I hate to get a haircut. Don't you hate to get a haircut? I know The Pony hates to get a haircut, but I attribute that to his formative years, when Hick used to give the boys a buzz cut every summer vacation, and accidentally nicked The Pony's ear. Sure, it was just a flesh wound. But you know how blood spurts from any little opening when it's above the neck.
Anyhoo...I went to Terrible Cuts today. Gotta look presentable for the upcoming Casinopalooza with Sis and the ex-mayor. Because I have techy kids, they made me get that Terrible Cuts app for my phone, where you can check in ahead of time, and be the next one called when you show up. I don't really think that's fair, but if I'M the one getting bumped ahead, and not the one being overlooked, then I guess it's fair enough for me.
I didn't want to check in too soon. It takes me 15 minutes to get there from home. I had to go by the main post office hub first. So as I left there, I checked in. Huh. Wait is 12 minutes. That's unusual. It usually shows a five minute wait, or less. Unless you're stupid enough to go on a Friday afternoon before Easter, or Christmas, when kids are out of school and looking all raggedy around the ears, and moms take the whole pack at the same time. This was a Tuesday morning, by cracky, at 10:45. Not even lunch time for the terrible cutters.
Oh, well. I was about 5 minutes away, and I decided to make a stop to pick up a lottery ticket. That ate up a little time. In fact, after I backed T-Hoe into the parking space at Terrible Cuts (you'd be proud of me, Pony, because I didn't hit their chain-link fence this time and bend it so you could point it out for months, every time we drove by), my phone app said my wait was 1 minute. Sweet!
I put my purse and lottery ticket out of sight, and went up the parking lot to the door. It opened before I could reach out my hand. A young woman held it for me. Okay. Not so much for ME as for her two almost-school-age boys. They were baffled. The didn't want to come out and walk ahead of their mom. She was going to hold that door for me to go in. We were kind of at a Mexican Standoff. Finally, one of those boys made a run for it, which caused the other one to follow, which cleared the doorway, so I could go in.
Wouldn't you know it? The minute I stepped inside, a new little terrible cutter was calling an old man over to her station. Had I not been cut-blocked by those kids, I'd have been right there. My name was clearly the only one on their computer screen as a check-in. They even asked me if I'd checked in. Yep. For all the good it did me.
I walked down the row of waiting chairs. There were 9 along the front window, and 3 made a left to make an L shape at the side window. I walked down to chair 8 and started to sit down. Well! An old lady ran back from where she'd walked with the old man to tell the terrible cutter how she wanted his hair done. She snatched up a jacket from the side chairs. She seemed kind of agitated, so I turned and went back towards the door, and sat down in chair 2. I'll be ding-dang-donged if that old lady didn't follow me and sit down in chair 5. Way to go, lady, taking up the whole waiting area. She put her coat on chair 3, her purse on chair 4, and what I assume was her husband's coat on chair 6. It wasn't even cold enough for a coat this morning!
The terrible cutter asked that old lady a question about her husband's head, and she got up to go look, and when she came back, I'll be ding-dang-donged if she wasn't COUGHING! Oh, but that's not all. She STOPPED a few feet from the chairs, angled toward me like she was a clock hand pointing at the 1, and coughed there. IN MY DIRECTION! I was not happy. Well. That's a given. Let's just say I was more not-happy than I usually am.
THEN those two terrible cutters were in the midst of a Public Employee Standoff. Each trying to work slower than the other, in order to take fewer customers. The one I usually get, the gossiper, was working on a lady with short spiky bleached hair in a man-cut. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But this terrible cutter was milking it. I swear. There was less hair on the floor than it would take to half-fill the belly-button of a toddler. She was not cutting at all. Just pulling up tufts of hair, and making her scissors snip. They were chatting away about Goldie's workplace and job. TC spent a few more minutes combing Goldie's buzz cut. Like the other boys told Vern in Stand By Me, upon discovering that he had brought a comb on the trek to find Ray Brower, "You don't even have any hair!"
Yeah. I'd say that app was pretty accurate. My wait was about 12 minutes. AFTER I arrived at the time the original 12 minutes had elapsed.
I hate to get a haircut.
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
Monday, March 6, 2017
I Wonder If There's Something Hick Hasn't Told Me About His Childhood
The other day I noticed that we had a new guest at our table. She stood there for several days before I acknowledged her. It's not like I'm running a restaurant here, padding my gas station chicken/44 oz Diet Coke/scratch-off ticket bankroll with tips. Besides, it's not even like any eating goes on at our kitchen table. We dish it up at the stove, usually at different times. It's not like this is my dad's house, where supper was served every evening at 5:10 p.m., with all family members accounted for, sitting there eating what was put in front of them, or going hungry silently.
"Did you get a new Barbie?"
"Yeah! Look at her! She was a steal! I got her for $29 at the antique store!"
