (we all know that spells "frah-jee-lay"), dust off the straw, and put it in the front window for passersby to admire. Nope. Like taking care of a Mogwai, with it comes much responsibility. Not the same responsibilities, though. I can put it in bright light. I can get it wet. I can even feed it after midnight.
The Very Inspiring Blogger Award rules are:
• Display the award on your blog
• Link back to the person who nominated you
• State 7 things about yourself
• Nominate 15 bloggers, link to them, and notify them about their nominations.
You might think Val is a card-carrying rule-follower. You would be wrong. Val picks and chooses the rules as they suit her.
DISPLAY? You betcha! Val is all about showing off her awards. So here it is, in all its glory.
LINK? Sure thing. No skin off my nose. I'll even double this one: go visit Sioux.
STATE STUFF ABOUT MYSELF? This is right up my alley!
NOMINATE? Reeeeeee! That's the sound of the needled skipping across the vinyl grooves on my Best of Bread album, specifically, "It Don't Matter to Me." I can't nominate 15 people! I don't even KNOW 15 people! Besides, the ones I do know are much too hoity-toity to do the award circuit. They're too cool for school. But like Sioux, (there's a trifecta for you, buddy), I, myself, am not.
In fact, Val was not too cool in school. And because by now, you already know everything there is to know about Val, she not cut from the ladylike reveal-nothing cloth. Her 7 things will take you back to yesteryear, when she was just a li'l Val attending elementary school, when she didn't even know the meaning of the word valedictorian. Oh, who are we foolin'? Of course she knew the meaning of the word valedictorian! She was merely young, not fresh out of the wilderness, raised by wolves without dictionaries!
* Li'l Val had herself a mean streak half a mile wide. Not so much a mean streak as a mad as not-heaven and not gonna take it anymore streak. When a neighbor boy from two houses down kept riding by on his bike and hollering insults at Li'l Val and her friends, playing peacefully at the end of her grandpa's driveway, at the end of a long day at school, Li'l Val picked up a handful of pea gravel and threw it at him as he rode by. That gravel must have nicked an artery in Jean Dale's forehead, because he started spouting blood like a stuck pig, and rode home wailing about Li'l Val being a bully. Hmpf! It's not like she chucked a slab of granite at him. It was PEA GRAVEL, the kind that hurts your feet when you try to walk across the end of the paved driveway and out on the road. Crybaby. He should have had his bike taken away, not Li'l Val. We all know how much a facial wound bleeds...don't we?
* Li'l Val was a prankster. Shortly after her 3rd Grade class moved into the new elementary building, she decided the girls' bathroom was a good pranking place. The door opened in, and there was a concrete block wall to navigate before getting into the restroom proper, with its half-circle shower-spraying sink operated by a hose-looking semi-circular foot pedal. Li'l Val was not one to lock the door of the toilet stalls and crawl out under the door, necessitating would-be users to crawl under to get to the toilet. Not her style. She was into the big surprise. So she waited, behind the main door, in that alcove behind where it would open, and then jumped out and yelled "BOO!" as the door swung closed. Her 3rd Grade teacher did not find that funny when she came in to hurry the girls along. Who knew Mrs. Elvins would be so jumpy? And lacking of a sense of humor?
* Li'l Val loved the ham salad half-sandwich triangles served on chili or soup day. That's right. Not only did we have both cooked on the very same day, with a choice, but we also had half a ham salad and half a peanut butter with Karo syrup sandwich on our tray. Li'l Val always took the chili, because vegetable soup reminded her of a big pot of simmering garbage, and she always traded her peanut butter with Karo syrup for a ham salad. Kids back then just didn't know what was good.
* Li'l Val was a latchkey kid. Except she didn't have a key. Her dad worked for Southwestern Bell, strapping on metal spikes with leather straps over his jeans, and climbing telephone poles to work on wires. Her mom drove two hours to college with a gaggle of other mothers, taking classes to become a teacher. She was not home every day when Li'l Val and her sister got off the school bus. So Li'l Val had to let herself in. Which was not really a problem, since nobody locked their doors. Besides, Li'l Val lived in a house trailer on a lot next to her grandpa and grandma, one of which was always home, what with working mine shifts and post office shifts. So Li'l Val had only to slide back the metal square at the handle of her trailer's screen door, reach her arm up inside, and unhook the hook that held it closed. Then she could open the regular door and let herself and her li'l sis, the future ex-mayor's wife, inside. This worked out well until the day Li'l Val was working on one of her self-proclaimed sculpting projects, using a flat razor blade to cut the legs off a miniature plastic horse, and jammed that razor-sharp razor into her left index finger. We all know how finger wounds bleed, don't we? Li'l Val ran up the hill to tell her grandma, who took her to the bathroom sink and let the blood flow under the cold water faucet, saying that would cleanse the wound. These days several stitches would have been used to close that wound, but back then Li'l Val just had to lay off the sculpting for a week or two.
