Hick Transgression Number 21,658

Okay. So here's the deal. The man who eats six-week-old bologna and expired hot dogs out of Frig II, and tells Genius there's nothing wrong with 24-hour pizza left out all night and day...got a bug up his butt about the deer chili.

On Saturday morning, I stewed up a pot of deer chili for Hick, per his request, using a pound of deer burger that his buddy, Buddy, gave him the week before. He put it in the freezer as soon as he brought it home, and I thawed it in the skillet as I browned it for the chili.

Hick was having a three-hour haircut Saturday morning when I made his chili. I put in less beans than meat, because that's how he likes it. Some diced tomatoes. The chili mix. And I added a quarter pound of bacon, because deer is very lean. I chopped an onion and sweated it. Added dashes of Worcestershire, steak sauce, Heinz 57, ketchup, mustard, minced garlic, BBQ sauce, sweet banana pepper juice...just about everything from the door of Frig II. That chili was ready at 11:00 a.m.

Shorn Hick returned. I told him his chili was ready, and he said he was going down to his creekside cabin, and he'd have a bowl a little later, for lunch. He came back as The Pony and I were leaving to do our Walmart shopping ahead of Sunday's snowstorm. I caught him rummaging around in Frig II.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for room to put that chili when I'm done."

"It will be fine until supper. I leave it on the stove all the time. There's no reason to put that giant pot in the fridge. I plan to put it in those Chinese soup containers. That's what I always do."

We left Hick to his own devices. He didn't even have to warm the chili. It was still hot. I thought everything was fine. Under control. Until I returned from our shopping trip and saw that Hick had not only put away the deer chili, but that he had used a GOOD container. Not that it's Tupperware or anything. But it BURPS! And it has a real lid. And it's part of a set. Do you know how chili stains fake Tupperware?

Thevictorian family's good fake Tupperware:

Chinese soup container like Hick was told to use:

They're not all that easy to confuse. I'm sure even Hick has no memory of bringing home hot & sour soup in a fake Tupperware container. So I asked him,

"What do you think you're doing? I told you to leave out the chili. And that I was going to put it in the Chinese soup containers. WHY DID YOU USE MY GOOD CONTAINER?"

"Val. It doesn't make any difference."

"Yes it does! Chili stains the containers. I've told you that before!"

"Val. All you have to do is set it out in the sun, and it will fade the stain."

"I told YOU that! Do you see any sun NOW?"

"No. It's starting to snow. But you can do it later. When there's sun."

"The cats always knock them off the porch!"

"It'll be fine."

"Why did you even put it away? Everything else you leave out. And you eat six-week-old bologna and expired hot dogs! Why would you put away the chili you're going to have for supper in a few hours?"

"I just thought I should."

"Why didn't you use the soup containers?"

"Well...I couldn't find the lids."

"The lids are where they've always been! For 18 years!"

I swear. That man is headed down the crooked road to using a potato brush to scrub dishes! Wait! Who are we kidding? Hick is not about to scrub a dish.

Think Genius is Heartless? I Assure You, He is Not.

My birthday was last week, and The Pony's was four days later. On my birthday itself, Genius sent a text.

"Happy Birthday! I am about to mail your card, and The Pony's. I got my Valentine's package last night."

"Thank you. I didn't know how long your package would take."

"Don't think I didn't notice that my Conversation Hearts came in a pack of five, but you took two away!"

"Or, if you look at it through your eagle-blue eyes rather than your green-with-jealousy eyes, I gave my beloved son Genius three, and my also-loved son The Pony two."

"Lol. The jerky and Dove are my favorite two."

"Furthermore, I bought the jerky for your dad, but saw it as I was packing your package, and decided you were more deserving."

"Hooray!"

Let the record show that I bought more jerky for Hick, and that The Pony did not make one comment about only having two boxes of Tart Conversation Hearts. It's not like he's going to use them to start conversations, you know.