"You already have a Coca Cola Barbie! She's been standing on top of Grandma's piano down in the basement for years!"
"Val. That's Coca Cola PICNIC Barbie! This is a different one. She's a COLLECTOR Barbie."
Okay. I know you're dying to see Hick's very special Barbie. He took her off to the BARn to put with his other Coca Cola swag. For all I know, Coca Cola Picnic Barbie is already over there, too.
There she is, Hick's very special Barbie. I saw her online going for $45 or $50. Not so poor Picnic Barbie. She's a cheap little tart at $5.99 or so on eBay. I don't have her picture from Hick, but here's one.
I wonder if there's something Hick hasn't told me about his childhood...
"Did you get a new Barbie?"
"Yeah! Look at her! She was a steal! I got her for $29 at the antique store!"
"You already have a Coca Cola Barbie! She's been standing on top of Grandma's piano down in the basement for years!"
"Val. That's Coca Cola PICNIC Barbie! This is a different one. She's a COLLECTOR Barbie."
Okay. I know you're dying to see Hick's very special Barbie. He took her off to the BARn to put with his other Coca Cola swag. For all I know, Coca Cola Picnic Barbie is already over there, too.
There she is, Hick's very special Barbie. I saw her online going for $45 or $50. Not so poor Picnic Barbie. She's a cheap little tart at $5.99 or so on eBay. I don't have her picture from Hick, but here's one.
I wonder if there's something Hick hasn't told me about his childhood...
Sunday, March 5, 2017
Poor Little Fella Hasn't Been Wella
Puppy Jack has been sick. So ill that I even thought about taking him to the vet, on Friday afternoon, right after I'd returned home with a fresh 44 oz Diet Coke, and was in the midst of making myself a chicken caesar wrap.
He came to the side porch to greet me, but held back when I leaned in for a hug. Held back, shaking violently as if having a seizure, then sniffed his handful of cat kibble and broke into an awkward trot around the porch to the front of the house. Hick saw him pooping (though he said nothing came out) and vomiting white foam in the front yard. Then he (Puppy Jack, not Hick--wouldn't THAT have been a great way to keep HIM out of my hair) crawled under the Little Barbershop of Horrors and wouldn't come out all day. Which kind of put the kibosh on the vet visit idea. You can read more details here if you're so inclined.
Anyhoo...by Saturday, Jack was getting around again and acting like he had his appetite back. He wasn't back to 100% hyperactivity like normal. He still looked a little pitiful.
Jack was a bit weak and listless, not even trying to hump the tan-striped cat under the front porch pew, as is his habit after his evening snack. He made a half-hearted attempt with his favorite same-sex inter-species object of desire, but you could tell that his heart wasn't in it. Here's a picture. NO! It's NOT fleabag pr0n. Just a look at Stockings the cat.
To be fair...Stockings is a master of seduction. He walks up to Jack and rubs his head under Jack's chin and along his shoulders. Jack licks the back of the neck and ears of Stockings, and after that foreplay, he gets right to it. Except that Stockings sometimes sits down and tolerates it, but often walks away mid-hump, only to turn around and nuzzle his head at Jack again, sometimes even chirping at him if Jack's attention wanders to what the neighbor dog is doing in the yard, or whether Hick is headed toward the Gator.
On Saturday evening, Jack walked up to Stockings and poked him in the shoulder with his nose, trying to herd him into the proper position, I guess. Stockings was not in the mood, and reached out his right paw to touch Jack's nose, like a tough guy lining up his punch on one of those bar machine punching bags, then swatted Jack across the muzzle in slow motion. Stockings is not the energetic sort, and used to weigh about 20 pounds until Hick bought (unknowingly) a bag of bad food that made all the cats sick. He's made a remarkable recovery. No, his tail is not chopped off. In that picture, it's under the porch post that has a gap since the porch has settled. The whole homestead is probably going to plunge into a giant sinkhole one of these days.
Anyhoo...Puppy Jack is looking stronger today, and ran to greet me when I got home from 44 oz Diet Coke-buying today, and even ate his handful of cat kibble.
I'm quite relieved that he's okay.
He came to the side porch to greet me, but held back when I leaned in for a hug. Held back, shaking violently as if having a seizure, then sniffed his handful of cat kibble and broke into an awkward trot around the porch to the front of the house. Hick saw him pooping (though he said nothing came out) and vomiting white foam in the front yard. Then he (Puppy Jack, not Hick--wouldn't THAT have been a great way to keep HIM out of my hair) crawled under the Little Barbershop of Horrors and wouldn't come out all day. Which kind of put the kibosh on the vet visit idea. You can read more details here if you're so inclined.
Anyhoo...by Saturday, Jack was getting around again and acting like he had his appetite back. He wasn't back to 100% hyperactivity like normal. He still looked a little pitiful.
