Yesterday I had to run my errands behind the wheel of A-Cad. T-Hoe was in the shop for brakes, shocks, tires, and an oil change.
You know how it is when you drive a different car. It's like you're 15-and-half again (or maybe 8 in Arkansas) and just learning to drive. You have to concentrate on things that are automatic in your regular vehicle. Right? It's not just me, is it?
I've gotten used to A-Cad's tiny brake pedal, suited to the dainty foot of a hummingbird. I've figured out the temperature controls, and the seat heaters, and the front windshield wiper. I still find myself reaching for the column to put A-Cad in park, though his shifter is between the seats. No matter how many times I adjust the side mirrors (same exact controls as T-Hoe!!!), all I can see is the side of the car. I don't have my change cup. The cup holders for my 44 oz Diet Coke never want to let it go. I only have five radio stations tuned in on SiriusXM. The gas cap twists on all funky with a weird strap. AND that darn Garmin is suctioned to the windshield, and blocks my view. We don't even want to discuss the nerve damage in my arm from contorting to reach the bank drive-thru canister, and the ATM cash slot.
So...I was concentrating on my driving all morning. So much so that I forgot to drop by the cemetery to visit Mom's grave. I haven't been there since early last week, and I usually go a couple times on my way to town. Since I forgot, I stopped on the way home. It was like when Elaine met new friends named Kevin, Gene, and Feldman. Everything was just a little bit off.
I turned left instead of right. I parked on the correct side of the blacktop lane next to Mom's plot. I put down the passenger window to talk to her (it's always pretty much a one-sided conversation). But as always, I put the radio on Prime Country, hits of the 80s and 90s. You know, because that's what always got Mom to slapping her hand on the thigh of her jeans with the hole in the knee when I picked her up for our last Friday of the month bill-paying outings.
We (I) had a nice talk, though brief. I always mention what's going on with the boys, and what I'm up to, and any trips we have planned. I told her that I had a 44 oz Diet Coke from the new convenience store, and that she probably would have really liked it, even though she was a fan of McDonald's Diet Coke, which to me tastes like it has been sitting in a cardboard cup melting ice for about five hours. I chatted like no one was listening (not such a stretch, really), looking out that passenger window at the flat granite grave marker with the brass nameplate. It's always polite to maintain eye contact. Then I explained I was on the way home, and I'd be back next week.
As I started A-Cad, checking the right side mirror for any traffic behind me (but seeing the side of A-Cad), I realized as I pulled forward that I had been TALKING TO THE WRONG GRAVE! Mom was next to it, and the side mirror had blocked her marker. I hope the people in that plot enjoyed my chat!
Mom would have laughed and slapped her knee at that story. She's probably still laughing.
But there's more! Tomorrow.
Wednesday, February 8, 2017
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
The Eyes of Hickness Are Upon Me
Perhaps, offhandedly, I let it slip that Hick always seems to be around wherever I am. In my pocket. Up my butt. In my face. Attached at my hip. Unless, of course, I sleep late (no mean feat with him around), and he disappears for several hours.
When I'm here, however, you'll find Hick within arm's reach, a stone's throw away. Like Sunday, when I left for town. The same day Hick unofficially forbade the wearing of my sock cap in front of the roofer. He knew I was leaving. He knew where I was going. He could surmise how long I'd be gone, barring a long line at the gas station chicken store, or a spigot with a note taped to it proclaiming Diet Coke Out.
I backed T-Hoe out of the garage and started up the driveway, and there was Hick on the Gator, driving along the driveway in the grass (he's not fooling ME, I know he's itching to tear up the gravel). He stopped. Turned it off. That's a signal for me to stop. Believe me, I've been in trouble for daring to drive past the field when he was on it, and not tell him where I was going.
"I'm on my way to town for a soda and some chicken. Do you want anything?"
"No. I'm good."
"Okay. I'm going."
"Okay. I'm cleaning up Jack's sticks."
Like that little dog jumps up and rips the limbs from the trees! He could just as well say he was picking up the branches that blew off in the last big wind.
When I came back a half hour later, I saw Hick sitting on the Gator over in the BARn field, watching a fire in his burn pile. I figured my dogs would come running. They love to run along with the Gator, but when it's parked, they love getting a handful of cat kibble more. I parked in the garage and looked in my mirror before pushing the door closer.
THERE WAS HICK, SITTING ON THE GATOR!
That's just creepy. He was in the field. Then he was on the concrete directly behind the garage. I got out. He was just sitting there looking at me. Horror movies are less creepy.
"Pardon my French, but do you always have to be up my butt?" It doesn't pay to actually swear in front of Hick. Hick don't cotton to the potty mouth. Unless it's HIS mouth.
"There you go again. I just drove over when I saw you come home."
"Okay. I feel like you're spying on me."
"No. I just drove over."
