Tommy Update, February 2018

Remember our neighbor Tommy? The 58-year-old guy whose mother died, leaving him with no visible means of support, and no transportation? The one Hick and I gave a car? It's time for a little update.

We'd been worried about Tommy. When Hick gave him the car at the end of October,

Tommy was out of work. Oh, he'd gotten a job. Or else Hick wouldn't have given him the car. Their deal was...once Tommy got a job, Hick would drive him for two weeks, and then see about getting him transportation. You can imagine how excited Hick was when Tommy called to say that a lady wanted to interview him. That meant his days of Tommysitting were almost over!

I don't remember how much I told you at the time, or if I just got a post ready and never published it. But Hick took Tommy to that same-day interview, and he was hired on the spot, and started work the next day. At a rat poison factory. Don't you worry about Tommy working in a rat poison factory. He was suited for the job. It required sitting on a stool, pulling a lever to let rat poison pellets drop into a bag going by on a conveyor. I think he might have had to put bags in a cardboard box, too.

Tommy said that the employer bought pizza for everybody's lunch the first two days. Then he rode to a Chinese restaurant with some other employees for couple of days. But he told Hick, "It costs a lot of money to eat lunch." So he started taking a sandwich. Hick dropped him off at 7:30 every morning, and went back to pick him up in the evening. But one day Tommy called in the afternoon, saying he was done and needed a ride home. He said they were out of work. Hick asked if he was supposed to go back the next day, and Tommy said he didn't know. So Hick got up early and took him, but the lady in the office said they would call Tommy if they needed him.

Hick thought this was a nice way of firing Tommy, because maybe he didn't fit in, or work fast enough. When he drove to town subsequent days, he still saw the same cars at the factory, and knew other people were working. Tommy had to sit by the phone and wait on a call, which meant he wasn't asking Hick for a ride to the job service center that never seemed to get him a job (the rat poison factory was one where Hick took him to fill out a paper application).

Anyhoo, while all the waiting was going on, Hick had proceeded to buy the car for Tommy, and get a windshield put in, and buy license for a year and insurance for six months. Hick said that the cost of all that was $1512. He told Tommy that he could pay us back a little at a time, out of his paychecks, whenever he could afford it. That it was fine if he waited until after the first of the year. Neither one of us really expected to be paid back. Which was a good thing, because Tommy only got called back one more day at the rat poison factory. When Hick took him to pick up his check, he figured out that they'd been using Tommy as a day laborer, no withholding, and could only work him a limited number of hours. Like when they had a big order to fill, just to get it done.

That left Tommy with a car, but not a job. Hick emphasized that Tommy should be getting out and putting in applications, but knowing all along that Tommy would be driving himself to that job center to work on a resume that was a never-ending process. He made sure Tommy knew how much gas a trip to town involved, so he wouldn't just waste it going to get a newspaper, and should combine job-seeking and grocery trips and bank visits.

So...we didn't hear from Tommy for the longest time. It's like our little fledgling had flown the nest. I think Hick was truly missing Tommy for a couple weeks. The only time Tommy called was when he had a flat tire, but didn't have a jack. Which Hick knew. Hick went over to look at it, and took his air compressor. I think he also took Tommy a jack.

"I filled that tire up with air. I could see something stuck in the tire. I probably could have brought it over to the BARn and put a plug in it. Then I figured, what's he gonna do if I'm not around to help him? So I told him that it was fine to drive to town, and that the repair shop next to Save A Lot could fix it for him for a couple of dollars."

The next time we heard from Tommy was when he stopped on the gravel road, passing Hick going the other way, and said he was on his way to town TO HIS JOB! He had gone to visit the local Space Museum, and they were hiring, so he applied. He got the job, for which I think he is well-suited. Like Hick says, Tommy is clean. He dresses okay. And this job is showing people around the museum, telling them about each piece of memorabilia. Tommy loves that kind of stuff. And whether he's telling about it the first time, or the 10,001st time, he's equally enthusiastic. Right now he's working 28 hours a week. That must be enough for him, because I see him every week or so, coming or going, in his car.

