Please Cease Tossing Your Cookies on Val's Kitchen Floor

I'm sure this will come as a shock to you, but there are times when Hick is persona non grata around the homestead. Like Sunday, when he came in not 30 seconds after I had let the dishwater out (because shockingly, I do not have a dishwasher, in case I forgot to mention that over the past 1500 posts). Yes, the dishwater foam was not even done making those quiet snap-crackle-pop noises as the detergent suds succumbed to a lack of water, and air pressure pushing down on them.

It was already 2:30. I was sick as a dog with some virus given to me by the Casey's cashier who coughed into her hand before giving me my change. And in came Hick to make his own lunch, acting like he hadn't eaten a full grand slam hog heaven whatever they wanna call it big breakfast at Hardee's without telling me. And like he wasn't going to feast for supper on the delicious pot of chili I had been brewing for 80 minutes. No. He had to have lunch that very moment, leaving the plastic container that had held his remaining BBQ Lit'l Smokies beside the sink. For washing.

That Hick is a true gourmet. He had been hoarding those six Lit'l leftover Smokies for this very moment, I think. He put them on a hot dog bun (I know, I've never seen anybody eat BBQ Lit'l Smokies that way, either) and slapped that on a paper plate, and grabbed an individual snack bag of Sun Chips. I don't know the flavor. I didn't notice the color of the bag as he sat on the long couch and tilted his head back to pour them into his gaping maw. That's because I was so distracted by the OPEN-MOUTHED CHEWING of crunchy Sun Chips that I couldn't concentrate. Michael Caine as beauty pageant coach to Sandra Bullock's Gracie Lou Freebush could not have been more distracted, watching her roll that half-masticated cow around in her wide-open trap, in Miss Congeniality.

But that's not the prime infraction of household rules committed by Hick on Sunday. He is always tracking in BARn/yard dirt. He tries to blame me, but I rarely get out, and when I do, it's on the porch or brick sidewalk (let's not get me started on THAT again) or the gravel driveway. AND I take my shoes off the minute I come in the house. Not for cleanliness. For comfort. The Pony did the same, and Hick tried to blame him, too, when he was a live-in scapegoat.

Let the record show that Val had NOT just swept the kitchen floor. That was last weekend. She's been sick all week, remember? So sweeping was low on her priority list, not near the top, like BREATHING.

Usually, Hick tracks in cedar shavings (that Juno digs out of her house) from the porch that stick to his soily boot soles. Or soil from the yard or chicken/goat/mini pony pen. Or tiny bits of gravel that fall mostly on the tile floor of the laundry room so I can step on them in my bare feet. On Sunday, I did not know what Hick had tracked in until he was already gone. I went to the kitchen to gather my purse to go to town for my 44 oz Diet Coke, and found THIS:

It was over by the counter, where Hick had gotten his hot dog bun from the cabinet for his Lit'l Smokies . At first I didn't know what it was. "What's this? Did Hick buy himself some cookies and not tell me? Since he's not supposed to have stuff like that? Is he hiding snacks, like a certain someone tries to do in New Jersey? What IS that? Is it a chocolate shortbread cookie? No way! I know that stores don't sell snacks to men. That's why they have to snoop around and eat what the women buy for themselves." I have quite long conversations with myself, now that I have very little human interaction during the day.

I picked up that object. No help. It was light. But sturdy. Smooth on the top. Rougher on the bottom. There was a little border around the edge, and the top was rounded. I sniffed. Were you ever given some of those Harry Potter jelly beans by your niece, who said, "Here, Aunt Val. Try one of these brown ones. They're chocolate!" And come to find out upon ingestion that they were actually DIRT flavor? That's the smell I got from this Hick cookie. I suppose it molded itself to the pattern of his boot (thank goodness not a style favored by Thomas Jefferson) and then dropped out when Hick tiptoed to reach the Lit'l Smokies buns. (That's just so wrong.) I swear that I did not try to hide the buns from Hick. He's just short.

Of course when I mentioned the whole incident to Hick, he denied leaving mud. Since I had thrown the evidence away after taking a picture (2), I didn't have proof. I may pick up a mud clod from the kitchen floor and sniff it, but I won't dig through the kitchen wastebasket.

Here's what I should have done. And believe me, the though crossed my mind right after the picture:

You know Hick would have chowed down on that morsel like it was a towering bowl of soup. Especially if he thought it was mine.

Next Thing You Know, I'll Catch Him Wearing White

Somebody needs to tell Puppy Jack that swimming season is over. That the pools close after Labor Day, because the weather gets colder. Like 45 degrees last night, and a high of 70 if you're lucky.