Jack was a bit weak and listless, not even trying to hump the tan-striped cat under the front porch pew, as is his habit after his evening snack. He made a half-hearted attempt with his favorite same-sex inter-species object of desire, but you could tell that his heart wasn't in it. Here's a picture. NO! It's NOT fleabag pr0n. Just a look at Stockings the cat.
To be fair...Stockings is a master of seduction. He walks up to Jack and rubs his head under Jack's chin and along his shoulders. Jack licks the back of the neck and ears of Stockings, and after that foreplay, he gets right to it. Except that Stockings sometimes sits down and tolerates it, but often walks away mid-hump, only to turn around and nuzzle his head at Jack again, sometimes even chirping at him if Jack's attention wanders to what the neighbor dog is doing in the yard, or whether Hick is headed toward the Gator.
On Saturday evening, Jack walked up to Stockings and poked him in the shoulder with his nose, trying to herd him into the proper position, I guess. Stockings was not in the mood, and reached out his right paw to touch Jack's nose, like a tough guy lining up his punch on one of those bar machine punching bags, then swatted Jack across the muzzle in slow motion. Stockings is not the energetic sort, and used to weigh about 20 pounds until Hick bought (unknowingly) a bag of bad food that made all the cats sick. He's made a remarkable recovery. No, his tail is not chopped off. In that picture, it's under the porch post that has a gap since the porch has settled. The whole homestead is probably going to plunge into a giant sinkhole one of these days.
Anyhoo...Puppy Jack is looking stronger today, and ran to greet me when I got home from 44 oz Diet Coke-buying today, and even ate his handful of cat kibble.
I'm quite relieved that he's okay.
Saturday, March 4, 2017
The Lady in the Gray Sedan
I suppose I need to start hanging out at classier joints. Not that I hang out much at all. The only place I go is grocery shopping, or to a convenience store for 44 oz Diet Cokes, gas station chicken, and lottery tickets. Oh, yeah, and the CASINO! Maybe in a week or so, I'll have more weirdo stories for you. But lately, the home-grown weirdos are giving me all I can handle.
Fresh on the heels of my pointed ignoration (is that a word? I don't think so. But I'm making it one here. IGNORATION: the act of ignoring) of the shumbling (is THAT a word? Definitely not, so we'll create it, too. SHUMBLING: a gait comprised of shuffling and stumbling) old man on the parking lot of the gas station chicken store, I encountered another inconvenience at a convenience store on Thursday.
It's not so much that this lady acted like a weirdo as the fact that she had problems that Val couldn't solve. Not for a lack of trying, though, because Val was empathy-self-shamed on Wednesday by her commenters who harbor a compassionate bone in their body. Here's how it went down.
I went to the Casey's General Store where I always buy T-Hoe's gas. Not for gas this time. Just for scratch-off tickets. I have a favorite parking space by the big dumpster. They don't reserve it for me, but if it's open, I take it. From there, I can walk up onto their sidewalk where it gently slants, like a concrete ramp. When I get gas at the pumps, I have to walk up the blacktopped hill to the door, AND step up onto that sidewalk. A hill OR a step is bad enough, in the opinion of Val's knees, but the double whammy is barely surmountable. So...when I'm not getting gas, I park where I can walk up the ramp.
The handicap spot is right in front of the ramp area, but this space is almost always taken by people putting air in their tires from the wall-mounted pump and hose just in front of it. Perhaps it was designed that way in case wheelchairs need more air in their tires. I don't know. All I DO know is that every time I park there and go in, somebody has that air hose stretched across the sidewalk when I come out, so I have to step off the sidewalk and downhill anyway.
But that's neither here nor there today, just setting the scene to drag out the story. A car was already in my dumpster spot when I pulled in. I waited in a drive through area beside the pumps for it to back out and open up my space. A lady in an 80s model gray sedan pulled up next to me on my left, to the gas pump, while I was waiting. It took a few minutes for the dumpster driver to get backed out and exit the lot to the side road. I steered around the end of the pumps to take my rightful spot.
As I was climbing down from T-Hoe's running board, the lady from the sedan walked up the lot and stepped up on the sidewalk. She was mid-40s, maybe, with dark hair and the same fashion style as Val herself. She was about 30 seconds ahead of me to enter the store. Of course, being paranoid, AND a gambler, I thought, "I hope she's not buying the winning ticket right before I get in there!" Once inside, I gave her proper space at the counter while I eyed the ticket selection behind the clear plastic display. Lady was swiping her card. I didn't see any items on the counter. Whew! Dodged THAT bullet. She wasn't buying tickets.
"I'm sorry. It shows CARD DECLINED."
"What? Are you kidding me?" Lady was befuddled. She looked at the scan thingy. Looked at her card. Put it in her pocket. "Oh...just go ahead." She backed away from the counter and started pacing along the aisle entrances. Down to the donut case, back up to the door. I don't know if she was calling or texting. She didn't speak, so she got no answer, or was on hold.