* Li'l Val was an outside-the-box thinker. She particularly loved that powdered pink soap in the girls' bathroom in the new building, and regretted that she could not have some around to play with whenever the mood struck her. She had nothing like that at home, just regular Ivory bar soap, which was interesting enough, floating in the tub, or that Sinclair gas station green dinosaur soap that she kept in its box and never got wet, or that can of GOOP that her dad used to clean his greasy hands after working on his truck. The powdered pink soap was pretty, it was good-smelling, and it turned from powder to a squeezy solid if you put just the right amount of water in it. Forget about washing your hands. The pink soap was too good for that. So Li'l Val concocted a plan to bring some back to class with her. Each trip to the bathroom, Li'l Val took just the right amount of water, and just the right amount of soap, and rolled it into a sphere the size of a jawbreaker. Then she concealed it in her hand until back in the classroom, where she set it gently inside her brown metal desk with the wooden flip top, in the pencil tray beside the others. Li'l Val had nigh onto seven soap balls when she got caught. Who knew the 4th Grade teacher, Mrs. Burns, did desk inspections while kids were at recess? Certainly not Li'l Val. Though she did hope, to herself while suppressing a smile, that Mrs. Burns had thought initially, "Oh! Gumballs! I'll just try one..."
* Li'l Val was a champion of the underdog. Li'l Val sat behind poor Patty in second grade, in the very old school building with its creaky dark wooden floors, hissing gray radiators, and wet-mitten-yellow-raincoat-smelling cloakrooms. Some days, poor Patty had a nervous stomach and upchucked all over the hardwood, which meant that Li'l Val had to hold her nose and breathe through her mouth so she didn't also upchuck while waiting for the janitor to show up with that magic sawdust to sprinkle on poor Patty's refunded breakfast. But that was nothing compared to the day poor Patty was too timid to make a scene when Mrs. Thompson did not see that her hand was raised with one finger up in a request to go pee. Poor Patty held it as long as she could, which was not long enough to make it to bathroom break. Li'l Val's first clue was the sound of water dripping, then the splash of droplets on her bare legs swinging from her wooden chair attached to her brown metal desk. The final clue was the gasp of the kids seated around her and poor Patty, as their eyes grew as wide as the puddle spreading around poor Patty's desk. Still. Li'l Val walked home with poor Patty every day (it was on the way, really) and even asked permission to stop and play one day. It made no nevermind to Li'l Val that the other kids were wont to exclaim, "I wouldn't touch Patty with a ten-foot pole!" Poor Patty was a nice enough gal. She didn't upchuck or pee herself outside of class. "My mom says just ignore them, Patty, and they'll get tired and shut up."
* Li'l Val has never been a fan of milk. The times Li'l Val got in trouble at school were few and far between. Even the Great Bathroom Boo Debacle only resulted in an admonition from Mrs. Elvins: "You know you are supposed to use the bathroom, wash your hands, and come out to the hall to line up, don't you?" Which cut Li'l Val's heart to the quick. But years before, Li'l Val almost found herself in hot water over Milk Break and Nap Time. Li'l Val was not one for laying down in a group of annoying kids and falling asleep. Even though she had a wonderful purple piece of carpet remnant for that purpose. So she merely laid down and closed her eyes with no intention of sleeping. And got away with it. It was the milk that tripped her up. Kindergarten kids were given two cookies of whatever kind happened to be stowed away in the bottom cabinet. Usually they were not at all tasty, something like vanilla sandwich cookies, or vanilla wafers. Each student was also given a half-pint of milk, Foremost brand, in the orange and white squatty square carton. The teacher walked around the room through the tiny tables, opening the carton for each kid. Then they could put their paper straw in the spout to drink. Li'l Val tried to drink the milk. She liked the idea of the straw in the spout. But that milk tasted like white nothing. Cold. Not quenching. Bland. Blech! So Li'l Val did not drink her milk. The teacher, Mrs. Newcomer (old Mrs. Cucumber), noticed. She gave Li'l Val the stinkeye, and told her to drink the milk. Li'l Val was nearly shaking in her patent-leather buckle-strap shoes with her lacy fold-down socks. What to do, what to do? So Li'l Val, from that day forward, put her straw in her milk carton and sucked that milk up to her lips, but not into her mouth. So old Mrs. Cucumber could see that Li'l Val was "drinking" her milk. At clean-up time, Li'l Val had only to carry her "empty" carton to the trash can. Nobody the wiser. Li'l Val...already learning the con.