Let the record show that Hick made no move to get off the Gator and carry in the chicken or my purse. Not that I needed his help. I do this a couple times a week, you know. And don't even suggest that I let him carry my 44 oz Diet Coke! I made that mistake ONE TIME, before Sonic closed, and he dropped my Route 44 Cherry Diet Coke just outside the kitchen door! Oh, the caffeinity! I swear tears dripped from my face like that magical elixir dripped through the cracks between the porch boards.
Anyhoo...I went in the house and Hick went back to wherever he planned to lie in wait for me again. I dipped out a towering ramekin of slaw and warmed my chicken in the oven while I filled two bubba cups with ice cubes. One for adding water downstairs in the NASCAR bathroom, the other to be added to my 44 oz Diet Coke throughout the afternoon. I paper-plated my chicken and put it on a tray with the slaw and my special slaw-eating spoon. Put my two ice cups and my soda in a Walmart bag to drape over my arm so I could hold the tray and have an arm free for hanging on to stair rail spindles for dear life as I descended the 13 steps with no handrails to my dark basement lair.
I was on step #10 when I heard the kitchen door open. And walking. Wait a minute! Did Hick grow a couple of extra feet? And TALKING!
"What are you doing?"
"We're just coming in to air up a basketball." And Hick proceeded, along with HOS's elementary-school-age son, down those steps behind me, to the workshop, one thin wall away from my office.
I can't go anywhere without Hick turning up! And this time, he'd brought company. I had no idea HOS's boy was even coming over. Good thing they didn't pop in while I was in the NASCAR bathroom...um...indisposed...Because I don't usually close the door when I think I'm the only one in the house.
Wait! We're not done here. Hick had told me the roofers would be there around noon. I left for town at 11:45, and got home around 12:20, and didn't see any roofers. Just Hick on his Gator. Hick knows I go out for my walk between 4:00 and 4:30. He specifically knew I was going out at 3:45 Sunday, so I'd have time to walk before preparing his Super Bowl snacks in time for kickoff.
Hick had the ladder all set up for the roofers before I even left. I took a picture, because I figured some kind of story would develop. (Look out for that bell!) During the last icing, Hick found a small leak spot in the kitchen. He'd already been up in the attic checking for the severity of the breach in the new metal roof. He said it wasn't bad. He knew what they needed to do. He even bought some product that they would be spraying on it.
Well. I started out the kitchen door, per my usual routine, and saw a pair of legs on top of that ladder. They belonged to Hick. Which I soon realized, after turning around and going out the front door (that won't close right) and hearing the two roofers up on the garage roof. I hope they got a good eyeful as I stood on the garage sidewalk, stretching and talking to Sweet, Sweet Juno and Puppy Jack. I especially hope they enjoyed watching my progress as I walked five driveways.
Hick couldn't see me (at least I HOPE he doesn't have eyes in his kneecaps), but he was talking to me while I was stretching with the dogs.
Surveillance cameras are the least of my worries. Now, every time I go to town, and see people working along the road, I'll think they are Hick's spies. Like the ones Mother Abigail's people sent to Vegas in The Stand. M-O-O-N. That spells, "Hick needs to give me some space."
When I'm here, however, you'll find Hick within arm's reach, a stone's throw away. Like Sunday, when I left for town. The same day Hick unofficially forbade the wearing of my sock cap in front of the roofer. He knew I was leaving. He knew where I was going. He could surmise how long I'd be gone, barring a long line at the gas station chicken store, or a spigot with a note taped to it proclaiming Diet Coke Out.
I backed T-Hoe out of the garage and started up the driveway, and there was Hick on the Gator, driving along the driveway in the grass (he's not fooling ME, I know he's itching to tear up the gravel). He stopped. Turned it off. That's a signal for me to stop. Believe me, I've been in trouble for daring to drive past the field when he was on it, and not tell him where I was going.
"I'm on my way to town for a soda and some chicken. Do you want anything?"
"No. I'm good."
"Okay. I'm going."
"Okay. I'm cleaning up Jack's sticks."
Like that little dog jumps up and rips the limbs from the trees! He could just as well say he was picking up the branches that blew off in the last big wind.
When I came back a half hour later, I saw Hick sitting on the Gator over in the BARn field, watching a fire in his burn pile. I figured my dogs would come running. They love to run along with the Gator, but when it's parked, they love getting a handful of cat kibble more. I parked in the garage and looked in my mirror before pushing the door closer.
THERE WAS HICK, SITTING ON THE GATOR!
That's just creepy. He was in the field. Then he was on the concrete directly behind the garage. I got out. He was just sitting there looking at me. Horror movies are less creepy.
"Pardon my French, but do you always have to be up my butt?" It doesn't pay to actually swear in front of Hick. Hick don't cotton to the potty mouth. Unless it's HIS mouth.
"There you go again. I just drove over when I saw you come home."
"Okay. I feel like you're spying on me."
"No. I just drove over."
Let the record show that Hick made no move to get off the Gator and carry in the chicken or my purse. Not that I needed his help. I do this a couple times a week, you know. And don't even suggest that I let him carry my 44 oz Diet Coke! I made that mistake ONE TIME, before Sonic closed, and he dropped my Route 44 Cherry Diet Coke just outside the kitchen door! Oh, the caffeinity! I swear tears dripped from my face like that magical elixir dripped through the cracks between the porch boards.