On Monday, Tommy called our house phone but didn't leave a message. I heard his name announced by the caller ID. I figured if it was important, he would have left a message, because he always did before. Besides, he has Hick's cell phone number, even though Hick told him to quit calling it, because that number is a long distance charge for Tommy. When Hick got home from his storage units that evening, I mentioned the Tommy call.

"Oh, he left me a voice mail on my cell phone. He wants to start making payments on his car. He gets paid every two weeks, and wants to pay us $25 each paycheck."

You're Not Gonna Believe Val's Buffoonery This Time

Okay. You probably ARE going to believe Val's buffoonery this time. Val is a well-known buffoonist. Usually inadvertently, though. She's not a professional.

I suppose the real joke is on me. But perhaps you'll get a laugh at my expense.

Winter is hard on my hands. The dry air, and hand-washing dishes, and hand-washing my hands if I'm out somewhere, make for scrapes and cracks on my fingers. I know the very best way to remedy this affliction is to coat my hands with Vaseline, shove them into a pair of socks, and sleep while my skin gets a moisturizing treatment.

I forget about that, though, when I head to bed at 3:00 a.m.

This problem is even worse if I'm on a trip, or at a casino. I guess it's an excess of handwashing and paper-towel or blazing-air drying. I have several tubes of lotion that I keep in A-Cad's glove box, my gambling purse, in my suitcase, and in a travel bag that sits on the end table in the living room. I also have a big bottle of lotion sitting on the counter by the bathroom sink, which I apply as I head out after my shower. It doesn't work all that great, but it IS good for rubbing on a raw nose if you blow it excessively during a cold.

A week or two ago, I rummaged through my travel bag, and found a spare tube of lotion that I carried down to my dark basement lair. Over the past couple of days, I've been using it when my hands feel especially cracky.

I love that lotion! When I first put it on, I got a whiff of the scent, and it was bittersweet. My mood, actually, because the scent was very sweet indeed. It reminded me of our first trips to Oklahoma, to take The Pony to an orientation week, and then to move him out to Norman and leave him at OU. So the smell brought back good times, of us being all excited about The Pony's future and next step in life, and sad times, when we left him behind and started back. But overall, it's a good memory that my tube of lotion elicits.

Last night I applied some lotion for the second time that day. I'd washed dishes three times, after making Chex Mix, and a pot of soup. While that lotion usually stays on a long time, making my hands feel silky, even it cannot hold up to three sinks of Dawn dishwashing liquid.

After rubbing in a thin line of lotion, as I was snapping the lid closed, I took a good look an my magical moisturizer.

WTF?

Looks like I have been, for the past year-and-a-half, singing the praises of, and rubbing my hands with...A HAIR PRODUCT! "Deep Recovery Hair Mask," it says! Professional! "Developed to treat extra dry or over-processed hair!"

Sometimes I can't believe my own stupidity! I swear, my knuckles are not hairy! This stuff works great on skin. A couple times a day. Even though it's "the concentrated weekly treatment" for dry and over-processed hair!

Not even gonna lie. I plan to continue using it on my hands.

Would YOU Come A-Dumpin' If This Room Was A-Thumpin'?

Things unknown have been pretty calm here lately, since the Christmas holiday and CasinoPalooza 3. However...they ramped up again a couple weeks ago.

Not every night, but more often than not, I've been hearing things upstairs. It's generally around 1:30 to 2:00. Not exactly footsteps this time, or someone turning over in Genius's bed. Heavy thumps. One a night. Not every night. A couple of times, it came from the boys' bathroom. That area is directly over my head as I sit in my OPC (Old People Chair). It's hard to pretend this one is just the ductwork popping when the furnace kicks on or off. Because it's a single thump. More of a clang. Like a metal foot locker dropping into a cast-iron bathtub. Which we don't have in there. It's fiberglass.