Whew! I'm exhausted from those 7 reveals. As I'm sure you are, as well. Blame Sioux. She perpetuated this monster.
Thursday, March 5, 2015
Stadium Seating, Black Friday At Walmart, and the Running of the Bulls, All Rolled Into One
Backroads, we have a problem.
Genius is sleeping outside tonight. Let the record show that the temperature in College Town is currently 17 degrees. Yet Genius says he needs to camp out in order to be near the front of the line for Friday's housing rush. He and three cronies have a house in mind for their abode next school year, and they must sign up and put down their deposit before somebody else snatches it up. I knew he was getting a house. I didn't know the sacrifice involved. Until the phone rang at 9:00 this morning.
"Hey! Look at YOU, sitting home on a snow day!"
"I don't control the weather. I am merely a happy recipient of such."
"Yeah. Um. Speaking of the weather...we're going to wait in line all night for housing tomorrow."
"YOU CAN'T DO THAT! You'll freeze to death. Or at least you'll get sick. Right this very moment I am paying your hospital bills."
"What? I haven't been to the hospital. That's wrong."
"From over Christmas break. Your two ER trips. And tests."
"Well, that should have been over with by now."
"Actually, this is timely. All the radiologists and tests are coming in."
"Anyway, I'm staying out all night."
"Do you even have a tent?"
"Yeah. One of the guys is bringing one. It's 7 by 7."
"Get some cardboard. You can't lay on the ground. And wear a hat. Wear two hats. Dress in layers."
"I don't have cardboard. I KNOW how to dress. I'm taking three blankets and some towels to lay on. But my sleeping bag is at home. With my tent. I bought them off the internet last summer for fifty dollars. I don't have time to drive home and get it."
"I see where this is going. Go to Walmart and get a sleeping bag. I'll send you the money. Blankets aren't good. You need a comforter, to trap the air."
"I have a comforter. I don't have time to go to Walmart. I have three classes today. I'm going to get in line at 3:20, just as soon as I go suit up."
"You can't lay on the ground."
"Please! Stop lecturing me. One of our guys has gone through ROTC survival training. We know what we're doing."
"Stuff your clothes with moss! If you see a dead sheep, don't eat the eyeball until you've boiled it in the hot springs, or you'll get sick. You can use your shoelace, you know, to put that eyeball on and dangle it in the water. Remember when we used to watch Bear Grylls?"
"Mayhap I'll cut open a dead sheep and crawl inside. Mayhap I won't"
"Send me a picture."
"You're totally going to write about this, aren't you?"
"Yes. But send me a picture of your encampment. It will add authenticity to my post. Because so many people fake being homeless for one night."
"Better to be homeless for one night than homeless all next year. We have to get this house."
"I hope they have a metal trash can where you can start a fire. You can't do that in your tent. What if people are already in line?"
"Hey, I have to leave for class in five minutes. And I'm sitting here in jeans without a shirt."
"Then get going. You're making me cold."
"Okay. Bye."
So off went my studious Genius to his three classes. Then I got a text. "Send me a text tonight to remind me about the picture. Also, it's cold outside."
"Maybe you should change your career plan to meteorologist, Genius. Or cardiologist, to revive me after telling me stuff like that. I daresay the temps tonight will plunge below that of my cold, cold heart."
"At least I've had twenty years of practice dealing with your cold, cold heart."
"So true. Make sure you wear a shirt tonight, Axl, and some pants."
"I'll wear the sweatshirt you unknowingly bought me."
"Okay. I'll make the jokes here. Don't freeze your tentacles off."
"THERE ARE ALREADY PEOPLE THERE!"
"Told ya so." Let the record show that Val did not jump up and do the Told Ya So, Told Ya So, Told Ya Told Ya Told Ya So dance. Out of respect for Genius mourning his rightful place at the front of the line. It was only 9:20, you know.
By 10:00, Genius called me back.
"I thought you were in class until 11:00. You're not skipping, are you? I want you to get your money's worth. They won't cut me as big a check if you lose one of your scholarships."
"Please! I'm not missing anything. I'm going to Walmart now. Then I'm getting in line. My shift goes until 12:00."
"What about your classes?"
"This one is a waste. I went to turn in my homework, and my professor wasn't even there. I don't mean to sound racist, but there's this Indian guy who we had the first two weeks. I can't understand a word he says. Usually I do really good understanding my foreign teachers. But I can't tell what this one is saying. And he didn't even collect homework. My next class is a lab. We do six of them this semester. We can drop our lowest score. I have 100s on the ones I've already done. I think I'll be okay. Then the last one is Physics, where we turn in homework about once every two weeks. We just turned it in on Tuesday. And we do board problems, six per class. I already had my turn this week, so they won't get around to me again today. I'll be fine. OH! There's a homeless man at the corner."