Anyhoo...I went in the house and Hick went back to wherever he planned to lie in wait for me again. I dipped out a towering ramekin of slaw and warmed my chicken in the oven while I filled two bubba cups with ice cubes. One for adding water downstairs in the NASCAR bathroom, the other to be added to my 44 oz Diet Coke throughout the afternoon. I paper-plated my chicken and put it on a tray with the slaw and my special slaw-eating spoon. Put my two ice cups and my soda in a Walmart bag to drape over my arm so I could hold the tray and have an arm free for hanging on to stair rail spindles for dear life as I descended the 13 steps with no handrails to my dark basement lair.
I was on step #10 when I heard the kitchen door open. And walking. Wait a minute! Did Hick grow a couple of extra feet? And TALKING!
"What are you doing?"
"We're just coming in to air up a basketball." And Hick proceeded, along with HOS's elementary-school-age son, down those steps behind me, to the workshop, one thin wall away from my office.
I can't go anywhere without Hick turning up! And this time, he'd brought company. I had no idea HOS's boy was even coming over. Good thing they didn't pop in while I was in the NASCAR bathroom...um...indisposed...Because I don't usually close the door when I think I'm the only one in the house.
Wait! We're not done here. Hick had told me the roofers would be there around noon. I left for town at 11:45, and got home around 12:20, and didn't see any roofers. Just Hick on his Gator. Hick knows I go out for my walk between 4:00 and 4:30. He specifically knew I was going out at 3:45 Sunday, so I'd have time to walk before preparing his Super Bowl snacks in time for kickoff.
Hick had the ladder all set up for the roofers before I even left. I took a picture, because I figured some kind of story would develop. (Look out for that bell!) During the last icing, Hick found a small leak spot in the kitchen. He'd already been up in the attic checking for the severity of the breach in the new metal roof. He said it wasn't bad. He knew what they needed to do. He even bought some product that they would be spraying on it.
Well. I started out the kitchen door, per my usual routine, and saw a pair of legs on top of that ladder. They belonged to Hick. Which I soon realized, after turning around and going out the front door (that won't close right) and hearing the two roofers up on the garage roof. I hope they got a good eyeful as I stood on the garage sidewalk, stretching and talking to Sweet, Sweet Juno and Puppy Jack. I especially hope they enjoyed watching my progress as I walked five driveways.
Hick couldn't see me (at least I HOPE he doesn't have eyes in his kneecaps), but he was talking to me while I was stretching with the dogs.
Surveillance cameras are the least of my worries. Now, every time I go to town, and see people working along the road, I'll think they are Hick's spies. Like the ones Mother Abigail's people sent to Vegas in The Stand. M-O-O-N. That spells, "Hick needs to give me some space."
Monday, February 6, 2017
I Think Uncle Sam Is Trying to Hook Me Up
Friday I had a not-heaven of a time trying to log into the IRS tax return transcript website. That's because Genius's FAFSA was selected (heh, heh, like it's an honor) for verification, and because I can never get the IRS Data Retrieval Tool to work. Probably has something to do with Genius having his identity stolen a few years back, and needing to use a PIN to file.
Anyhoo...that is the only website I went to that was out of the ordinary. The IRS website.
Saturday morning when I got up and checked my phone...I discovered that I am now a member of EthnicElderlyDatingdotcom! (Not the real name of the website.) Yep! There it was, an email at 4:50 a.m., thanking me for joining. And at 4:52, my photo was approved! Yes siree, Bob! And the bait was just itching to attract this ol' catfish.
Funny. I didn't remember going to EthnicElderlyDatingdotcom and setting up a profile and sending a picture. Huh. I consulted my estranged BFF Google, to see if, perhaps, this might be a scam. You know. Before I got all excited and started opening emails so I could hook up with a complete stranger who would take me away from all this. [Spreads arms and twirls around next to the kitchen sink like Maria von Trapp (nee Kutschera, as portrayed by Julie Andrews) twirling around on a high meadow in the Austrian Alps.]
Huh. This site involves a high risk country. The site is U.S. based, but most likely from China. All contact emails are free ones. Owner: BKing Fu.
WHAT? There aren't people out there attracted to a Val with a wonky eye from ringing her own bell, dressed in a Carhartt sock cap, stretched-out and stained baby blue sweatshirt four sizes too big, holey sweatpants, black socks, and red Crocs? Sorry, ScamAdvisordotcom, but I beg to differ. My email records are right here in black and white. I have left off the numbers some usernames had associated with them. For the privacy purposes, you know, of my perhaps-future-paramours.
6:35 AM--Imread is online right now. He's waiting to hear from you
7:23 AM--Did you meet Milkbone? He's online now!
11:07 AM--Someone just viewed you
11:33 AM--Have you seen his profile? He's online now
12:19 PM--MAW just got online. Check out his profile!
