How Much Is That Doily in the Washer?

Hick has a new item at his Storage Unit Store. Not so much a NEW item, as a DIFFERENT item. That is in fact pretty old. Uh huh. Hick does not live by gun sales alone. He has branched out into...are you ready for this...hold onto your (hopefully not-smelly hat)...

DOILIES!

That's what Hick calls them, anyway, although I don't consider some of them to be actual doilies. A few look more like embroidered handkerchiefs. Or table runners.

Anyhoo...Hick has been sorting through his original hoard of the 18 storage units he bought, and found some doilies. They were not in sellable condition, so Hick brought them to the house to put in MY washing machine, using MY Tide, and OUR well water and OUR electricity. I really think I need to write up a pro-rated bill for his business expenses.

Oh, yeah. Hick also used MY dryer. I know. I was shocked, too. When I yelled upstairs to him, "You didn't put those doilies in the dryer, did you?" Hick affirmed that he had already done so. HE says they came out just fine. I would not have recommended it. In my mind, doilies are lacy and fragile and need at least to be hung to dry, if not hand-washed.

I might run a load of plain, detergented water through my washer before putting my clothes in there. We left home at 9:30 that morning, and Hick had put his doilies in the washer to simmer. When we returned at 4:00, he said, "The water's all brown! I'm going to run them through another load!"

Hick has a customer who LOVES doilies. He's going to sell her a box of them for $20. She'll be getting a bargain, and Hick only has $5 in that batch.

We were away on a surprise casino trip while Hick was doily-laundering. Of course we had to stop by Goodwill, where Hick bought a big bag of DOILIES! He said they were in good hygienic shape, and did not need to be washed before he could make money off them. Let the record show that Hick left the car running for me, with the radio on.

I'd Say She Deserves to be Called a Rockcar

Tuesday was a bright, beautiful (though hot at 91) almost-fall day to drive to town for a Dairy Queen lunch.

Oh, I didn't have a Dairy Queen lunch. I was merely passing by on my way to the pharmacy. When I spied another lady who was probably going to regret driving to Dairy Queen for lunch.

Dairy Queen used to have a problem with people running over their blacktop curb entering the parking lot. You'd think they solved the problem by putting those big rocks at the corners, so people could see where the drive started.

Apparently not.

I feel bad for taking this picture. Let the record show that the driver was NOT standing there when I lifted my phone, but by the time it snapped the photo, she had walked around the back of her car. To her credit, she did NOT give me the stinkeye.

I don't even want to laugh at this scenario. Maybe if she was a know-it-all Millennial, driving distracted by her cell phone. I have a feeling this is somebody's grandma, retired, maybe picking up lunch for herself and her husband, cutting the corner a little too sharply while keeping an eye on those people coming out of the Hardee's drive-thru. Or maybe an out-of-towner, who got caught up in the right-turn-only lane, planning to make a big square through Dairy Queen's lot to get back on the main road.

As I left, a flatbed tow truck was there, lights flashing, with the Tow Driver walking around the car, looking at it. I don't know HOW he expected to get that car on his tilting flatbed, without scraping the bejeebers out of its undercarriage. Hick said he should have brought the regular tow truck, with a hook, and he could have hoisted up the back end and set it down off the rock. Maybe blog buddy Kathy will know, since her HeWho has tow truck experience.

Maybe this will help you understand why I am so paranoid about other Backroadsians on the roadways with me. I only made two stops, and after this one, I was almost sideswiped by a mid-size gray junker at the Orb K entrance. Seems that some people don't understand that a center turn lane is for making LEFT turns, not RIGHT turns across the regular lane filled with flowing traffic.
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YIKES! Upon zooming in...I think maybe she IS giving me the stinkeye!
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Uninvited Quests

Hick and I are pretty set in our ways. We do our own thing all day, and unofficially check in at night, before supper. Monday evening, I was on the phone with Genius in my dark basement lair when I heard Hick stumping around over my head, as if on ankle bones instead of feet. Nothing new. That's how he walks.

When I ascended from my lair, Hick was suspiciously absent. I set out the leftover chicken pot pie, not wanting to warm it until I knew when to expect him. Just before 7:00, Hick showed up in his orange and white floral print swim trunks. That's odd, because he swims in his blue SpongeBob boxers. Hick said he'd been scrubbing Poolio, with HOS (Hick's Oldest Son) manning the filter thingy and dumping the basket from outside. Funny how now that Poolio is being closed for the winter, Hick decides to clean him up. Anyhoo...that explained the regular swim trunks. Allaying my suspicions that Hick had been entertaining a rural harem (perhaps composed of night-wandering New York heart-broken gals).

I said I was going to warm up supper, and Hick went to take a shower, as he always does after a dip in Poolio. Which seems kind of redundant to me. He came back to the living room a few minutes later, set for the evening, in only his tighty-whities, and reclined in the La-Z-Boy, waiting to be called for supper.