I figured she had pumped her gas, and now her card couldn't pay. I always pump my gas and pay inside. Of course, I'm also going in to buy lottery. Hick uses his card at the pump. That's too techy for me. I usecold hard limp paper cash. I felt bad for Lady. What was she going to do? She couldn't exactly wash dishes to pay her bill. Unless they let her clean the pizza pans. I stood while the clerk tore off my lottery selections. I figured that if Lady owed $20 or less, I would offer to pay. It wouldn't hurt me to spend money out of my gambling fund. I can't go around supporting every Jane, Vick, and Mary who can't pay for their gas. But this one time, it wouldn't hurt.
As I was handing over my cash to pay for my tickets, Lady walked out the door. I saw her open the door of her gray sedan. I figured she probably had some cash or another card out there in her purse, and was getting it to bring back in. I took my eyes off her to step down off the sidewalk and down the hill, thanks to a guy in a white pickup parked in the handicap space with the air hose stretched across the sidewalk. Once on solid footing, I looked back at the lady in the gray sedan.
She put it in gear and drove away.
Huh. So much for my intended good deed. Maybe she'd wanted to pre-pay. Maybe she wasn't a drive-off deadbeat.
I tried.
Fresh on the heels of my pointed ignoration (is that a word? I don't think so. But I'm making it one here. IGNORATION: the act of ignoring) of the shumbling (is THAT a word? Definitely not, so we'll create it, too. SHUMBLING: a gait comprised of shuffling and stumbling) old man on the parking lot of the gas station chicken store, I encountered another inconvenience at a convenience store on Thursday.
It's not so much that this lady acted like a weirdo as the fact that she had problems that Val couldn't solve. Not for a lack of trying, though, because Val was empathy-self-shamed on Wednesday by her commenters who harbor a compassionate bone in their body. Here's how it went down.
I went to the Casey's General Store where I always buy T-Hoe's gas. Not for gas this time. Just for scratch-off tickets. I have a favorite parking space by the big dumpster. They don't reserve it for me, but if it's open, I take it. From there, I can walk up onto their sidewalk where it gently slants, like a concrete ramp. When I get gas at the pumps, I have to walk up the blacktopped hill to the door, AND step up onto that sidewalk. A hill OR a step is bad enough, in the opinion of Val's knees, but the double whammy is barely surmountable. So...when I'm not getting gas, I park where I can walk up the ramp.
The handicap spot is right in front of the ramp area, but this space is almost always taken by people putting air in their tires from the wall-mounted pump and hose just in front of it. Perhaps it was designed that way in case wheelchairs need more air in their tires. I don't know. All I DO know is that every time I park there and go in, somebody has that air hose stretched across the sidewalk when I come out, so I have to step off the sidewalk and downhill anyway.
But that's neither here nor there today, just setting the scene to drag out the story. A car was already in my dumpster spot when I pulled in. I waited in a drive through area beside the pumps for it to back out and open up my space. A lady in an 80s model gray sedan pulled up next to me on my left, to the gas pump, while I was waiting. It took a few minutes for the dumpster driver to get backed out and exit the lot to the side road. I steered around the end of the pumps to take my rightful spot.
As I was climbing down from T-Hoe's running board, the lady from the sedan walked up the lot and stepped up on the sidewalk. She was mid-40s, maybe, with dark hair and the same fashion style as Val herself. She was about 30 seconds ahead of me to enter the store. Of course, being paranoid, AND a gambler, I thought, "I hope she's not buying the winning ticket right before I get in there!" Once inside, I gave her proper space at the counter while I eyed the ticket selection behind the clear plastic display. Lady was swiping her card. I didn't see any items on the counter. Whew! Dodged THAT bullet. She wasn't buying tickets.
"I'm sorry. It shows CARD DECLINED."
"What? Are you kidding me?" Lady was befuddled. She looked at the scan thingy. Looked at her card. Put it in her pocket. "Oh...just go ahead." She backed away from the counter and started pacing along the aisle entrances. Down to the donut case, back up to the door. I don't know if she was calling or texting. She didn't speak, so she got no answer, or was on hold.
I figured she had pumped her gas, and now her card couldn't pay. I always pump my gas and pay inside. Of course, I'm also going in to buy lottery. Hick uses his card at the pump. That's too techy for me. I use
As I was handing over my cash to pay for my tickets, Lady walked out the door. I saw her open the door of her gray sedan. I figured she probably had some cash or another card out there in her purse, and was getting it to bring back in. I took my eyes off her to step down off the sidewalk and down the hill, thanks to a guy in a white pickup parked in the handicap space with the air hose stretched across the sidewalk. Once on solid footing, I looked back at the lady in the gray sedan.
She put it in gear and drove away.