1:36 PM--Someone is flirting with you
1:36 PM--Someone likes you! See who
4:00 PM--Someone has been checking you out
Yeah. I sent them to the 5PAM folder. And that was the end of it. Uh huh. You believe that, right? Val would never go back and look in that 5PAM folder to see if there have been more since Saturday. Would she? Okay. Purely for research purposes...because I know you all have inquiring minds...NINE more. I hope ChooChoo isn't too disappointed that I'm not responding...
All I have to say is...get in line, suitors! Get in line behind my Sweet Baboo. Because he's never more than a couple inches away from me. Ever. Again.
I just find it kind of odd that this happened after visiting the IRS website. I can surf through conspiracy sites all the livelong day, have my computer lock up every couple of weeks on gossip sites, and work crossword puzzles on sites overflowing with ads...yet the one time I go to the IRS website, and nothing else but my regular pages...I am signed up to an EthnicElderlyDating service that is probably scamming out of China.
Anyhoo...that is the only website I went to that was out of the ordinary. The IRS website.
Saturday morning when I got up and checked my phone...I discovered that I am now a member of EthnicElderlyDatingdotcom! (Not the real name of the website.) Yep! There it was, an email at 4:50 a.m., thanking me for joining. And at 4:52, my photo was approved! Yes siree, Bob! And the bait was just itching to attract this ol' catfish.
Funny. I didn't remember going to EthnicElderlyDatingdotcom and setting up a profile and sending a picture. Huh. I consulted my estranged BFF Google, to see if, perhaps, this might be a scam. You know. Before I got all excited and started opening emails so I could hook up with a complete stranger who would take me away from all this. [Spreads arms and twirls around next to the kitchen sink like Maria von Trapp (nee Kutschera, as portrayed by Julie Andrews) twirling around on a high meadow in the Austrian Alps.]
Huh. This site involves a high risk country. The site is U.S. based, but most likely from China. All contact emails are free ones. Owner: BKing Fu.
WHAT? There aren't people out there attracted to a Val with a wonky eye from ringing her own bell, dressed in a Carhartt sock cap, stretched-out and stained baby blue sweatshirt four sizes too big, holey sweatpants, black socks, and red Crocs? Sorry, ScamAdvisordotcom, but I beg to differ. My email records are right here in black and white. I have left off the numbers some usernames had associated with them. For the privacy purposes, you know, of my perhaps-future-paramours.
6:35 AM--Imread is online right now. He's waiting to hear from you
7:23 AM--Did you meet Milkbone? He's online now!
11:07 AM--Someone just viewed you
11:33 AM--Have you seen his profile? He's online now
12:19 PM--MAW just got online. Check out his profile!
1:36 PM--Someone is flirting with you
1:36 PM--Someone likes you! See who
4:00 PM--Someone has been checking you out
Yeah. I sent them to the 5PAM folder. And that was the end of it. Uh huh. You believe that, right? Val would never go back and look in that 5PAM folder to see if there have been more since Saturday. Would she? Okay. Purely for research purposes...because I know you all have inquiring minds...NINE more. I hope ChooChoo isn't too disappointed that I'm not responding...
All I have to say is...get in line, suitors! Get in line behind my Sweet Baboo. Because he's never more than a couple inches away from me. Ever. Again.
I just find it kind of odd that this happened after visiting the IRS website. I can surf through conspiracy sites all the livelong day, have my computer lock up every couple of weeks on gossip sites, and work crossword puzzles on sites overflowing with ads...yet the one time I go to the IRS website, and nothing else but my regular pages...I am signed up to an EthnicElderlyDating service that is probably scamming out of China.
Sunday, February 5, 2017
Hick is a Wardrobe Shamer
This morning I was sitting in the La-Z-Boy when Hick drove up and parked the Gator in the front yard and rushed past me to the bathroom. It was around 11:15, and I'd been freezing since I got up. So I had on my jammie pants, a short-sleeve oxford shirt, my baby-blue baggy sweatshirt, and my sock cap that I wear outside during my walk. Plus I was covered with a green, orange, and tan afghan that my uncle's friend in Alaska had made for my mom many years ago.
"I'm going to have a shower and head to town for my soda."
"Good. I don't want the roofer to see you in your sock cap."
"Don't you like my sock cap?" It's black. With a square Carhartt logo on the front, and sticks up about four inches of slack from the top of my head.
"I like your sock cap...out in the driveway when you're walking. But you don't need to wear it in the house."
"Is the roofer coming IN the house?"
"No. He'll be on top."
"Then why does it matter?"
"I don't know. I just didn't want him to see you in it."
Let the record show that Hick made no comment on the rest of my attire. No complaints about the jammie pants printed with big stars and moons, nor the sweatshirt four sizes too big, with ripped cuffs dangling by threads.
Had the roofer gotten there early, I had a good mind to stroll out the back door and greet him. In my sock cap. Because Hick is not the boss of me! Even though the power of being in my sphere of influence two extra days a week seems to be going to his head.