"Is he working for food?"
"No."
"Begging for money?"
"Yeah. I feel sorry for him, though. He's the first homeless I've seen down here."
"They don't exactly let them on campus. Does he have some cardboard? I bet you could take it from him."
"No."
"You need to watch all the dumpsters for cardboard on your way to and from Walmart. You need something between you and the ground."
"I'm here now. I'm going in."
The plan, apparently, is for two of the four future housemates to sit in line, and two of them to use Genius's RA dorm room as a warming station and watch movies. Genius got a sleeping bag and a folding chair and a thermal shirt for $40. For which he expects to be reimbursed, of course, because I am paying more than half of his support, and I cost him $59 of his withheld taxes that won't be refunded. He would have gotten some thermal pants (to protect his tentacles, you know), but Walmart had none. He even asked an associate. Which just goes to show that a lot of tentacle-endowed students must be camping out tonight for a chance at off-campus housing next year.
According to Genius, his tent is the blue one. The table is stacked with free pizza, because "It's the least they can do, making so much money off of us, to give us free pizza while we camp out to pay them." He also says they can tell who was first in line, and their places, because there was a sign-in sheet. He thinks they are number four, and that there are twelve waiting. So I don't understand why they still have to stay there overnight. But I'm slow like that.
Best of luck, Genius. The check is in the mail.
Genius is sleeping outside tonight. Let the record show that the temperature in College Town is currently 17 degrees. Yet Genius says he needs to camp out in order to be near the front of the line for Friday's housing rush. He and three cronies have a house in mind for their abode next school year, and they must sign up and put down their deposit before somebody else snatches it up. I knew he was getting a house. I didn't know the sacrifice involved. Until the phone rang at 9:00 this morning.
"Hey! Look at YOU, sitting home on a snow day!"
"I don't control the weather. I am merely a happy recipient of such."
"Yeah. Um. Speaking of the weather...we're going to wait in line all night for housing tomorrow."
"YOU CAN'T DO THAT! You'll freeze to death. Or at least you'll get sick. Right this very moment I am paying your hospital bills."
"What? I haven't been to the hospital. That's wrong."
"From over Christmas break. Your two ER trips. And tests."
"Well, that should have been over with by now."
"Actually, this is timely. All the radiologists and tests are coming in."
"Anyway, I'm staying out all night."
"Do you even have a tent?"
"Yeah. One of the guys is bringing one. It's 7 by 7."
"Get some cardboard. You can't lay on the ground. And wear a hat. Wear two hats. Dress in layers."
"I don't have cardboard. I KNOW how to dress. I'm taking three blankets and some towels to lay on. But my sleeping bag is at home. With my tent. I bought them off the internet last summer for fifty dollars. I don't have time to drive home and get it."
"I see where this is going. Go to Walmart and get a sleeping bag. I'll send you the money. Blankets aren't good. You need a comforter, to trap the air."
"I have a comforter. I don't have time to go to Walmart. I have three classes today. I'm going to get in line at 3:20, just as soon as I go suit up."
"You can't lay on the ground."
"Please! Stop lecturing me. One of our guys has gone through ROTC survival training. We know what we're doing."
"Stuff your clothes with moss! If you see a dead sheep, don't eat the eyeball until you've boiled it in the hot springs, or you'll get sick. You can use your shoelace, you know, to put that eyeball on and dangle it in the water. Remember when we used to watch Bear Grylls?"
"Mayhap I'll cut open a dead sheep and crawl inside. Mayhap I won't"
"Send me a picture."
"You're totally going to write about this, aren't you?"
"Yes. But send me a picture of your encampment. It will add authenticity to my post. Because so many people fake being homeless for one night."
"Better to be homeless for one night than homeless all next year. We have to get this house."
"I hope they have a metal trash can where you can start a fire. You can't do that in your tent. What if people are already in line?"
"Hey, I have to leave for class in five minutes. And I'm sitting here in jeans without a shirt."
"Then get going. You're making me cold."
"Okay. Bye."
So off went my studious Genius to his three classes. Then I got a text. "Send me a text tonight to remind me about the picture. Also, it's cold outside."
"Maybe you should change your career plan to meteorologist, Genius. Or cardiologist, to revive me after telling me stuff like that. I daresay the temps tonight will plunge below that of my cold, cold heart."
"At least I've had twenty years of practice dealing with your cold, cold heart."
"So true. Make sure you wear a shirt tonight, Axl, and some pants."
"I'll wear the sweatshirt you unknowingly bought me."
"Okay. I'll make the jokes here. Don't freeze your tentacles off."