It's not like Genius was missing out on his sugar allotment for the next six months. His package included a Russell Stover heart full of chocolates, a Dove heart full of chocolates, three boxes of Tart Conversation Hearts, a bag of Teriyaki Beef Jerky, and half a bag of assorted Baby Ruth/Butterfinger/Crunch mini candy bars.

I can't believe he accused me of holding out on the Tart Hearts!

Val's Super Nachos

I know you've been salivating since the first mention of my Super Nachos. So, being the giver that I am, I'm sharing my recipe. Not that it's complicated. A college kid could make them after a plethora of red Solo cup beverages. I've even included a pictorial.

For those of you who may be health-conscious, let the record show that the ingredients are high in sodium. Val will not be held responsible if, after eating Val's Super Nachos, one of you has your car rammed by a deer trying to get in to find the salt lick.

Here's a breakdown of the caloric information:

10 restaurant style tortilla chips - 200 calories

1/2 an 8 oz bag of shredded lettuce - 15 calories

4 tbsp queso cheese dip (warmed) - 80 calories

1 shredded boneless skinless chicken breast - 150 calories

4 tbsp Senora Verde Salsa - 20 calories

1/2 a 2.5 oz can of sliced black olives - 50 calories

So the total is 515 calories in the whole plate of Val's Super Nachos. You can share them (yeah, right, like that's going to happen around Val's house) if you want, or make a meal of them.

Yum, yum! Gotta get you some!

It's basically a big salad, really. Just a pile of lettuce and a little pretend-cheese and proteiny chicken and spicy salsa and some black olives, with 10 chips instead of croutons. You could add sour cream if you like, or sprinkle on some shredded cheddar. But Val takes her Super Nachos straight.

You may not want to consume these in the presence of judging eyes. They are quite messy to eat. You might want a dropcloth for the floor, and a haircutter's cape for your body, especially if you are voluptuous and don't want bits of your meal resting on your built-in shelf.

Val's Super Nachos. They're real, and they're spectacular! Make sure to give Val credit.

The Best-Laid Plans of a Rat Like Val Often Go Awry

Val Thevictorian is a snow-day millionaire. Or at least a snow-day fiveaire. Thursday was the fifth snow day of the year for Backroadsia High, after being sent home at 12:30 on Wednesday. That’s not part of the total, because IT COUNTED! That one won’t have to be made up.

The Pony and I expected to go to school Friday. I had made a trip to town at noon Thursday, and the roads were completely clear, as well as most fields and yards and parking lots. The lying clowns TV meteorologists mentioned some snow showers moving through late Thursday night, but we were in the clear section of their simulated clipper. So we planned a normal day.

At 12:30, as I went to bed, I noticed that the front yard was white. I opened the door. We had an inch or more of fresh snow on the ground! And more was pouring down as I patted my sweet, sweet Juno, who was standing vigil on the front porch. Well. That was more snow than we had the day they sent us home early, and kept us home the next day, too. With a light heart I went to bed. Looked like another snow day for Val!

Hick got up around 2:00 a.m. and looked outside. “Have you seen the yard?”

“Yes. Looks like we won’t be going again.”

“Yeah. That’s more than we had last time.”

Hick was no doubt considering calling in sick to stay home and keep us company. I made a mental note-to-self to put the kibosh on that plan once we were both up. Retirement hasn’t started yet, you know.

At my regular get-up time, I got up and went in the bathroom. As I came out, Hick asked through his breather, “Are you going?”

“How would I know? How am I going to find out sitting on the toilet?” That man is ridiculous sometimes.

I went to the kitchen and checked my phone. No message yet. But it WAS only 4:50 a.m. The earliest I’ve gotten the message is 5:11. So I decided not to waste time packing lunches, but to go straight to the shower, so I would be up and ready to start my day off. Do some writing. Work on taxes. Try to get into Genius’s FAFSA to update it before March 1. I told Hick, “The house phone will ring when they send out the call. You don’t have to get up and answer. It’s a recording.”