A couple minutes later, I heard a knocking at the front door. Huh. That is very unusual. Nobody belongs up in our labyrinth of gravel roads. We weren't expecting anyone. Hick said, "I don't know if somebody knocked, or if it was one of the dogs wagging their tail."

"Oh, it was a knock." I figured it was probably HOS, back on the 4-wheeler, having forgotten to tell Hick something. I continued dipping out chicken pot pie into bowls for microwaving, separating the top crust to warm in the oven. I assumed that Hick would answer the door, thinking nothing of his tighty-whities, since I'm so used to him running around like that, a scantily-clad king in his castle.

Well, run he did! Hick popped out of the La-Z-Boy and trotted around the short couch and into the bedroom. "Gotta get my pants!" Heh, heh. Never mind that by now, it was 7:30, dusk had fallen, and the inside of the living room was lit up like a department store window, for the viewing pleasure of whoever was at the front door, with its two window panels on each side.

It was some lady on a quest for her lost dog. I heard her voice. Asking Hick if he'd seen a dog. Next thing I know, with chicken pot pie bubbling in the microwave and crust hopefully crisping in the oven, Hick came back inside and said he was driving the Gator down to the creekside cabin, to look for this lady's dog. She had just moved in across the creek from us on Saturday, and she and her husband accidentally backed over their dog's foot. It ran off, and being new here, she was afraid it couldn't find its way home.

Let the record show that our dogs have been barking their fool heads off every night, so they might know something of its whereabouts. Or maybe it came up on the porch to eat their dog food. Anyhoo...Hick didn't find her dog, but we'll keep an eye out for it. Hick said it's black and white, and looks like a collie. So I imagine it's some version of a border collie.

I feel bad for that dog. And maybe a little bit bad for Hick. When he came back in the house, he rang the doorbell. "It works. I don't know why people always knock."

Indeed. I don't know a lot of things. Like why Hick sits around in his tighty-whities.

Val Is a Crazist

On Sunday afternoon, I went to the main post office. No, I was NOT looking for a can of sardines in tomato sauce that some kind soul might have left out for me. Uh uh. I was dropping off my DISH bill, because I pay it by check through the mail, and for some reason it takes about 10 days to show up as being credited to my account. Can't have Val getting her innernets cut off!

Anyhoo...I could have dropped it in the drive-thru mailbox in Backroads, but I don't really trust the dead-mouse-smelling post office as much as the main branch. Besides, that would cost me a day in the delivery race, because the deadline at the main branch is 11:30, where they load it all on trucks for transport to the regional center. You may recall that Val is not an early riser, so I wanted to make sure it went out Monday.

The pick up time is 11:00 at the dead-mouse-smelling post office, which I think means it gets hauled around with mail pickups throughout the county, to be sent off the following day from the main post office. It's not like they send a truck over there to get mail from that specific box, and rush it to the main post office to go out by 11:30.

I prefer to take my mail inside the lobby and drop it through the slot in the wall. There are two drive-thru mailboxes at the main post office, but I have to drive on the wrong side of the street to reach them, not having a passenger to do my bidding.

There are 10-15 parking spaces at the main post office. Here, I'll re-run the long shot of my sardine can find, just so you can picture it.

On a Sunday afternoon, that place is deserted. I guess nobody else has trouble with their DISH bill, or checks their post office box on a Sunday afternoon. Anyhoo...I pulled in, thinking, YEAH, nobody is going to park next to me and keep T-Hoe's door from opening all the way! I had my choice of every single parking space, but I took the one closest to the door.

As I opened T-Hoe's door to step out, I saw a person crest the hill by the railroad tracks and the fire house, and start down a zig-zag dirt path. You can actually see the path in that picture, past the flagpole. He was at least 50 yards away, wearing a white baseball cap, a light-colored polo shirt, light shorts with pockets, and white tennis shoes. Though I don't think he was coming to or from tennis, because there are no courts around there. He was neither old nor young.

You know Val, always suspicious of anybody entering her surroundings. I was a bit wary of going in, with nobody else around, and This Guy headed in my direction. As I've mentioned, I've seen unvehicled people cutting through this parking area often, without utilizing the post office itself. So I was already putting myself on hyper-alert as I slid past T-Hoe's running board to the pavement.

"HI!"

Well, now. I suppose it behooved me to return a greeting. No one else was around. This Guy was obviously talking to me.

"HI!"

Normally, I would not engage, but my Weirdo Magnet has been less powerful lately, and I was caught off guard. Besides, it's not like I was inviting This Guy to high tea. I merely returned his greeting.

"Are you in nursing?"