I've also heard a couple of thumps in The Pony's room. It's carpeted. And so the thump is muffled. Like maybe if a toddler jumped off a bed, or somebody dropped a cast-iron cookpot that cowboys hang over a campfire full of beans. We don't have a toddler or a cookpot. There's also been a couple of thumps in Genius's room. The same sound. On different nights. There's not a pattern, except I heard the bathroom sound three nights in a row.

There has been some walking in the kitchen, but Hick only admitted to going in there one night, for a drink, since he had a cold.

Wednesday night, when I went upstairs to bed around 3:30 a.m., I went to the hall closet that's by the boys' bedrooms and bathroom, to get a roll of toilet paper. I felt kind of self-conscious after hearing stuff in this area lately. Not the kind of feeling like your hair is standing on end, like something is fixing to happen. This was just a general sense of unease. I told myself (not out loud) that I was being stupid. I figured I'd fetch that roll of toilet paper, and get to my end of the house.

I SWEAR I HEARD SOMETHING SCURRY IN GENIUS'S ROOM!

Like somebody hustling from the middle of the room, or behind the door, over to the bed. I didn't hear the bed creak, though. That might have caused me a mental breakdown! Weird, hearing something in there while I was right outside, and not all the way downstairs.

Let the record show that we keep the doors to the boys' rooms closed. No reason, really. I don't think it saves on our heating bill. They've both cleaned most of their stuff out, so the rooms aren't really an eyesore. And besides, we rarely have visitors. Of the human kind.

Thursday evening, I went out to bring the dumpster back down the driveway. I took my CPO jacket off the post of the wooden rail that runs around the rectangular opening where the steps lead down to the basement. It runs from that hall closet, makes a 90 degree turn, and runs to the front door area. There's a wood box there where the boys kept their play shoes. I hang jackets and coats on the corner post at the 90 degree angle.

When I came in from retrieving the dumpster, and went to hang my CPO jacket back on that post, I saw that my purple heavy Berber coat with a hood, that I'd used for bus duty days at school, to patrol the parking lot, had fallen to the floor. Weird. I'm sure the coat just fell because it was unbalanced. But it HAD been hanging there since I retired a year and a half ago, and we cleaned out the back of T-Hoe. Yes, I'm sure it was just a coincidence. I probably jostled it while getting my CPO jacket off the post. My heather sage green baseball-style jacket was hanging on the rail in between them, though. And only the purple heavy Berber coat with a hood had fallen. They weren't even touching.

I looked at that purple heavy Berber coat with a hood, laying there on the floor. And then at the heather sage green baseball-style jacket still hanging over the rail. I snatched up that purple heavy Berber coat with a hood and took it straight to Genius's room and tossed it on the bed, then hurried out and closed the door.

TAKE THAT!

...was the thought in my mind.

I didn't dare say it out loud.

I Cried Because I Drove a Dirty T-Hoe...and Then I Met a Man Who Pulled This Trailer

I was shocked the other day when I drove over to Hick's new Freight Container Garage and saw how he had been hauling the treasures from his 18 unpaid-for storage units that he forked over $1100 cash for the privilege of cleaning out. Silly me. I had ASSumed he was using his long trailer. The one that can haul a car. The one he had loaded up with hay bales for a Halloween hayride attached to his tractor. I'd even worried about him pulling that big ol' thing back and forth to town a couple times a day. Nope. I shouldn't have. Hick was using a smaller trailer. Much to my new-found chagrin.

Honestly. I take no responsibility for this monstrosity. Atrocity. Scourge upon the landscape. I didn't even know he had it. Nor did I know that he had NOT traded in the matching camper shell that so beautifully went with The Pony's little 4WD maroon Ford Ranger pickup truck, but had kept that, because his handshake deal did not mention that the camper shell went with it.

Feast your eyes, folks:

THIS is what I saw being unloaded over at the Freight Container Garage! When Hick calls it a homemade trailer for licensing purposes...he's RIGHT! I didn't get the picture when I was over there talking to him, but Hick gladly took a couple pictures to send me. Because he's proud of his homemade trailer!