When I got out of the shower, I still had no message. I figured the school administrators must have been caught off guard as well, and must be out driving the roads before making the decision to call off school. Also, they sometimes seem to play chicken, waiting to see who will call off first. I grabbed the house phone to settle down in the La-Z-Boy. No need for the automated call to wake The Pony.

The lying clowns TV meteorologists did not seem in a hurry to mention school closings. There was no scroll across the bottom of the screen. Still, it was not yet 5:30. Way early. I watched some news. At 5:33, one of the anchors mentioned that Kent would be on with the forecast and the school closings. HUH? I had just hit the remote to change channels. But I went back. Kent did not mention anything about school closings. We don’t report on that channel anyway. No need to worry.

I switched to our channel. Nothing. On to another main station. WHAT? Their clown meteorologist named off three schools that were closed. A small one near Backroadsia High, and two in our conference closer to the homestead. Not even a bottom scroll! What’s up with that? It was already 5:45. Getting a little late to be calling off. But we’d had the call before at 6:45, after I had already left for school…

Great. I couldn’t take a chance. The Pony needed to get up at 6:00. And I still had lunches to make!

Let the record show that we had school on Friday. And that the roads were TERRIBLE on my way there.

The Tomb of the Well-Known Hair Lengthener

Blog buddy Sioux is hosting Back-of-the-Book Blurb Friday. I have 150 words to entice you to buy my fake book. You WILL fakely buy my fake book! If you know what's good for you...and I ain't fakin'!

You realize, of course, that 150 words is like torture to Val. She might as well try typing with nine fingers tied behind her back. In addition, Val is a stranger to fiction. After all, her life is stranger than fiction. So please take the following effort with a grain of sand...

The Tomb of the Well-Known Hair Lengthener

Sal Thethicktorian is hot on the trail of a killer. A killer whose recent actions embody the feelings Sal chokes down in the form of gas station chicken and 44 oz. Diet Cokes.

The latest body, discovered at the beach, encased in a human sand castle, was Sal's very own hairdresser. Though the victim herself had a pixie cut, the killer went to great lengths to give the burial mound a flowing waterfall of tresses. A tribute, perhaps, to her uncanny and unappreciated ability to make the client's hair LONGER after the cut.

Sal must decipher clues from the tomb to protect the next target. Bearded lady with the traveling circus? Jewelry designer of large-scale bling? Elderly proprietor of the Tick Tock Shop? Owner of the All Christmas All the Time Shadow Box Store? Local locksmith? And what about that missing pinky finger?

Can Sal solve the case in time?

Hick Skates on Thin Ice

Heh, heh! Not so fast! You're not out of Val's unfortunate cheese-cutting week just yet!

Thursday we were off again for another snow day, after being sent home early Wednesday. Let the record show that the roads were bad when The Pony and I came home Wednesday afternoon. When I pulled into the garage, I asked him to get the long arm of the ice scraper/brush favored by large SUV drivers in cold climes, and use it not to clear off the icy slush from around T-Hoe's windshield wipers, but to instead sweep the icy slush off my running board. That thing is treacherous in the winter. Slush blows up on there as I drive, and then freezes when I park. It's like you have to be Dorothy Hamill or Tonya Harding to get up in there the next day. But not Nancy Kerrigan, because a bum leg and that incessant whining will hinder your climb.

The roads were clear Wednesday night, according to The Pony. He said the lettered county highway and the numbered highway were completely clear. He and Hick made a trip to town to get something for my birthday. Uh huh. Ol' Val has made it another year! It wasn't so much what Hick and The Pony brought me as what they LEFT for me.

Imagine our surprise later Wednesday evening when I got the snow-day text! What a way to go out in a blaze of surprise days off and a lengthened school year!

Thursday morning dawned cold and bright. By 10:00 a.m., the sun had melted the snow from the yard. I decided to make a trip to town. Which is when I found out that Hick is the gift that keeps on giving.