This afternoon, Hick sent me a picture of my precious Puppy Jack. He appears to be dog-paddling.

My Sweet, Sweet Juno, long of leg, is merely wading. Maybe she's playing lifeguard for little Jacky. As usual, he takes the lead.

And as keeping with Hick's photographic style, there's a lot of scenery, and the tiny subject in the center of of the picture. This was down by Hick's creekside cabin. The dogs love a field trip with Hick and his Gator. I don't think they go down here much alone. When he fires up the Gator, though, they run hopefully in that direction.

Neither dog will ride with Hick. Perhaps they've heard that he's a master sweaver. Juno lays on the floor of the passenger side when the Gator is parked, but jumps out when Hick starts it up. He says Jack is always getting in the glove box, which is as absurd as Jack climbing up on the trunk of Hick's Toronado and taking a crap. Thomas Jefferson would be more likely to do that, and we know that he prefers a boot! When called on it, Hick said that Jack stands on his hind legs and noses around in the glove box. Uh huh. Hick tries to stretch the truth farther than Jack's dachshund ancestry stretched his body.

By next summer, I think Hick needs to put a gate at the top of the steps to Poolio. Jack likes swimming too much, and I don't think he could climb out if he jumped in.

A Pony Cannot Change His Colors

The Pony sent me a text out of the blue today at 3:06 p.m.

"So when I was out driving today I almost got in a wreck. A car in the lane next to me, a few lengths ahead, bumped into the curb and blew out a tire. It fishtailed and stopped, but stayed in its lane or I wouldn't have been able to stop in time to not hit it. I'm fine, though. So is the Rogue."

"That's scary! A few seconds or inches either way, and you could have wrecked. Glad you're okay. The young have quick reflexes. The old have big cars!"

"Nobody hit them I think, pretty sure everyone managed to merge on time to avoid them."

"You have AAA and insurance. The car is not a problem, as long as you are safe. So don't let it worry you if you get in a fender bender."

"I want a clean record!"

"Where were you?"

"I was driving to get gas."

"At least it wasn't on the highway. Like I said, the car is no big deal. We pay a fortune to insure the car. But you are irreplaceable! What are you doing today? And what did you do last night?"

"Last night I hung out with a friend of mine. We were on her floor and [REDACTED]. Today homework."

"Perhaps that's too much info, but I do like to know details. Dad and I were going to build a fire and roast hot dogs tonight over by the BARn, but I am sick and don't feel like it. Right now, I am having 4 day old gas station chicken, which at the moment I can still taste. Recorded the OU game while Dad was at work, to watch later tonight, so don't tell me the outcome. Like you know!"

"I just ate a lunch of delicious stir-fry."

"I think I will mail your check this week so you can deposit it online instead of me. Did you even get last week's letter?"

"I just got it from my mailbox. Opening it once I get to my floor."

[5 minutes later] "I certainly am mortified by Dad's tighty-whitey behavior!"

"You're tellin' ME! At least you weren't sitting on the front porch with him."

So here's the thing. When Hick got home later, he said that he'd heard from The Pony. So I asked what he'd heard, waiting to hear his take on the near fender-bender. But all Hick said was that The Pony went to get gas, that every parking spot on campus was open because everyone went to the Longhorns-Sooners game, that he had Friday off because of it, and that he was the only one on his floor. The Pony did not mention the near-collision to Hick at all.

This was the total opposite of Genius, when he had his near-catastrophic collision with the tires of a semi truck on I-44. He called Hick from the front seat of the police car, and had Hick tell me in person. Which goes to show, perhaps, that Genius was more concerned with MY feelings, and The Pony was shaken up by his near miss, and was trying to deal with HIS OWN feelings.

As we would all expect.

Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday #29 "Count on Randy to Disguise Your Modus Operandi"

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, sweet mystery lovers are in for a treat! And so are mysterious sweets lovers! Val's latest fake book deals with fried dough AND international intrigue. Get out your fake money. If you know what's good for you!

Count on Randy to Disguise Your Modus Operandi

"It's a little donut shop in the valley. No questions asked."

At the auction, inside a small white vase which looks disturbingly like Thomas Jefferson sitting on a boot taking a crap, Nick Thethicktorian finds the note. He's no stranger to auctions. Or cryptic messages. Nick may or may not be working sporadically for a clandestine government agency. He has the perfect cover: a seemingly harmless, not-quite-Mensa-material, nondescript good 'ol boy who travels for work, taking apart machines and packing them for overseas shipment.