Unless Hick was selling peep-show tickets to roofers so they could look through the mini-blinded kitchen windows at me...I don't think he had any say in my indoor wardrobe.
"I'm going to have a shower and head to town for my soda."
"Good. I don't want the roofer to see you in your sock cap."
"Don't you like my sock cap?" It's black. With a square Carhartt logo on the front, and sticks up about four inches of slack from the top of my head.
"I like your sock cap...out in the driveway when you're walking. But you don't need to wear it in the house."
"Is the roofer coming IN the house?"
"No. He'll be on top."
"Then why does it matter?"
"I don't know. I just didn't want him to see you in it."
Let the record show that Hick made no comment on the rest of my attire. No complaints about the jammie pants printed with big stars and moons, nor the sweatshirt four sizes too big, with ripped cuffs dangling by threads.
Had the roofer gotten there early, I had a good mind to stroll out the back door and greet him. In my sock cap. Because Hick is not the boss of me! Even though the power of being in my sphere of influence two extra days a week seems to be going to his head.
Unless Hick was selling peep-show tickets to roofers so they could look through the mini-blinded kitchen windows at me...I don't think he had any say in my indoor wardrobe.
Saturday, February 4, 2017
I Hope Old Scratch Isn't Hiring
A couple days ago I was out on the back porch deck, trying to take a picture of my old holey sweatpants for super-secret blog purposes. Things were not going well.
The tan-striped cat, who would be orange-striped if he was a good cat, kept trying to lay down on my pants. Then I committed a sour, sour faux pas when I stood on the black feathery tail of my Sweet, Sweet Juno. I felt something moving under my foot as I was focusing the phone camera. When I jumped aside, Juno slunk away, giving me a not-very-forgiving look over her shoulder.
THEN I heard it. A crunching sound. What in the not-heaven? Juno kept her distance, sitting over by Gassy-G, Hick's auction grill, eyeing me warily. I had seen Jack jump off the concrete behind the garage, and run around to the back yard. He probably thought I was throwing out some leftovers for the remaining chickens. He's a real chow hound. Still, I didn't see him amongst the onion skins and graying cauliflower.
I moved closer to the rail. Trying to figure out that sound, where it was coming from. THERE! There was Jack! Standing at Hick's fake fish pond that he never takes care of any more, since the three bad cats fished out a big goldfish every couple of days and ate them all.
As I watched, Jack stuck his snout all the way to the bottom of the brackish pool, and grabbed a river rock. The sound was JACK CHEWING ON A ROCK! He only chewed to get a grip. Then he lifted out the rock and deposited it on all the other river rocks that surround the fake fish pond. He moved from one section to another, one side to another.
I was torn. Should I tattle on Jack and let Hick declare another strike against him? Or keep his secret until Hick got to nosing around his fish pond again and noticed something fishy?
My curiosity got the better of me. I asked Hick if he put river rocks in the bottom of his fish pond pools to hold them down, or to make it more lifelike for his fish. The tiny goldfish he bought at Walmart (back when Walmart's pet department still sold them), and fed and fed twice a day until they were like magnificent koi that my childhood dentist had in a tasteful garden through the back window of the exam room, as if he thought it would distract Li'l Val while he scraped and pried and drilled and filled her teeth.
"I didn't put no river rock in my fish pond!"
"Oh. Because there's river rock in your fish pond now. And Jack was TAKING IT OUT! He put those rocks back with the other river rocks around the outside. I guess he's just helping you."
"I don't know how those rocks got in there!"
"Maybe the cats were taking a poop, and thought they were covering it up, and kicked the rocks in the water..."
"I don't think so."
Anyhoo...Jack is always busy. He needs some cattle to herd. Or some badgers to flush out of a burrow. Maybe he puts river rocks IN the fish pond on certain days, and takes the out again on alternate days. This morning, I saw him rolling around in the front yard, flinging something clear over his head, then wrestling and shaking it, then rolling on it again. Huh. Where was Jack finding trash? We keep ours in the wastebasket until the bag is taken directly to the dumpster. He can't get in there. So I asked Hick this evening.
"What did Jack have this morning? When you and HOS were picking up that lumber. It looked like a clear salad container!"
"Oh. That was my salad container."
"?" (If a glance could be vocalized, that is what I said.)
"When I ate my salad last night, I dropped the container." Let the record show that Hick had driven to work last evening to get some boards that he had set aside from shipping crates, and upon his return, settled down in his La-Z-Boy to have a big salad for supper. A big salad that Val paid for and gave to him. Chicken Caesar.
"You ate it in here!"
"Well, there was a little bit left..." (probably the vegetables!) "...so I dumped it off the back porch, and dropped the container." Which of course he just left there. That's what country people do with their trash, it seems, just throw it out the back door.
Anyhoo...Jack is always doing something. He can't simply loll in the yard, soaking up sun, resting up to bark all night like other dogs. He does the barking part, though.
I don't want the devil to find work for Jack's idle paws.