Huh. So much for my intended good deed. Maybe she'd wanted to pre-pay. Maybe she wasn't a drive-off deadbeat.
I tried.
Friday, March 3, 2017
Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday #50 "What Now, Town Sal?"
Blog buddy Sioux is hosting Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday.
I have 150 words to convince you to fake-buy my fake book. This week,
Val brings you the mooooving story of a madam with a heart of gold, hair of silver, and a will of iron. You'll fall in love with it! Guaranteed, or your fake-money back! Help Val fatten up her fake bank account, and run with the herd to corral this tale from the trail.
Sal Thethicktorian, supersleuth extraordinaire, researches her family tree. Her many-greats grandma, also named Sal, was a legend in the time of cattle drives and cow towns. Town Sal knew what itch those cowboys needed to scratch. Weeks on the trail made them none too particular about their paramours. Likewise, Town Sal accrued a stable of ladies with trouble acquiring suitors through regular channels. A quick roll in the hay was fine with them. Making money to stock their hopeful hope chests was a bonus.
With a stockyard as a front, Town Sal goes against the grain and builds a bordello full of plain ladies. "All cats look the same in the dark," says Sal. Will Sal's ladies of the dark be there with bells on to entertain the cowboys 'til the cows come home? Or will those cowpokes take one look at Sal's Gals, and shuffle off to buffalo? (149 words)
__________________________________________________________________
The Epilady Hair Removal Tool as Seen on TV..."Smooth move, Thevictorian, in fake-writing a fake book that barely touches upon the plight of the hirsute husband-seekers of the late 1800s. I may be splitting hairs, but you seem to have reached a niche market. Though your prose is more wiry than silky, at least you have exposed male pattern behavior. Sal's Gals could weave rings around you in the work ethic arena. I imagine that your sales will soon start receding, with Nair-y a chance of recovery."
Little Dogies..."Whoopie ti yi yo! It's our misfortune to fake-read this fake book. The cowboys should leave them heifers of Sal's alone and git us back to the trail! At this rate, Thevictorian will have another fake book out before we reach Wyoming."
Trail Boss..."Sal's Gals are a different brand o' heifer than what my boys is used to. There ain't but a couple of 'em what licks her own snot, and most of 'em don't seem to have no more 'n three stomachs. That there lady that fake wrote this fake book probly used to be one of Sal's Gals herself. How else would she know so much about it? I don't know if that makes her a good fake book writer, or just another old cow that thinks her patties don't stink."
New York Strip, Filet Mignon, T-Bone, Porterhouse..."This author's fake writing is tasteless. Her plot is as thin as a single slice of Arby's sandwich meat. She really needs to beef up the story in her next fake book, which we hope she doesn't butcher like this one. Don't throw away your fake money on this underdone effort. The stakes are too high."
What Now, Town Sal?
Sal Thethicktorian, supersleuth extraordinaire, researches her family tree. Her many-greats grandma, also named Sal, was a legend in the time of cattle drives and cow towns. Town Sal knew what itch those cowboys needed to scratch. Weeks on the trail made them none too particular about their paramours. Likewise, Town Sal accrued a stable of ladies with trouble acquiring suitors through regular channels. A quick roll in the hay was fine with them. Making money to stock their hopeful hope chests was a bonus.
With a stockyard as a front, Town Sal goes against the grain and builds a bordello full of plain ladies. "All cats look the same in the dark," says Sal. Will Sal's ladies of the dark be there with bells on to entertain the cowboys 'til the cows come home? Or will those cowpokes take one look at Sal's Gals, and shuffle off to buffalo? (149 words)
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Fake Reviews
for Val’s Fake Book
Marla Hooch, 2nd Basewoman for the Georgia Peaches..." I wish I had lived back in those days. This was quite an informative fake book. I learned a lot, like that time I found out about eyebrows--there should be two! The author hit a home run with this fake book."
Cowboy from 1880..."Sure I'd rather get the milk for free. But this is the next best thing. Town Sal's gals are easy on the pocketbook, if not so easy on the eyes. Not a waste of money like this future fake book."
MuuMuus, the Official Uniform of Sal's Gals..."We would like to report our immense approval of this fake book. There is a huge market for this bloated writing style, and it shouldn't be hard to find. The author's career, though, will never be quite this big."
Marla Hooch, 2nd Basewoman for the Georgia Peaches..." I wish I had lived back in those days. This was quite an informative fake book. I learned a lot, like that time I found out about eyebrows--there should be two! The author hit a home run with this fake book."
Cowboy from 1880..."Sure I'd rather get the milk for free. But this is the next best thing. Town Sal's gals are easy on the pocketbook, if not so easy on the eyes. Not a waste of money like this future fake book."
MuuMuus, the Official Uniform of Sal's Gals..."We would like to report our immense approval of this fake book. There is a huge market for this bloated writing style, and it shouldn't be hard to find. The author's career, though, will never be quite this big."