Tra-la-la...Val nearly skipped to the garage, an unexpected day off ahead of her, footloose and fancy free. As I stepped my foot onto T-Hoe's running board, it slipped right back off! A couple inches of slush were clinging there, preventing my ascent. I scraped and scraped with my shoe sole. The long scraper/brush was in T-Hoe's rear, and a puddle of ice was waiting for my not-Hamill, not-Harding, not-even-Kerrigan feet to set foot on it. No sirree, Bob! Val was not falling for that one.

Once the running board was sufficiently tractioned, I stepped up and, with my usual into-the-seat motion, attempted to deposit my ample buttocks onto the cold, cold leather of T-Hoe's driver's seat.

AAGH!

My back was wrenched tighter than the Operation! guy's ankle! The seat was at the maximum forward position. Twiggy herself could not have squoze in there in a single motion. Hick had left the driver's seat on his setting. He gets in on my setting, and hits his, which pulls that seat forward until he can drive it with his belly. I'm surprise he doesn't wear a hole in his shirt when he makes a turn.

Out I went. Back down to the cold concrete floor of the garage. I pushed the "1" setting on the door control, and the seat went back to my position.

It really shouldn't be so hard to make a trip to town on your second-and-a-half snow day of the week.

Don't think you're getting out of here without a report on Friday's misfortune...

ACK! Woe Began.

Woe was Val on Wednesday. Her cheese-cutting-faux-pas ways followed her to midweek.

Off to school we went Wednesday morning. The Pony was having practice for his academic team after school, then meeting with a teacher-sponsored group from 5:30 to 8:00 to discuss a new venture involving scientific inventions. Or so we thought.

During lunch at 10:53, I found out that school was dismissing at 12:30 due to impending snow. Unfortunately, the pupil body was also informed at that time, which stirred them up like yellowjackets in a nest mowed over by Hick Thevictorian. Lucky for Val, she had plan time next, so she was not responsible for calming the freshly-caffeinated hordes until ten minutes before dismissal. The snow arrived at 11:35 and had coated the roads by the time The Pony and I started home. Well...home by way of two banks.

As Even Steven would have it, no fewer than five buses pulled out in front of us at various points of our journey. It is only five miles, people, from school to that bank. Note to little kids riding buses: "When the bus stops, you should stand up and walk forward and climb down the steps." Uh huh. Because we spent an inordinate amount of time stationary behind stopped buses with no sign of activity. I could have hummed that Jeopardy song five times over before any urchins emerged. Those five miles took us 25 minutes!

Just as I parked T-Hoe on the bank lot, two other vehicles entered. "Oh, no, Pony! They're going to beat me to the tellers! And they probably have some lengthy business to conduct. We'll never get home!"

I grabbed my account folder and my purse, and rushed inside. Rushed as fast as Val on sore knees on slippery snow in a concrete parking lot can rush up a little untreated concrete ramp with no rail at the back entrance of the bank. Darn that SUV that parked right beside the door after backing into a handicap spot! An old lady darted inside just ahead of me. Had I been a bit more agile, and she less spry, I might have grabbed the belt of her coat and held her back. But alas, Val was unable to belt the old handicapped lady.

Ack! Woe began at 12:55. Three tellers were working. Let's rephrase that. Three tellers were at their stations. One was working. The one closest to the door greeted me and said the others would be with me in a minute. I stood in front of the middle one. The old handicapped lady (without even a cane to show her handicappedness) was detailing a time-consuming problem to the teller on the other end. DoorTeller asked me if I was just dropping something off.

"No. I'm here to close an account and withdraw the money." Which probably should have been said in the opposite order, but Val is no banker.


More time elapsed. MidTeller was computing and papershuffling. DoorTeller asked if I was also opening an account. She intimated that HORROR OF HORRORS THE AccOpe FROM ONE YEAR AGO might be able to help me, and gestured toward her desk.