"THERE ARE ALREADY PEOPLE THERE!"
"Told ya so." Let the record show that Val did not jump up and do the Told Ya So, Told Ya So, Told Ya Told Ya Told Ya So dance. Out of respect for Genius mourning his rightful place at the front of the line. It was only 9:20, you know.
By 10:00, Genius called me back.
"I thought you were in class until 11:00. You're not skipping, are you? I want you to get your money's worth. They won't cut me as big a check if you lose one of your scholarships."
"Please! I'm not missing anything. I'm going to Walmart now. Then I'm getting in line. My shift goes until 12:00."
"What about your classes?"
"This one is a waste. I went to turn in my homework, and my professor wasn't even there. I don't mean to sound racist, but there's this Indian guy who we had the first two weeks. I can't understand a word he says. Usually I do really good understanding my foreign teachers. But I can't tell what this one is saying. And he didn't even collect homework. My next class is a lab. We do six of them this semester. We can drop our lowest score. I have 100s on the ones I've already done. I think I'll be okay. Then the last one is Physics, where we turn in homework about once every two weeks. We just turned it in on Tuesday. And we do board problems, six per class. I already had my turn this week, so they won't get around to me again today. I'll be fine. OH! There's a homeless man at the corner."
"Is he working for food?"
"No."
"Begging for money?"
"Yeah. I feel sorry for him, though. He's the first homeless I've seen down here."
"They don't exactly let them on campus. Does he have some cardboard? I bet you could take it from him."
"No."
"You need to watch all the dumpsters for cardboard on your way to and from Walmart. You need something between you and the ground."
"I'm here now. I'm going in."
The plan, apparently, is for two of the four future housemates to sit in line, and two of them to use Genius's RA dorm room as a warming station and watch movies. Genius got a sleeping bag and a folding chair and a thermal shirt for $40. For which he expects to be reimbursed, of course, because I am paying more than half of his support, and I cost him $59 of his withheld taxes that won't be refunded. He would have gotten some thermal pants (to protect his tentacles, you know), but Walmart had none. He even asked an associate. Which just goes to show that a lot of tentacle-endowed students must be camping out tonight for a chance at off-campus housing next year.
Best of luck, Genius. The check is in the mail.
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
What a Difference a Few Letters Make
The Pony had a Scholar Bowl meet last evening.
I don't go to many, because they're usually at a far-away school, and because nobody really goes to them. I don't want to embarrass The Pony. He says that nobody goes. I remember from when Genius played, and Hick and I were often the only parents there at the home meets. But yesterday, I went. And Hick came when he got home from work.
There are only five on the varsity team. I think there might be a sixth, but he was sick. So it's a tight-knit group. The Pony's People. They have special names for each other. I just found that out. The Pony is Snowflake. Don't know why. Probably don't wanna.
So I guess his coach forgot The Pony's nickname. Because as they were getting ready to start, he hollered, "Hey! Silkworm!" Of course The Pony did not turn around. So he called him by his given name, which, you might be surprised to find out, is NOT The Pony. I thought that was hilarious. SILKWORM!
Anyhoo...there was the matter of the reader of the questions, who is one of my colleagues from down the hall. She is famous for her Scholar Bowl readings, way back to when Genius was in middle school, and she began a question with: "An octopus has eight testicles. How many does a squid have?" We have never let her live that down. And never will. So last night, she was telling the teams and their assembled handful of coaches and one or two parents, "These names I can read. But there are some unique names of kids coming up from the middle school competitions."
At half time, I told her: "I certainly hope none of those young kids has the name of TENTACLE, because I feel sorry for what you're going to do to it."
At half time of the next game, she came back and leaned over my table. "Look here. Remember this question just now? The one about the household chore? I almost said, 'Chousehold hore!' I stopped myself just in time."
She's gotta get a handle on her subconscious, I think.
So there were a couple of interesting questions, one answered by The Pony, that very household chore one, in fact. "This household chore involves removing wrinkles from clothing with an appliance that is heated and applied to the fabric. It is called..." Yeah. I don't know why there was such an easy question in there. But my boy buzzed right in, and answered, "An iron." Yeah. I'm not even sure we have one in our house. So in my book, this question was an example of IRONY! See what I did there?
Also in the irony vein, a question that neither team got was, "This trait is measured by the Stanford-Binet test, and measures what a person knows compared to other people of the same age and experience." Yeah. Can you believe that none of those little brains, The Pony's People, knew the answer was IQ?
It came as no surprise to any of us, though, when nobody knew that the professional basketball team from the state of Oregon was the Portland Trailblazers. Not their area of expertise.
All in all, it was a pleasant enough way to while away three hours and feel inferior when these kids whipped out an answer to complicated math questions in thirty seconds.