The Epilady Hair Removal Tool as Seen on TV..."Smooth move, Thevictorian, in fake-writing a fake book that barely touches upon the plight of the hirsute husband-seekers of the late 1800s. I may be splitting hairs, but you seem to have reached a niche market. Though your prose is more wiry than silky, at least you have exposed male pattern behavior. Sal's Gals could weave rings around you in the work ethic arena. I imagine that your sales will soon start receding, with Nair-y a chance of recovery."
Little Dogies..."Whoopie ti yi yo! It's our misfortune to fake-read this fake book. The cowboys should leave them heifers of Sal's alone and git us back to the trail! At this rate, Thevictorian will have another fake book out before we reach Wyoming."
Trail Boss..."Sal's Gals are a different brand o' heifer than what my boys is used to. There ain't but a couple of 'em what licks her own snot, and most of 'em don't seem to have no more 'n three stomachs. That there lady that fake wrote this fake book probly used to be one of Sal's Gals herself. How else would she know so much about it? I don't know if that makes her a good fake book writer, or just another old cow that thinks her patties don't stink."
New York Strip, Filet Mignon, T-Bone, Porterhouse..."This author's fake writing is tasteless. Her plot is as thin as a single slice of Arby's sandwich meat. She really needs to beef up the story in her next fake book, which we hope she doesn't butcher like this one. Don't throw away your fake money on this underdone effort. The stakes are too high."
Thursday, March 2, 2017
Is The Universe Trying to Tell Val Something?
I think OnStar is eavesdropping on my car conversations! Seriously. I don't know any other explanation. The Universe can't be such a big ol' lampshade-headed, blustery prankster that it keeps punking me with these songs. Even when she was alive, I'm pretty sure my mom didn't really listen to me that closely all the time.
I did the Walmart shopping today, see, and stopped by the cemetery as usual. Just a quick drive-thru session. Less than five minutes, to update Mom on the boys' exploits at college, and let her know what's going on here. I told Mom that I was excited about the big gambling weekend we have planned with Sis and the ex-mayor. That I know she didn't approve of casino excursions, but I rarely see Sis, and this would be a lot of fun, because when Sis isn't micromanaging everything, she's good for a laugh.
Of course I had dialed SiriusXM to channel 58, Prime Country, Mom's favorite. A Reba McEntire song was playing when I pulled in. One I didn't recognize, but Mom was no stranger to Reba. Something else came on that was not memorable. Then I was done with my chat, and left. As I pulled out of the cemetery road and headed to Walmart, thinking about what slots I was going to play on that gambling trip...another song I didn't know came on. The words are what got me.
I saw on T-Hoe's radio screen that it was Clint Black, but I had to Google for the song name. Clint Black's "A Good Run of Bad Luck". You'd be hard-pressed to find a song with more gambling imagery. Unless it's Kenny Rogers knowing when to fold or hold 'em. I chuckled. What a dang coincidence!
I've been daydreaming about this trip for a couple days. I got a few road snacks at Walmart. Some mints and some individual chip bags. You know, so Hick can tilt his head back and turn them up to get the last crumbs while he's barrelling along a concrete median wall at 81 mph. I stopped by one convenience store to get scratch-off tickets to send Genius in his weekly letter. I stopped by another one to get my 44 oz Diet Coke and some for me.
And...as I pulled out of that convenience store parking lot, Sawyer Brown's "The Race is On" started playing. Which has a section of lyrics that might be construed as wager-related. I've never been one to play the ponies, though.
Now the race is on
And here comes pride in the backstretch
Heartaches goin' to the inside
My tears are holdin' back
They're tryin' not to fall
My hearts out of the runnin'
True love's scratched for another's sake
The race is on and it looks like heartaches
And the winner looses all
Dang it, Universe! Can't a Val be alone with her thoughts for a while?
I did the Walmart shopping today, see, and stopped by the cemetery as usual. Just a quick drive-thru session. Less than five minutes, to update Mom on the boys' exploits at college, and let her know what's going on here. I told Mom that I was excited about the big gambling weekend we have planned with Sis and the ex-mayor. That I know she didn't approve of casino excursions, but I rarely see Sis, and this would be a lot of fun, because when Sis isn't micromanaging everything, she's good for a laugh.
Of course I had dialed SiriusXM to channel 58, Prime Country, Mom's favorite. A Reba McEntire song was playing when I pulled in. One I didn't recognize, but Mom was no stranger to Reba. Something else came on that was not memorable. Then I was done with my chat, and left. As I pulled out of the cemetery road and headed to Walmart, thinking about what slots I was going to play on that gambling trip...another song I didn't know came on. The words are what got me.