The tan-striped cat, who would be orange-striped if he was a good cat, kept trying to lay down on my pants. Then I committed a sour, sour faux pas when I stood on the black feathery tail of my Sweet, Sweet Juno. I felt something moving under my foot as I was focusing the phone camera. When I jumped aside, Juno slunk away, giving me a not-very-forgiving look over her shoulder.
THEN I heard it. A crunching sound. What in the not-heaven? Juno kept her distance, sitting over by Gassy-G, Hick's auction grill, eyeing me warily. I had seen Jack jump off the concrete behind the garage, and run around to the back yard. He probably thought I was throwing out some leftovers for the remaining chickens. He's a real chow hound. Still, I didn't see him amongst the onion skins and graying cauliflower.
I moved closer to the rail. Trying to figure out that sound, where it was coming from. THERE! There was Jack! Standing at Hick's fake fish pond that he never takes care of any more, since the three bad cats fished out a big goldfish every couple of days and ate them all.
As I watched, Jack stuck his snout all the way to the bottom of the brackish pool, and grabbed a river rock. The sound was JACK CHEWING ON A ROCK! He only chewed to get a grip. Then he lifted out the rock and deposited it on all the other river rocks that surround the fake fish pond. He moved from one section to another, one side to another.
I was torn. Should I tattle on Jack and let Hick declare another strike against him? Or keep his secret until Hick got to nosing around his fish pond again and noticed something fishy?
My curiosity got the better of me. I asked Hick if he put river rocks in the bottom of his fish pond pools to hold them down, or to make it more lifelike for his fish. The tiny goldfish he bought at Walmart (back when Walmart's pet department still sold them), and fed and fed twice a day until they were like magnificent koi that my childhood dentist had in a tasteful garden through the back window of the exam room, as if he thought it would distract Li'l Val while he scraped and pried and drilled and filled her teeth.
"I didn't put no river rock in my fish pond!"
"Oh. Because there's river rock in your fish pond now. And Jack was TAKING IT OUT! He put those rocks back with the other river rocks around the outside. I guess he's just helping you."
"I don't know how those rocks got in there!"
"Maybe the cats were taking a poop, and thought they were covering it up, and kicked the rocks in the water..."
"I don't think so."
Anyhoo...Jack is always busy. He needs some cattle to herd. Or some badgers to flush out of a burrow. Maybe he puts river rocks IN the fish pond on certain days, and takes the out again on alternate days. This morning, I saw him rolling around in the front yard, flinging something clear over his head, then wrestling and shaking it, then rolling on it again. Huh. Where was Jack finding trash? We keep ours in the wastebasket until the bag is taken directly to the dumpster. He can't get in there. So I asked Hick this evening.
"What did Jack have this morning? When you and HOS were picking up that lumber. It looked like a clear salad container!"
"Oh. That was my salad container."
"?" (If a glance could be vocalized, that is what I said.)
"When I ate my salad last night, I dropped the container." Let the record show that Hick had driven to work last evening to get some boards that he had set aside from shipping crates, and upon his return, settled down in his La-Z-Boy to have a big salad for supper. A big salad that Val paid for and gave to him. Chicken Caesar.
"You ate it in here!"
"Well, there was a little bit left..." (probably the vegetables!) "...so I dumped it off the back porch, and dropped the container." Which of course he just left there. That's what country people do with their trash, it seems, just throw it out the back door.
Anyhoo...Jack is always doing something. He can't simply loll in the yard, soaking up sun, resting up to bark all night like other dogs. He does the barking part, though.
I don't want the devil to find work for Jack's idle paws.
Friday, February 3, 2017
Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday #46 "The Cash that Shacks Built"
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, learn how to make money at home. Home-building! Using cast-off materials to construct shacks that are way cheaper than tiny houses. It's a blueprint for building shacks without blueprints! Val has collaborated with a cheapster goofus to reveal the tricks of slapping together trashed treasures into structures hipsters will buy. Get your fake book NOW, before a coffee store chain fake-buys them all to fake-sell on their counter.
Nick Thethictorian has enough money to burn a wet mule. He stashes his cash in a lock box (no key) that he paid a nickel for at a flea market. Always one to make lemonade out of lemons that he found in the gutter (after throwing sticks at the tree, and using an old car antenna poked under the fence to roll them out of the owner's yard and into the gutter), Nick takes old shipping pallets from industrial dumpsters, and uses them to build themed shacks.
Nick's sheds will appeal to today's market. Two examples: Safe Space, wallpapered with bubble wrap, soundproofed, and carpeted with throw pillows. BeeHives Matter, a haven for honeybees, with a built-in smoker for soothing the savage bees, and a myriad of tiny troughs (like a marble run) lining the walls, directing honey into jars for capping, a handmade label, and resale. (149 words)
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The Cash that Shacks Built
Nick Thethictorian has enough money to burn a wet mule. He stashes his cash in a lock box (no key) that he paid a nickel for at a flea market. Always one to make lemonade out of lemons that he found in the gutter (after throwing sticks at the tree, and using an old car antenna poked under the fence to roll them out of the owner's yard and into the gutter), Nick takes old shipping pallets from industrial dumpsters, and uses them to build themed shacks.