The Pony's team won two out of three, losing only to the team with a senior member who was just written about in the local paper for being a National Merit Finalist.
Two out of three ain't bad.
I don't go to many, because they're usually at a far-away school, and because nobody really goes to them. I don't want to embarrass The Pony. He says that nobody goes. I remember from when Genius played, and Hick and I were often the only parents there at the home meets. But yesterday, I went. And Hick came when he got home from work.
There are only five on the varsity team. I think there might be a sixth, but he was sick. So it's a tight-knit group. The Pony's People. They have special names for each other. I just found that out. The Pony is Snowflake. Don't know why. Probably don't wanna.
So I guess his coach forgot The Pony's nickname. Because as they were getting ready to start, he hollered, "Hey! Silkworm!" Of course The Pony did not turn around. So he called him by his given name, which, you might be surprised to find out, is NOT The Pony. I thought that was hilarious. SILKWORM!
Anyhoo...there was the matter of the reader of the questions, who is one of my colleagues from down the hall. She is famous for her Scholar Bowl readings, way back to when Genius was in middle school, and she began a question with: "An octopus has eight testicles. How many does a squid have?" We have never let her live that down. And never will. So last night, she was telling the teams and their assembled handful of coaches and one or two parents, "These names I can read. But there are some unique names of kids coming up from the middle school competitions."
At half time, I told her: "I certainly hope none of those young kids has the name of TENTACLE, because I feel sorry for what you're going to do to it."
At half time of the next game, she came back and leaned over my table. "Look here. Remember this question just now? The one about the household chore? I almost said, 'Chousehold hore!' I stopped myself just in time."
She's gotta get a handle on her subconscious, I think.
So there were a couple of interesting questions, one answered by The Pony, that very household chore one, in fact. "This household chore involves removing wrinkles from clothing with an appliance that is heated and applied to the fabric. It is called..." Yeah. I don't know why there was such an easy question in there. But my boy buzzed right in, and answered, "An iron." Yeah. I'm not even sure we have one in our house. So in my book, this question was an example of IRONY! See what I did there?
Also in the irony vein, a question that neither team got was, "This trait is measured by the Stanford-Binet test, and measures what a person knows compared to other people of the same age and experience." Yeah. Can you believe that none of those little brains, The Pony's People, knew the answer was IQ?
It came as no surprise to any of us, though, when nobody knew that the professional basketball team from the state of Oregon was the Portland Trailblazers. Not their area of expertise.
All in all, it was a pleasant enough way to while away three hours and feel inferior when these kids whipped out an answer to complicated math questions in thirty seconds.
The Pony's team won two out of three, losing only to the team with a senior member who was just written about in the local paper for being a National Merit Finalist.
Two out of three ain't bad.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Inside the Inner Sanctum: Hick's Bright Creekside Lair
For those of you thirsting for more in our continuing series on Beer and Bro-Things in Backroadsia...here are a few interior shots from Hick's creekside cabin. Please remember that Val did not take the photos, so any ophthalmological fees that are incurred in the viewing of the pictures should be billed to Hick Thevictorian, 1 Creekside Bank, Backroads, MO ZIPPP. Because that's all you're gonna get from him: ZIP.
The inside entrance area is quite unassuming. For instance, you would never assume that a guy went to all the trouble to build a cabin, and leave the inside looking like this. Like a garage filling with junk. On the other side of that cabinet that looks like a door is the bedroom addition. Above, you can make out the loft area.
I have not been to the cabin since Hick started all of his improvements. Last time I was there, it was just a room with a rocking chair and a wood stove, suitable for a man to sit in with his old dog Grizzly warming at his feet, perhaps stirring a pot of chili I sent with him on the stove burner while watching the snow fall. There was a sleeping loft available for boys with sleeping bags. Genius had a sleepover down there one time.
I asked The Pony how to get up to the loft. "Well, there's a ladder. But it's full of stuff. So I don't think you can get up there right now." Indeed. As shown in the next photo. In the foreground you see the wood stove, and in the background the loft ladder.
The next wall is full of Hick's treasures, but he must have had a few adult beverages before snapping the photo. The Pony says that the white appliance is the refrigerator. I said there's no electricity down there at the cabin, and The Pony replied, "I think it's one of those kinds you have to put ice in to make it cold." So it's an icebox. I suppose a young whippersnapper like The Pony doesn't know the two terms are not interchangeable.
Next we have the icebox, more treasures, and light streaming in through the front window. Which has taken us around the world, or at least around the four walls of Hick's creekside cabin. He loves to hang out there, in the midst of his hoard, probably rubbing his hands together with glee, dreaming of all the new junk he might see at the auction to bring home and stuff inside his cabin until it groans with the excess.