A high roller even when the chips are down
To win her over, I'd seen the tables turn around
She's ten the hard way, I can feel it in my bones
She'll be makin' my day and not another night alone
'Til it's time for a windfall and not a single moment too soon
I've been too long overdue, now I'm gonna shoot the moon
To win her over, I'd seen the tables turn around
She's ten the hard way, I can feel it in my bones
She'll be makin' my day and not another night alone
'Til it's time for a windfall and not a single moment too soon
I've been too long overdue, now I'm gonna shoot the moon
I'd bet it all on a good run of bad luck
Seven come eleven and she could be mine
Luck be a lady, and I'm gonna find love comin' on the bottom line
Seven come eleven and she could be mine
Luck be a lady, and I'm gonna find love comin' on the bottom line
I've been to the table, and I've lost it all before
I'm willin' and able, always comin' back for more
Squeezin' out a thin dime 'til there's no one hanging on my arm
I've gambled on a third time, a fool will tell you it's a charm
If I'm bettin' on a loser, I'm gonna have a devil to pay
But it's the only game I know to play, it doesn't matter anyway
I'm willin' and able, always comin' back for more
Squeezin' out a thin dime 'til there's no one hanging on my arm
I've gambled on a third time, a fool will tell you it's a charm
If I'm bettin' on a loser, I'm gonna have a devil to pay
But it's the only game I know to play, it doesn't matter anyway
I've been daydreaming about this trip for a couple days. I got a few road snacks at Walmart. Some mints and some individual chip bags. You know, so Hick can tilt his head back and turn them up to get the last crumbs while he's barrelling along a concrete median wall at 81 mph. I stopped by one convenience store to get scratch-off tickets to send Genius in his weekly letter. I stopped by another one to get my 44 oz Diet Coke and some for me.
And...as I pulled out of that convenience store parking lot, Sawyer Brown's "The Race is On" started playing. Which has a section of lyrics that might be construed as wager-related. I've never been one to play the ponies, though.
Now the race is on
And here comes pride in the backstretch
Heartaches goin' to the inside
My tears are holdin' back
They're tryin' not to fall
My hearts out of the runnin'
True love's scratched for another's sake
The race is on and it looks like heartaches
And the winner looses all
Dang it, Universe! Can't a Val be alone with her thoughts for a while?
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
Where Do You Draw the Busybody Line?
Alas, Val is not a Good Samaritan. Val is not much of a Samaritan at all. Maybe the kind of Samaritan who avoids your gaze...crosses the street to avoid you (if she can find a little ramp thingy so she doesn't have to step down off the curb)...pretends you don't exist. Not because she's evil, mind you. But because she doesn't want to get involved. She means you no harm. She just doesn't want to go to the trouble to help you.
Yesterday, I stopped at the gas station chicken store for my 44 oz Diet Coke. As I turned into the parking lot, I saw a rickety old man staggering along the area in front of my parking space. He was on the other side of the concrete tire-stopper barrier, so he was safe from being rammed by T-Hoe's grill. Not that I would do such a thing on purpose, of course.
[Perhaps I did not share the fact that the last time I had to drive A-Cad when T-Hoe was in the shop, I pulled perhaps a skosh too far into the garage. Leaving A-Cad's bumper approximately a quarter of an inch away from the cedar chest Hick has stored there. Hey! You can still see light between them if you stand just right. I didn't want the garage door to close on A-Cad, you know. I HAD to pull up as far as possible. I can't help it that Hick has junked up that side of the garage. Who can see a cedar chest, anyway, over the hood of an Acadia? It's too low!]
Anyhoo...the old man staggered to and fro. He was bobbing and weaving like Muhammad Ali in his prime. Veering side-to-side like Hick sweaving down the turnpike to Oklahoma. His pants, perhaps Dickey's work pants at one time, hung down off his butt, showing a hint of boxer waistband, but thankfully no plumber's crack. His button front shirt was covered by a worn brown jacket, short, kind of the style of a jean jacket, which may have once been corduroy. Let the record show that it was shortly after 11:00 a.m., and the temperature was 65 degrees.
The wind had been gusting and swirling all morning, so I thought maybe this guy was having trouble keeping his balance against the gales. He looked pretty frail. I also wondered if maybe he was drunk. Or if he needed to be drunk. He was fiddling with something in one hand, but I didn't see a pint or flask. Maybe I watch too much Intervention. All this flitted through my head as I pulled into my parking place.
Guy was already to the next space, the empty one between me and a silver sedan. He continued to stagger. Against the wind, I thought. I looked down to get change for my magical elixir, and was surprised to look out again and see Guy listing sideways, clawing his way along the passenger side of that silver sedan, barely holding himself up. He got to just behind the front door, then turned around and supported himself back towards the hood. Huh. If Guy was going to play THAT game, no way was I leaving my purse sitting there on T-Hoe's passenger seat! No use giving Guy temptation. I tucked my purse behind the seat.