WHAT IN THE NOT HEAVEN? What kind of crazy-talk was THAT? What was it even supposed to mean? Was he injured, and looking for medical attention? Do I look like a nurse? It's not like I was wearing scrubs, or a retro white uniform dress and white tights and crepe-soled white shoes and a cardboard hat pinned to my lovely lady-mullet. People stop me often in stores because they think I work there, but nobody has ever asked if I'm a nurse. Surely he was not inquiring as to whether I made a living or hobby of suckling infants! That would be just creepy. And now, I had GREETED him, and he was heading this way! Looks like my Weirdo Magnet had found a power source.

"No!"

I shook my head as I went inside. How do I get myself into these predicaments? Surely there was a camera somewhere in that lobby, or outside. For later evidence, should anything inopportune befall me. I did not rush right back out the door. I knew that at the rate This Guy had been walking, he would be just about to T-Hoe. I went down along the wall of post office boxes, looking at the assorted sizes. Noted that they had two recycle bins sitting there, but no wastebasket that could take a sardine tin off one's hands. When I figured that This Guy would be past the post office, or leaning up against T-Hoe waiting on me...I went back to the glass doors and out.

He was gone! Whew!

But here's the thing. When I had gotten out with my bill, I almost didn't lock T-Hoe's door as I went inside. I knew This Guy would hear it click, and I didn't want to seem rude. I talked to him when normally I would not. All because...he was a different race than I. You know how things are these days. I almost did not follow my self-professed safety rules of being an old lady in an isolated area with a stranger. All because I did not want to be perceived as racist.

Val IS a CRAZIST, though. So don't go asking her about nursing, out of the blue, when you don't know her, and nobody else is around. She just might ignore you.

Less Traceable Than a Melted Icicle

If looks could kill, Hick would be feasting on casseroles right now.

This morning (Saturday) I stopped by Save A Lot for sour cream and ice cream. Not to be combined in the same recipe. As the checker handed me the receipt, I noticed that the bagging counter was full. It runs the length of the front window, empty boxes underneath for your self-filling pleasure, and five metal stands holding plastic bags spaced equidistantly along the top.

Being a Saturday morning (or at least before 1:00 p.m.), there were a lot of customers shopping and self-bagging. All bag stands were occupied. I didn't want a box, because I would be stashing my cold items in the soft-side cooler I keep in T-Hoe's rear, and lifting them out again to carry into the house. OH! Lucky me! I saw a lady who appeared to be done. She was talking on her phone, five or six bags already in the bottom of her cart, and what looked like a 10-lb bag of potatoes. Nobody puts a 10-lb bag of potatoes in another bag.

Since this lady was done, I pushed my cart over to use that bagging stand. Phoney didn't get out of the way, though. She kept standing there at the end of her cart. I could still reach the bags. I only needed two. One for the individual ice creams, and one for the two tubs of sour cream. It only took about 30 seconds. I could hear Phoney saying that she had just checked out, but what else did she need to go back for.

Then Phoney hung up, and turned to me as I was snatching my final bag off the rack.

IF LOOKS COULD KILL, I WOULD HAVE EXPIRED INSTANTANEOUSLY!

Phoney shot me the most lethal stink-eye I have ever observed. And that's after a 28-year career in teaching!

Then Phoney put a couple of items in a bag. I have no idea what they were. I pushed my empty cart back to the cart area, and left out the other door, rather than backtracking past Phoney to the end where T-Hoe was parked nearest.

I guess I was supposed to stand in the way of other customers entering and exiting the store, while waiting for Phoney to complete her phone call and resume bagging, even though I didn't notice anything left to bag. I thought she was done. She was NOT actively bagging when I moved in to use two bags. She was standing there talking on the phone. Not even touching her groceries.

Was I wrong? Did I deserve getting whacked by her peepers?

Hick Needs Curb Feelers

Just like you can't teach an old dog new tricks...it's hard to get vintage Hick on the right path. He's always running into things. There was that suitcase (left sitting by the end table for a couple months) that he inexplicably fell over one night. I can verify that if a Hick falls in a living room and no one is there...he still makes a tremendous noise.

I understand that Hick is blind in his left eye. And that his belly eclipses his feet. But that's no excuse for running into things that have been in the same place for 25 years.

A few nights ago, I had just settled down in my dark basement lair, a bowl of chili at my left elbow, and an ice cream sandwich in my right hand. Mmm...ice cream. Save A Lot has been out of my individual ice cream cups, so I had to take a lesser treat, and get Neapolitan Ice Cream Sandwiches. That's the kind with a strawberry end, a chocolate end, and vanilla in-between. As I recall, I'd just finished the chocolate end when up in the kitchen there came such a clatter that I PUT DOWN MY ICE CREAM!

Seriously. I was afraid Hick was hurt. I shoved my bifocals on top of my head, took the baggie of ice off my knee, and rushed to the bottom of the basement steps at my fastest speed. I didn't look down, lest I see a snail passing me up.