I can't with this, people! I just can't! I usually own up to my low-class hillbillyness. But I am SO EMBARRASSED by this trailer! Seriously! WHO would drive around pulling this thing? HICK! That's who!

I don't mean to put on airs. But we all know that people are judgmental. My sister's husband the ex-mayor feels superior to me because he drives a clean Expedition, and I drive a dirty, dirty Tahoe. I feel superior to people who drive those tiny clown cars. The clown car people feel superior to those who drive golf carts and side-by-sides to town. The golf cart and side-by-side people feel superior to those who ride bicycles. The cyclists are pretty sure they're better off that the mobility scooter people, who feel superior to folks who walk with a cane, who feel superior to someone who's in a motorized wheelchair, who think they're better off that someone who has to be PUSHED in a wheelchair. It's all a descending chain, like The Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly, or The House That Jack Built.

I'm here to tell you, people, that after seeing this homemade trailer, I cannot feel superior to anybody!!! I am the bottom of the barrel. A lowly snail, creeping about on a slime trail. I was SO FORTUNATE to be behind Hick the other day, as he left for town. I caught a few pictures of his homemade trailer in action.

Here it goes, passing in front of a neighbor's barn.

Down the bumpy blacktop hill that Hick made.

And out onto the blacktop county road, for the general public to admire.

You know, Hick is really good at building things. He's great with those themed sheds, and that giant Freight Container Garage, and making steps and rails for our porch, and a deck around Poolio. Yes, Hick is really good at building things. This trailer is not one of them.

It won't hurt my feelings at all if you want to give your impression of Hick's homemade trailer. In fact, it might make me feel better if you commiserate with me.

What say you?

Some Days, I Think I've Soured on My Sweetie

Last week when I drove dirty, dirty T-Hoe over to the Freight Container Garage, I confronted Hick about an item he had found in one of his ill-gotten storage units. He'd sent me a picture of it. Gloating perhaps. Bragging for sure. So here now, I reveal, the slight of enormous proportions that Hick engineered, consciously, or unconsciously.

But first...let's establish a few facts. This is the time of year that leads up to Valentine's Day. And also to Val's birthday. Just so you know. Those two major holidays loom on the horizon. You might think that perhaps my Sweet Baboo might be making plans for a gift for his special gal. The same one who came up with the $1100 in cash for him to buy the privilege of cleaning out 18 storage units. You might think. Then again, we're talking about Hick. So you might not.

Anyhoo...I had just recently received that picture of abandoned storage unit swag, and that thorn in my side had me wanting to pick a bone with Hick.

"I got that picture you sent me."

"Yeah. Isn't it nice?"

"How do you know it's real?"

"There's a certificate with it that says it's real. I'm gonna ask my buddy at the auction what it's worth."

"So you never thought...before you sent me that picture...'Huh. This might be a good present for Val's birthday, or maybe Valentine's Day. I could surprise her with it. She'll have no idea."

"No. I know you don't like jewelry and stuff."

"Well, I don't really like three-dollar change purses, either. But Sno-Caps are pretty delicious."

I guess maybe I can't fault Hick for knowing what I like and what I don't like. YES I CAN! But the truth is, I'm not really one to wear jewelry. I guess I'm lucky that he didn't think about giving me THIS:

I'll be okay with two boxes of Sno-Caps for a gift. Really.

Don't Trust Your Junk to No Machiavellian Backroads Sawyer

Can we take just a minute here, to provide a paraphrased song lyric title for my blog buddy Sioux? She's been busy of late, and I'm sure she would welcome a paraphrase in her honor, just to see if she still has her lyric-decipherin' chops. Anybody can guess, though! We don't have to wait on Sioux. She'll either know it when she reads the title, or not. I don't take her for a cheater.