Early Monday morning, Nick, parks his overalled rumpus on a stool at the counter of Randy's Donuts.

"Can I get you some coffee, sir?"

"The Long John dunks at midnight."

Randy pokes his head out of the kitchen. "The disposal has a short in it. Can you come take a look?"

What will Nick find in the disposal? And in the tunnels under the shop? (149 words)

__________________________________________________________________

Fake Reviews for Val’s Fake Book

Paul Bunyan…"Whenever I'm in town, I always stop by Randy's Donuts. Twelve dozen fills me up these days, but I get a couple of gross to go, and load up Babe. This Victorian woman would do better to stuff her face with a few dozen donuts, rather than slandering Randy's good name with her preposterous tell-all fake book. It left me colder than yesterday's coffee."

Homer Simpson…”I don't see why anybody would waste fake money on this fake book. It doesn't even TASTE like a donut. The cover is misleading.” 

John Travolta as Bill Clinton in Primary Colors, sitting at the counter of the donut shop used in filming…”A total work of fiction. And not a good one. I can't imagine anybody using a donut shop to hide the bodies of 76 associates who died mysteriously. Thevictorian should have released this real trashy fake book under the pseudonym 'Anonymous.'”

Sue Grafton…”I hear the original fake title was 'D is for Donut.' Funny how fast a faker can think up a new title, once a lawsuit is slapped on the table. The only mystery here is how this bloated dough-hole got published. And I'm NOT referring to the book.” 

Krispy Kreme CEO…”Let the record show that this fake book deals with cake donuts. Not the delicious glazed delights put out by our company, as fluffy as the fake writing of this fake author. Thevictorian needs to watch her step, and her flapping mouth, or she will find herself in a wicket stickier than our frosting."

Who Knows What Evil Lurks in the Hearts of Dead-Mouse-Smelling-Post-Office Rural Route Delivery Drivers?

Let the record show that my mail used to arrive mid-morning. Maybe 10:00, 10:30. Always before noon. I understand that sometimes there's a substitute delivery driver, which makes mail run later. But lately, it's been getting here after I have already made my trip to town for a 44 oz Diet Coke. Also let the record show that retired Val does not get up with the chickens any more. Some days, she doesn't even leave for town until noon. Or 1:10, like today.

I stopped at the end of my gravel road on the way out this time, to fetch the mail from EmBee. I figured it was there, because just across the low water bridge, I saw the mailman.

I thought that perhaps the mailman was getting the next set of deliveries in order for people up the road. I heard talking when I got out of T-Hoe. A woman's voice. Last I knew, we had a male mailman. This looked like the usual car, though. I thought perhaps she was on her cell phone. Even though the reception is nearly nonexistent down there in the bottom, as Hick says. I grabbed my Edward D. Jones statement and a School and Community magazine, and got back in T-Hoe and headed to town for my magical elixir.

It took 15 minutes going, and 15 minutes coming back. Maybe five more getting my 44 oz Diet Coke at the gas station chicken store. As I started up the hill before my final coast down the other side to the mailbox condo, I thought again of the mailman. Surely if it was car trouble, she would have waved me down when I stopped before. I fully expected that mail car to be gone as I crested the hill. But there it was! Pulled face forward into that little side road that it sat across before. That's the place where I saw the old man in the ditch the other day. Digging, I thought.

WHAT IN TARNATION IS GOING ON IN OUTER BACKROADSIA?

If I was a fiction writer, this would give me plenty of fiction fodder. What if somebody had been bumped off, and the guy the other day was digging a burial hole? What if this mail woman was in cahoots with him? What if she was delivering more than just the mail? OR...perhaps I had stumbled upon a romantic afternoon tryst. OR...these were undercover FBI agents trying to bust a meth ring. It was just in the papers yesterday, almost 30 arrests spanning the greater St. Louis area, with roots down into Mexico. And it started with a local bust!

I know I have a vivid imagination, interrupted only by paranoia. But we DID have several boxes of equipment from a traveling meth lab dumped on our road a few years ago. AND a couple years after that, a headless body was found in a septic tank only a half mile past my homestead, up our gravel road, and the tattooer-for-a-living victim's demise had connections to a drug cartel.

The second time I saw this mail car today, I did NOT take a picture. I sure don't want to draw attention to myself. Besides, my mail delivery is messed up enough as it it.

Val Shouldn't Have Seen the One That Got Away

SSSIIIIIIIIIGGGHHH...