"ARE YOU OKAY!"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"What was that noise?"

"Oh, I hit the scale again when I walked in the kitchen."

From the sound of it, he punted that scale through the uprights from 63 yards out. The scale (and various incarnations of it) has sat beside FRIG II, and formerly the original FRIG, since we moved in. The scale is not in the way. There's a lip of the wall that sticks out about six inches. The living room carpet switches to linoleum. I can't imagine how Hick would walk so close to FRIG II to hit that scale.

I guess this must have happened a time or two when I wasn't home, or I would have recognized the sound. Maybe Hick needs a set of curb feelers for Christmas.

Some Days, Val Shows a Lack of Common CENTS

MONDAY, September 10th, I spent the morning making chili. I wrote out a check for some dues The Pony paid to a chemistry organization out of his casino winnings. With our phone reception almost barless at home, I figured I'd do the mobile deposit in town with a better signal.

Once the chili was done, I put it in containers, thinking about how much my mom liked my chili, and how I used to set aside a container for her. My first stop in town was Save A Lot, for saltine crackers to go with the chili. I get them at Save A Lot, because that's where Mom got hers, due to a young Niecy declaring they were the BEST, with just the right amount of salt.

The mobile deposit of my check into The Pony's account didn't work on the Save A Lot parking lot. I suppose it was because the front and back pictures of the check were taken on T-Hoe's console, in the bright sun. So I set that check aside to do my cracker-shopping, planning to try again at Country Mart, where I went for the sole purpose of visiting their scratcher-dispensing machine.

The sky was cloudy by the time I parked at Country Mart. The check was mobilely deposited without incident. I climbed out of T-Hoe to go inside, and before I even hit the sidewalk, I saw it:

In case you can't spy my 2004 face down Abe Lincoln, he's in line with the corner of the building, next to that little grease spot beside the big grease spot.

I took my pictures and started towards the door, but quicker than you could say The Pony Thevictorian, I found ANOTHER penny.

Right there in line with the corner, in the middle of the photo. This time, Ol' Abe was looking up at me in all his 2001 glory. Which wasn't very glorious. Little did I know that both pennies were visible in the first picture, if you zoom in enough.

Looks like the shoppers at Country Mart need to have their cars checked for leaking oil.

The week progressed without any more penny-sightings. On THURSDAY, September 13th, I had some business in town, and took the boys' letters to mail one day early. I stopped by Waterside Mart to get some scratchers for Genius's letter. My favorite parking places were taken. I've been know to drive on by when that happens. But this was on a direct route to the post office, and I needed those tickets for Genius.

You know how it is when you disrupt your routine. Everything seems foreign. You don't do things by rote without thinking. I parked T-Hoe in front of Waterside Mart's door. Something seemed amiss when I got out, but I chalked it up to my break in the routine. I even hesitated at the glass door, thinking it might open by itself like Walmart doors. THAT'S how much I was discombobulated.

Once inside, I requested my tickets, and THEN realized what was missing. I'd left my phone in T-Hoe. And right there on the floor to the right of the register was a penny! As if that wasn't bad enough, I glanced left, and saw ANOTHER penny over there! With no phone for a pic to show it happened! I picked up those pennies anyway.

This is the best I can do. After-the-fact evidence. Both face down. The dull penny from the right of the register, a 1991, and the shiny penny from the left of the register, a 2001.

HOLD THE PRESSES!

Of course The Universe had to mess with me again. A scant hour and 15 minutes before this edition of the Saturday CENTSus was scheduled to publish...I opened T-Hoe's door at the Backroads Casey's, and found this:

Good luck seeing it! I know where it is, and even I don't see it in this picture, until I zoom way in. I'll give you a clue: it's a dime, not a penny. So it blends in with the pavement. Here's a better clue: it's between the top edge of T-Hoe's door shadow, and that petrified strip of stretched-out gum, which I think probably happened at the heel of my own shoe over a month ago.

It was face down, and upon looking for the date (2000) I noticed that FDR's face was all skinned up. Don't tell me you knew that Franklin Delano Roosevelt was the President on the dime. When I consulted my estranged BFF Google, as soon as I typed in "whose head," the auto-fill suggestions popped up "is on the dime." So there. Apparently there are a lot of people just as dumb as me.

Whew! I just beat the deadline! Got home and completed this by 2:17. And no, resetting the automatic publish time is NOT as much fun as trying to beat the deadline.
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For 2018: Penny  # 90, 91, 92, 93.
For 2018: Dime  # 14.
For 2018: Nickels still at # 4.

Since 2017 (the beginning), this was Penny # 168, 169, 170, 171.
Since 2017 (the beginning), this is Dime # 20.
Since 2017 (the beginning), this is still Nickel # 4.
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