I've been thinking about this storage unit owner who sold Hick the 18 storage units for $1100. He's quite the genius, really. Right up there with Tom Sawyer. Surely everybody in the Blogosphere remembers how Tom Sawyer, when tasked with whitewashing Aunt Polly's fence, managed to lure other boys into doing it, while making them pay for the privilege of painting! Sure, Tom didn't get $1100 from them. But he got a brass doorknob, and a partially-eaten apple, and a kitten with one eye, and a key that didn't open anything. For a boy in that time and place, that was almost as good as $1100.

That storage unit owner is crafty, like Tom Sawyer! He had storage units full of junk, that people didn't pay their monthly fee on. So in order to continue his livelihood, Storage Unit Owner needed to get rid of those people's stuff, so he could rent out the units to new paying customers. What a lot of work that would have been! For a man to open up 18 storage units, and carry out the junk, load it on a trailer, and haul it away. Over and over again. Until those units were empty, and ready to rent anew, and make income again.

Oh, if only there was some way to have somebody else do all that work. Wait a minute! There WAS a way! Tell somebody he could have the junk he took out. Yeah. Job done. But WAIT! How about CHARGING that dude for the privilege of doing all that work? YEAH! Not only give him all the junk to haul away, but make him PAY to do it! Oh, yeah! And give him a two-week deadline, so those 18 units would be ready to rent at the 1st of the month!

What a scathingly brilliant idea! Get those 18 storage units cleaned out in two weeks, without lifting  a finger, and make $1100 off the deal!

Yep. That Storage Unit Owner is some Machiavellian Backroads Sawyer.

If I was you, I wouldn't forget to pay the monthly fee for storing my junk with him.

This Week Just Doesn't Make Cents

After such a profitable start to my new year, I can't believe that I only found ONE SINGLE PENNY this week! Have I lost my mojo?
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PENNY # 11 - January 30, 2018 (Tuesday)  Gas Station Chicken Store outside by door, 2000
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My dependable magical elixir provider provided my single penny. I was on my way in, having parked off to the side, by the moat. I was reaching for the door handle when I saw it! I put my $45 worth of to-be-cashed-in winning scratchers between my teeth, to free up both hands for operating my cell phone camera. Pics or it didn't happen, right?

Anyhoo...I found my penny face down under the drive-through roof over the gas pumps, right by the door.

Of course I was interrupted by two dingbats from the parking area by the road. Oh, they didn't bother me or get in my way, or even say anything to me. But they were THERE! Witnesses! I didn't want to be seen as THAT weirdo. The weirdo who takes picture of the ground. Maybe they looked at me as a Jessica Fletcher with updated technology, documenting a crime scene, collecting evidence. No. Most likely they didn't. They probably had never heard of Jessica Fletcher. They were 20-somethings. And they were HAF.

You know what HAF is, right? They were HIGH AS...EFF!

Seriously. They were as giggly and giddy as middle school girls. One went straight to the chicken counter to order chicken strips. The other wandered around the cooler at the back, peering through the glass doors at sodas and alcoholic beverages. She grabbed neither, then joined her fellow HAFer at the chicken counter, asking about chicken nuggets. A dude came in, and appeared to be with them, or at least know them.

Next thing I knew, they were standing too close to me in the line at the counter. Cutting up and finding everything hilarious. They didn't DO anything wrong. They didn't make contact, or make fun of me. They were just annoying. Too close. Laughing hilariously at nothing. HAF. I'm pretty sure of that, even though I didn't shine a penlight into their pupils, or get a whiff of smokeable high-maker. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Unless they were driving themselves, not riding with that dude. Or on a lunch break from work at the local can-opener factory or rat poison factory.

I'm thinking that maybe these two gals had been parked around back, filling their heads with free air from the hose. Hope they each paid $1.00 for using that free air!
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For 2018: Penny #11.
For 2018: Dimes still at #4, 5

For 2018: Nickel still at #1

Since 2017 (the beginning), this was Penny # 89 .
Since 2017 (the beginning), still at Dimes #10, 11.
Since 2017 (the beginning), still at Nickel #1.
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