Nick's sheds will appeal to today's market. Two examples: Safe Space, wallpapered with bubble wrap, soundproofed, and carpeted with throw pillows. BeeHives Matter, a haven for honeybees, with a built-in smoker for soothing the savage bees, and a myriad of tiny troughs (like a marble run) lining the walls, directing honey into jars for capping, a handmade label, and resale. (149 words)
__________________________________________________________________
Fake Reviews
for Val’s Fake Book
Fort Knox..."I wouldn't recommend this fake book for all the gold in ME!"
All the Tea in China..."Me neither."
Vidalia Onion..."There's nothing sweet about Thevictorian's work. I weep at the thought of reading another of her fake books. There's a sulfurous stench to her writing. It hits your brain like sulfuric acid, and stays with you for days. This fake author only has one layer, and skin thinner than mine."
Cooter Brown..."I daresay this character is richer than I am drunk. This fake author won't see a penny, though. And she can get her own bottle!"
Burj Kahlifa, from Dubai, by translator..."If Thevictorian thinks she's an author, she's higher than ME! This fake book is not worth the paper it's printed on, if it were from the last tree in the world."
The Grand Canyon..."The fake author's fake writing style rapidly wore me down to rock bottom. She needs eddy-fication. And no, that's not a misspelling on my part. Making Thevictorian an author will take more than the force of gravity, a swift current, and 17 million years."
The Mariana Trench..."One cannot begin to fathom the depths of despair I felt upon reading this abysmal fake book. I was under a great deal of pressure, and in the dark, trying to write a review that will not sway the tide of public opinion in Thevictorian's favor. I fluctuated between an upwelling of emotions, and subducting my feelings."
A California Redwood..."I was petrified to read this wooden prose. Thevictorian should lumber out to cut her own switch, and after a sound thrashing, make like a tree and leave the literary world! Her ideas are rooted on a slippery slope. I foresee lichens rising to greater heights than this scrub's writing."
Fort Knox..."I wouldn't recommend this fake book for all the gold in ME!"
All the Tea in China..."Me neither."
Vidalia Onion..."There's nothing sweet about Thevictorian's work. I weep at the thought of reading another of her fake books. There's a sulfurous stench to her writing. It hits your brain like sulfuric acid, and stays with you for days. This fake author only has one layer, and skin thinner than mine."
Cooter Brown..."I daresay this character is richer than I am drunk. This fake author won't see a penny, though. And she can get her own bottle!"
Burj Kahlifa, from Dubai, by translator..."If Thevictorian thinks she's an author, she's higher than ME! This fake book is not worth the paper it's printed on, if it were from the last tree in the world."
The Grand Canyon..."The fake author's fake writing style rapidly wore me down to rock bottom. She needs eddy-fication. And no, that's not a misspelling on my part. Making Thevictorian an author will take more than the force of gravity, a swift current, and 17 million years."
The Mariana Trench..."One cannot begin to fathom the depths of despair I felt upon reading this abysmal fake book. I was under a great deal of pressure, and in the dark, trying to write a review that will not sway the tide of public opinion in Thevictorian's favor. I fluctuated between an upwelling of emotions, and subducting my feelings."
A California Redwood..."I was petrified to read this wooden prose. Thevictorian should lumber out to cut her own switch, and after a sound thrashing, make like a tree and leave the literary world! Her ideas are rooted on a slippery slope. I foresee lichens rising to greater heights than this scrub's writing."
Thursday, February 2, 2017
I Avert My Eyes But the Weirdos Keep A-Comin'. There's Still Nigh as Many as There Was a While Ago.
Just because I haven't mentioned them lately does not mean the weirdos have forsaken Val.
Like today, when I was minding my own business at the open freezer in the middle of Walmart, and a little guy in a jean jacket (and pants, too, which was a plus, considering my weirdo history) pushed his cart up next to me. Let the record show that I was peering into that freezer bin full of TGI Friday's Buffalo Style Boneless Chicken Bites.
"Have you ever tried these?"
"No. I don't like them."
"How many's in a box?"
"I don't know. I was just looking. My husband wanted some for during the Super Bowl."
"Huh. That's too expensive. Almost nine dollars."
"I found these on the first aisle, the freezer section with the doors." I held up a bag of Great Value brand. "I think they're five dollars and something."
The little guy thanked me and wandered off. But not in the direction of the Great Value Boneless Wyngz Buffalo Chicken. Maybe he was trying to pick me up, seeing as how I don't like jewelry and don't wear my wedding ring. Maybe I'm lucky he didn't shove his cart and hit mine like Fonzie taught Richie how to meet women on Happy Days. It's not like I was wearing a blue vest, or standing behind a kiosk with portions of Buffalo chicken in plastic cups.
But that's not the extent of my recent weirdo encounters.