As you can see, we're gonna need another cabin.
The inside entrance area is quite unassuming. For instance, you would never assume that a guy went to all the trouble to build a cabin, and leave the inside looking like this. Like a garage filling with junk. On the other side of that cabinet that looks like a door is the bedroom addition. Above, you can make out the loft area.
I asked The Pony how to get up to the loft. "Well, there's a ladder. But it's full of stuff. So I don't think you can get up there right now." Indeed. As shown in the next photo. In the foreground you see the wood stove, and in the background the loft ladder.
As you can see, we're gonna need another cabin.
Monday, March 2, 2015
Oh What a Wicked Road We Sweave, When For the Auction We Do Leave
Got snow?
We've had our fair share here in Backroads this month. Days off school due to inclement weather? Our count is now 9 days. Nothing like last year's 21, of course. But almost as satisfying. Problem is, the texture is becoming more unpleasant.
Tuesday we braved the rush-hour precipitation. I was not a happy camper, nor a happy T-Hoe pilot. That stuff was slick, even in 4WD with my extra caution. Saturday, we got out early to avoid the afternoon predictions. On my way back from dropping The Pony off for his bowling league, the flurries turned more serious.
Hick planned on his regular Saturday night auction. He even left a little early to run by some hardware store for a doodad he hasn't hoarded for one of his current projects. He was in charge of feeding himself, and chose two slices of leftover pizza and some fresher leftover crab rangoon. He announced at 5:00 that he was leaving, taking his 4WD Ford F250 Extended Cab that mostly sits parked in front of the BARn while he drives the $1000 Caravan with year-round studded snow tires.
At 5:15 I heard a commotion on the porch. Those darn fleabags! You'd think they'd never seen snow before. The barking. The thumping. THE OPENING OF THE DOOR!
"PONY! Who's coming in the front door?"
He ran upstairs. "It's just Dad."
"I thought he went to the auction."
Hick took off the boots he'd been kicking against the front wall, right under the area where that red plastic milk crate package receptacle hung until a couple weeks ago, and stumped downstairs to explain.
"I got all the way to the Smith house. Not the Smith compound. The rich Smith house. I pulled over a little to let a car go by, and my tire went off the road. I thought I was never going to get back on. Even in 4WD I couldn't pull myself up on the road. I thought I was going to have to drive all the way to that entrance road past his field, where the turkey hunter parks."
"Wait a minute. The RICH Smith house? You would have been going downhill. Straight. How could you not get your tire back on the road? It's a couple inches."
"I know, Val. That's what I'm telling you. This stuff is slick! I finally got back on the road and turned around on that gravel road with the three-car-garage house for sale. I figured if I had that much trouble before I even went three miles, I didn't need to go to the auction all that bad."
Yep. You know the roads ain't good when the Master Sweaver can't get out. As much as I complain about Hick's driving, he's really good on snow and ice. This was the first time I ever heard him declare that the roads were too bad to go to the auction.
I am staying in today. Not even lottery, gas station chicken, or a 44 oz. Diet Coke can lure me out.
We've had our fair share here in Backroads this month. Days off school due to inclement weather? Our count is now 9 days. Nothing like last year's 21, of course. But almost as satisfying. Problem is, the texture is becoming more unpleasant.
Tuesday we braved the rush-hour precipitation. I was not a happy camper, nor a happy T-Hoe pilot. That stuff was slick, even in 4WD with my extra caution. Saturday, we got out early to avoid the afternoon predictions. On my way back from dropping The Pony off for his bowling league, the flurries turned more serious.
Hick planned on his regular Saturday night auction. He even left a little early to run by some hardware store for a doodad he hasn't hoarded for one of his current projects. He was in charge of feeding himself, and chose two slices of leftover pizza and some fresher leftover crab rangoon. He announced at 5:00 that he was leaving, taking his 4WD Ford F250 Extended Cab that mostly sits parked in front of the BARn while he drives the $1000 Caravan with year-round studded snow tires.
At 5:15 I heard a commotion on the porch. Those darn fleabags! You'd think they'd never seen snow before. The barking. The thumping. THE OPENING OF THE DOOR!
"PONY! Who's coming in the front door?"
He ran upstairs. "It's just Dad."
"I thought he went to the auction."
Hick took off the boots he'd been kicking against the front wall, right under the area where that red plastic milk crate package receptacle hung until a couple weeks ago, and stumped downstairs to explain.
"I got all the way to the Smith house. Not the Smith compound. The rich Smith house. I pulled over a little to let a car go by, and my tire went off the road. I thought I was never going to get back on. Even in 4WD I couldn't pull myself up on the road. I thought I was going to have to drive all the way to that entrance road past his field, where the turkey hunter parks."