Well. What should I do? Should I mention inside the store that there was a guy staggering around by the parking lot, leaning on a car? Was it my business? It's not like the temperature was below zero, and Guy was laying in a parking space, waiting to freeze or be run over. What if somebody in there was related to him? I didn't want to embarrass them. Maybe he was waiting for his ride to come out. Maybe he was a regular, with an inner ear equilibrium problem.
Yeah. I didn't say a word. I bought my 44 oz Diet Coke and some scratch-off tickets (won $40!). I went back out to T-Hoe, halfway expecting Guy to be crawling all over him. Imagine my surprise when I saw that Guy was
SITTING IN THE DRIVER'S SEAT OF THE SILVER SEDAN!
Yep. I must admit that I had half a mind to go back inside and tell on him. But really. It was not my business. As I stared (Guy never noticed), he turned his body and rested his feet on the pavement, leaned over his lap, and tried to light a cigarette. He wasn't really doing anything illegal. I never saw any alcohol. Never smelled his breath. Maybe he just had bad legs, and was perfectly fine to drive. IF he was going to. None of my business. I doubt anybody from the gas station chicken store could have done anything. Guy wasn't a nuisance. Just not a good walker.
I don't know how I get myself in these situations. Why I dwell on them.
Or why I found a penny laying beside T-Hoe's driver's door when I came back out.
Yesterday, I stopped at the gas station chicken store for my 44 oz Diet Coke. As I turned into the parking lot, I saw a rickety old man staggering along the area in front of my parking space. He was on the other side of the concrete tire-stopper barrier, so he was safe from being rammed by T-Hoe's grill. Not that I would do such a thing on purpose, of course.
[Perhaps I did not share the fact that the last time I had to drive A-Cad when T-Hoe was in the shop, I pulled perhaps a skosh too far into the garage. Leaving A-Cad's bumper approximately a quarter of an inch away from the cedar chest Hick has stored there. Hey! You can still see light between them if you stand just right. I didn't want the garage door to close on A-Cad, you know. I HAD to pull up as far as possible. I can't help it that Hick has junked up that side of the garage. Who can see a cedar chest, anyway, over the hood of an Acadia? It's too low!]
Anyhoo...the old man staggered to and fro. He was bobbing and weaving like Muhammad Ali in his prime. Veering side-to-side like Hick sweaving down the turnpike to Oklahoma. His pants, perhaps Dickey's work pants at one time, hung down off his butt, showing a hint of boxer waistband, but thankfully no plumber's crack. His button front shirt was covered by a worn brown jacket, short, kind of the style of a jean jacket, which may have once been corduroy. Let the record show that it was shortly after 11:00 a.m., and the temperature was 65 degrees.
The wind had been gusting and swirling all morning, so I thought maybe this guy was having trouble keeping his balance against the gales. He looked pretty frail. I also wondered if maybe he was drunk. Or if he needed to be drunk. He was fiddling with something in one hand, but I didn't see a pint or flask. Maybe I watch too much Intervention. All this flitted through my head as I pulled into my parking place.
Guy was already to the next space, the empty one between me and a silver sedan. He continued to stagger. Against the wind, I thought. I looked down to get change for my magical elixir, and was surprised to look out again and see Guy listing sideways, clawing his way along the passenger side of that silver sedan, barely holding himself up. He got to just behind the front door, then turned around and supported himself back towards the hood. Huh. If Guy was going to play THAT game, no way was I leaving my purse sitting there on T-Hoe's passenger seat! No use giving Guy temptation. I tucked my purse behind the seat.
Well. What should I do? Should I mention inside the store that there was a guy staggering around by the parking lot, leaning on a car? Was it my business? It's not like the temperature was below zero, and Guy was laying in a parking space, waiting to freeze or be run over. What if somebody in there was related to him? I didn't want to embarrass them. Maybe he was waiting for his ride to come out. Maybe he was a regular, with an inner ear equilibrium problem.
Yeah. I didn't say a word. I bought my 44 oz Diet Coke and some scratch-off tickets (won $40!). I went back out to T-Hoe, halfway expecting Guy to be crawling all over him. Imagine my surprise when I saw that Guy was
SITTING IN THE DRIVER'S SEAT OF THE SILVER SEDAN!
Yep. I must admit that I had half a mind to go back inside and tell on him. But really. It was not my business. As I stared (Guy never noticed), he turned his body and rested his feet on the pavement, leaned over his lap, and tried to light a cigarette. He wasn't really doing anything illegal. I never saw any alcohol. Never smelled his breath. Maybe he just had bad legs, and was perfectly fine to drive. IF he was going to. None of my business. I doubt anybody from the gas station chicken store could have done anything. Guy wasn't a nuisance. Just not a good walker.
I don't know how I get myself in these situations. Why I dwell on them.
Or why I found a penny laying beside T-Hoe's driver's door when I came back out.
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