"No, I'm only closing. Not opening."

After 10 minutes, MidTeller said she could help me now. I explained my situation, and handed her the account-opening form with our account number on top. MidTeller looked to DoorTeller. Who promptly put on her coat and said she'd be back later. MidTeller started talking to herself softly. I explained that Nikki from the main branch has said that everything they needed was in the computer file.

WHAT'S THIS THEN?

AccOpe came sidling from her desk across the lobby and scooted into MidTeller's booth from behind and WHISPERED (too loudly) "I told her yesterday that she would have to contact Nikki, because Nikki is the one that's handling it." AccOpe looked over at me through the money-shoving gap and said, accusatorily, "Did you call Nikki?"

Val was having none of that! She pulled the note card out of her folder, the note card upon which she had taken notes when talking to Nikki.

"Yes. And here's what Nikki said: 'I am so sorry you had to make an extra phone call. I put a letter in the file that says the account is unrestricted as of February 4th, per an email from NAME REDACTED at Local Land and Title Company. Anybody would have been able to see it. Either you or your sister, Sis, should be able to close the account and take out the money, since you are both owners of the account. You can do that at any of our branches.' If I had my phone in here, I would call Nikki and hand the phone to you."

AccOpe looked suitably embarrassed at the apology from Nikki about her mishandling of the initial phone call. Then she looked bent on revenge. She leaned over MidTeller and pointed at the screen. Whispered some more. Not loud enough. But MidTeller had a good set of lungs. "It says UNrestricted!" Heh, heh. AccOpe slunk off with her tail between her legs, with a look like "Nevermind" on her face.

By now it was 1:15. The snow continued to pour down outside, and Val with many a mile to go before she napped. MidTeller said, "I need to go get approval from my supervisor." The not-heaven you say! I was trying to close an account and get my money back, not make a deal on a new car.

MidTeller came back five minutes later, with a song and dance about how her supervisor was gone for now. Gone for the rest of the day, in fact. How conveeeeeenient! A line had started to form, the old handicapped lady having given way to a middle-aged man getting money to buy his sister a car, and two very-far-Backroadsians smelling of smoke chewing the fat behind me. I was not sure what my response would be.

So I kind of mumbled, "I don't know what I can do about THAT."

MidTeller stared at her computer screen awhile. Typed up some stuff. Stared some more. Typed some more. I didn't think we were getting anywhere. I told her, "I can go get my phone and call Nikki." I kind of liked drawing her like a gun, like Kim Darby as Mattie Ross of near Dardanelle in Yell County drew the name of her lawyer, J. Noble Daggett, when talking to Strother Martin as Colonel Stonehill the horse trader in the original True Grit.

"I can call Nikki if I need to," said MidTeller, making no move to call Nikki. "Normally people have a letter from the title company. I need to follow my protocol to close the account." Even though the necessary information was in the account file. After some more fiddling, she went to interrupt the car-buying brother's teller. "I might need you to get some money out of the safe." MIGHT?

More fiddling. More typing. Finally Mid-Teller pushed a paper at me. I wasn't sure what was going on, because it looked like a check, but I had told her initially that I wanted cash, because I was dividing it with my sister. Eventually she told me to sign it. Then when I asked if my own bank was going to put a hold on it, like they do with even a cashier's check, which I think is probably against banking regulations, MidTeller said I could cash it right there. Well, why didn't she say so!

I finally got my money, with MidTeller counting it five times, then counting it LOUDLY to me, thus announcing to the smoky woodsmen who had taken car-buying brother's place, and the self-important cell phone man behind me calling about his kids getting out of school early to an ex-wife or new wife (probably the latter, because he said 'I love you' at the end) that Val was going to be loaded walking out that door. After 30 minutes standing in line being insulted trying to get her money back from the hostage-holding bank.

You know what? Sis and I made 33 cents on that account. SOMEbody's gonna get an extra penny...