Perhaps you remember that Val Thevictorian enjoys plunking down her hard-direct-deposited cash for a scratch-off lottery ticket every now and then. She does okay, hovering near the break-even mark. No big winners this year for Uncle Sam to send her a Form W-2G next January. But she hasn't lost her shirt, either. Val ain't complainin'.

Until now.

You knew that wouldn't last, right? Val is not known for not-complainin'. I might have forgotten about it by now, except Hick made sure to tell me when he got home from work yesterday, and the owner of the gas station chicken store was discussing it with the customer ahead of me this morning, and Genius just sent me a text about an hour ago.

A LITTLE OLD LOCAL LADY WON $100,000 ON A SCRATCHER THAT I BUY,
FROM A STORE THAT I BUY FROM.

Yep. I first read about it on the Missouri Lottery website on Monday afternoon. Not only did my town criers remind me of it three times within the past 24 hours, but it was in the local online newspaper this morning. I guess the only person who hasn't checked in is my sister the ex-mayor's wife. She's not a scratcher, but I'm sure she reads the paper.

Seems this little old local lady bought her ticket at the establishment I frequent once a week for gas. I haven't bought many tickets there in the past year, because The Pony always ran in to pay for my gas. But before I got him trained to do that, I used to buy my tickets there often. I spent a whole year cashing in and playing on tickets that my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel gave me one year for my birthday. Now that I don't drive by there every day going to work, it's kind of out-of-the-way, unless I'm going to Walmart.

Anyhoo...this little old local lady apparently bought her ticket there on September 14. That was on a Wednesday, the week Hick and HOS returned from their Oklahoma Sooners game weekend. I doubt I would have been in the store that day, unless I went to the credit union to transfer money for Genius's monthly college expenses that I send him on the 15th. Still. It was a ticket that I buy. From a place where I buy them, on occasion.

In fact, I was just in there on Monday, when I went to Walmart and got gas (heh, heh, NOT gas from Walmart food). I didn't even know about this little old local lady $100,000 winner then. I bought four tickets. Two were winners, for $10 and $40. That was a handy little profit, to use to play again another day.

I can't help thinking about the one that got away...

If You Buy Your 44 oz Diet Coke at BP, You'd Better Bring Your American Express, Because They Don't Accept...

If I wasn't so addicted didn't know better, I'd swear the universe is sending out signals for me to lay off the 44 oz Diet Coke.

Yesterday after my belated weekly Walmart shopping trip and encounter with a creeper at the bank, I stopped by Orb K for a 44 oz Diet Coke. That's because the gas station chicken store was out on the weekend, and I was not overly optimistic that the man owner knew how to fix it. He usually works on Mondays. Orb K was out of Diet Coke one day last week also, but I figured they'd have theirs up and running by now.

I didn't have a chance to find out, because as I was waiting for a white car to back out so I could use that parking spot, a black convertible started backing out of a space right beside me. And KEPT backing! I thought for sure the dude could see T-Hoe sitting there big as life. And I'm shocked a sporty convertible such as that did not have a backup beeper. Still, dude kept backing. I couldn't pull forward because of the white car coming out, and I couldn't back up because that would result in the sporty black convertible ramming my driver's door instead of T-Hoe's rear flank, behind the passenger door. I watched, spellbound, in the side mirror. That sporty black convertible kept coming!

Objects in mirror are closer than they appear, you know! And that sporty black convertible appeared inches away from T-Hoe. So I honked! The sporty black convertible jerked to a sudden halt. Dude turned his head around. White Car had straightened and was heading toward us, so I had room to move forward. I looped to the right, around the 20-or-so gas pumps, and went back to exit the lot. Not even gonna deal with it.

I headed for the gas station chicken store. Nabbed my favorite parking spot. Counted out correct change. Stepped in the door. And saw the piece of paper still taped to the Diet Coke spigot. Ding-dang-dong-it! Diet Cokeless after a trying day! I've sampled Casey's Diet Coke before, and am not a fan. Just like my mom swore by McDonald's Diet Coke, I find it off-putting. And don't get me started on Dairy Queen's. It tastes like they mix Pine Sol with it. No way was I going across the street to the drive-thru liquor store. No siree, Bob! So I headed up toward the dead-mouse-smelling post office end of town, to the BP gas station convenience mart.

Let the record show that I've been in there twice now. Don't really care for their Diet Coke or their personnel. But the sign they had taped to their counter made me chuckle:

DUE TO RISING TEMPERATURES

WE WILL NOT BE ACCEPTING 

BOOB, UNDERPANTS, OR SOCK MONEY