"Wait a minute. The RICH Smith house? You would have been going downhill. Straight. How could you not get your tire back on the road? It's a couple inches."
"I know, Val. That's what I'm telling you. This stuff is slick! I finally got back on the road and turned around on that gravel road with the three-car-garage house for sale. I figured if I had that much trouble before I even went three miles, I didn't need to go to the auction all that bad."
Yep. You know the roads ain't good when the Master Sweaver can't get out. As much as I complain about Hick's driving, he's really good on snow and ice. This was the first time I ever heard him declare that the roads were too bad to go to the auction.
I am staying in today. Not even lottery, gas station chicken, or a 44 oz. Diet Coke can lure me out.
Sunday, March 1, 2015
The Mind Makes Mysterious Connections
So there we were last night, in the dark basement, me out of my lair and laid back in the recliner, The Pony on his cheap couch gaming on his laptop, both of us watching a DVR of Cutthroat Kitchen, the one where the sabotage was to get makings for a deli sandwich out of a vending machine. The time was 8:35, when The Pony usually trots upstairs for his hour shower and then bedtime.
"HEY! I just got a reminder of Grandma!"
I looked over to see what had roused him from his gaming stupor. He was beaming, and pointing to the screen of his laptop. I wondered if maybe a long-lost email had popped up. Mom was not one for emailing The Pony, though. She kept that up with a few of her long-distance friends, but not us relatives.
"Look. It's a ladybug. Just like Grandma had in her house."
Indeed. She had a drop-ceiling full of them. I asked her if she was going to get an exterminator, and she said no, that she sometimes sucked them off the walls and carpet with her vacuum and dumped them outside, but mostly they just went back up in the ceiling at night and she forgot about them. Which made me think of that drop ceiling in her family room collapsing one day with the weight of tons of ladybugs.
The Pony grabbed a Puffs With Lotion and scooted it along his laptop screen, trying to capture the ladybug. "At first I thought it was actually clicking on things. A part of my screen highlighted when I first saw it, but I think that's because I accidentally hit my mouse."
He put the tissue in front of the ladybug, and it crawled on. "I THINK it's a ladybug. Maybe it's just a beetle. Look. It has spots. But it's not bright red. More orange."
"That's a ladybug. Now what are you going to do with it?"
The Pony looked perplexed. "I don't know. What SHOULD I do with it?"
"Well, you can let it go somewhere away from me, or you can put it outside, or you can flush it."
"I'm taking it outside." He carried it gingerly on the tissue like a young ring-bearer bearing a ring at a wedding. Out of the TV area, past the pool table, through the workshop, and to the basement door out to the pool. "There. I let it go. That was weird."
I know I saw a ladybug upstairs in the master bathroom a few months ago. I lost track of it. Haven't seen one all this time. We don't usually have an infestation. More millipedes and field mice have gained entrance than ladybugs.
Funny how things get your attention.
"HEY! I just got a reminder of Grandma!"
I looked over to see what had roused him from his gaming stupor. He was beaming, and pointing to the screen of his laptop. I wondered if maybe a long-lost email had popped up. Mom was not one for emailing The Pony, though. She kept that up with a few of her long-distance friends, but not us relatives.
"Look. It's a ladybug. Just like Grandma had in her house."
Indeed. She had a drop-ceiling full of them. I asked her if she was going to get an exterminator, and she said no, that she sometimes sucked them off the walls and carpet with her vacuum and dumped them outside, but mostly they just went back up in the ceiling at night and she forgot about them. Which made me think of that drop ceiling in her family room collapsing one day with the weight of tons of ladybugs.
The Pony grabbed a Puffs With Lotion and scooted it along his laptop screen, trying to capture the ladybug. "At first I thought it was actually clicking on things. A part of my screen highlighted when I first saw it, but I think that's because I accidentally hit my mouse."
He put the tissue in front of the ladybug, and it crawled on. "I THINK it's a ladybug. Maybe it's just a beetle. Look. It has spots. But it's not bright red. More orange."
"That's a ladybug. Now what are you going to do with it?"
The Pony looked perplexed. "I don't know. What SHOULD I do with it?"
"Well, you can let it go somewhere away from me, or you can put it outside, or you can flush it."
"I'm taking it outside." He carried it gingerly on the tissue like a young ring-bearer bearing a ring at a wedding. Out of the TV area, past the pool table, through the workshop, and to the basement door out to the pool. "There. I let it go. That was weird."
I know I saw a ladybug upstairs in the master bathroom a few months ago. I lost track of it. Haven't seen one all this time. We don't usually have an infestation. More millipedes and field mice have gained entrance than ladybugs.
Funny how things get your attention.
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