Yesterday I went to the post office and the bank. On the way, I had to sweave over the center line because a dude was walking in my direction, on the edge of the road. It was about 45 degrees. Sunny. He had a sock cap and jeans and a jean jacket, with a backpack on his back. I went about my errands, and came back the same route. Dude was about a mile farther along. I went on past. Parked at the convenience store that finally opened after over a year of construction. I went in for a 44 oz Diet Coke, and cashed in a $10 scratch-off winner for more tickets.
When I came out, there was Dude, sitting on the rack of firewood for sale out front. Instead of staying on the sidewalk, I stepped out into the empty parking spaces to make a beeline for T-Hoe. I kept my eyes averted, making sure there were no potholes or loose pavement on that new blacktop parking lot. Kept my eyes averted. Don't Engage. That's my motto. Well. That, and People Piss Me Off. And still, my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel's mom once referred to me as a Mother Teresa.
"Excuse me, Ma'am...?"
I don't know how I can have such a sour attitude towards humanity, and STILL people find me approachable.
"Yes...?"
"Can you tell me how to get to Backroads?"
"Yes. Keep going on this road. Then you can turn left when you get to Casey's. That road will take you there. Past a lake."
"How far is it?"
"Oh...I don't know...maybe five miles..."
"Is that the shortest way?"
"Well...there's another way. I think they're both about the same distance. You can keep going on this road until you come to the four-way stoplight. Then turn left."
"Are those highway miles?"
"You CAN go along the highway...but there's an outer road."
"I need to get to the Super 8 in Backroads."
"Well, both of those ways will take you there."
"Okay. Thank you, Ma'am."
Let the record show that Dude had a couple days beard scruff on his face. He was polite. He didn't ask for money. I felt kind of bad, standing there with a 44 oz Diet Coke and two lottery tickets. I could have offered him a couple of bucks. But he didn't ask. He might have been insulted. I could have offered him a ride. I was going right past where he was headed. Could have had him there in 10 minutes.
Or I could have never been heard from again.
Like today, when I was minding my own business at the open freezer in the middle of Walmart, and a little guy in a jean jacket (and pants, too, which was a plus, considering my weirdo history) pushed his cart up next to me. Let the record show that I was peering into that freezer bin full of TGI Friday's Buffalo Style Boneless Chicken Bites.
"Have you ever tried these?"
"No. I don't like them."
"How many's in a box?"
"I don't know. I was just looking. My husband wanted some for during the Super Bowl."
"Huh. That's too expensive. Almost nine dollars."
"I found these on the first aisle, the freezer section with the doors." I held up a bag of Great Value brand. "I think they're five dollars and something."
The little guy thanked me and wandered off. But not in the direction of the Great Value Boneless Wyngz Buffalo Chicken. Maybe he was trying to pick me up, seeing as how I don't like jewelry and don't wear my wedding ring. Maybe I'm lucky he didn't shove his cart and hit mine like Fonzie taught Richie how to meet women on Happy Days. It's not like I was wearing a blue vest, or standing behind a kiosk with portions of Buffalo chicken in plastic cups.
But that's not the extent of my recent weirdo encounters.
Yesterday I went to the post office and the bank. On the way, I had to sweave over the center line because a dude was walking in my direction, on the edge of the road. It was about 45 degrees. Sunny. He had a sock cap and jeans and a jean jacket, with a backpack on his back. I went about my errands, and came back the same route. Dude was about a mile farther along. I went on past. Parked at the convenience store that finally opened after over a year of construction. I went in for a 44 oz Diet Coke, and cashed in a $10 scratch-off winner for more tickets.
When I came out, there was Dude, sitting on the rack of firewood for sale out front. Instead of staying on the sidewalk, I stepped out into the empty parking spaces to make a beeline for T-Hoe. I kept my eyes averted, making sure there were no potholes or loose pavement on that new blacktop parking lot. Kept my eyes averted. Don't Engage. That's my motto. Well. That, and People Piss Me Off. And still, my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel's mom once referred to me as a Mother Teresa.
"Excuse me, Ma'am...?"
I don't know how I can have such a sour attitude towards humanity, and STILL people find me approachable.
"Yes...?"
"Can you tell me how to get to Backroads?"
"Yes. Keep going on this road. Then you can turn left when you get to Casey's. That road will take you there. Past a lake."
"How far is it?"
"Oh...I don't know...maybe five miles..."
"Is that the shortest way?"
"Well...there's another way. I think they're both about the same distance. You can keep going on this road until you come to the four-way stoplight. Then turn left."
"Are those highway miles?"
"You CAN go along the highway...but there's an outer road."
"I need to get to the Super 8 in Backroads."
"Well, both of those ways will take you there."
"Okay. Thank you, Ma'am."
Let the record show that Dude had a couple days beard scruff on his face. He was polite. He didn't ask for money. I felt kind of bad, standing there with a 44 oz Diet Coke and two lottery tickets. I could have offered him a couple of bucks. But he didn't ask. He might have been insulted. I could have offered him a ride. I was going right past where he was headed. Could have had him there in 10 minutes.
Or I could have never been heard from again.
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