I am about to take you on a tour of what it's like to be Val, thevictorian. No charge. Just a warning that some images might be disturbing.
If you know me from my previous, long-running, and still kickin' blog, you may remember that I'm the kind of woman who forks her hair. Oh, come on. Don't act surprised. Have you ever known a teacher with a fashionable, attractive hair style? For those of you who are not insiders, think back to a time when you saw teachers, members of the AFT, perhaps, walking a picket line. Uh huh. Not an alluring coiffure in the bunch. It's like they just took off a rasta hat, or a shower cap, or used not a fork, but an eggbeater as a comb.
But that is neither here nor there. I am quite satisfied with my lovely lady mullet, plastered though it is some days to my head, like a smaller version of Bob's Big Boy's hairdo. No, what I am about to tell you has nothing to do with my appearance, but rather with appearances. As in, keeping up appearances. I am not obligated to divulge this little incident. It happened in the privacy of my own home. But perhaps it will give you some insight into just what kind of woman Val really is. If you are squeamish, look away. At least for the next two paragraphs.
I am presently drinking from a large cup of water filled with knee ice. The cup itself is no crystal goblet, sparkling and ready to sing with a wetted finger circling its rim. Nope. It's a plastic mug with a lid, emblazoned with BJC Health Care. A remnant from the hospital stay last summer, when my thyroid was ripped from my neck. In this cup, I have a red plastic straw from Sonic. I can use a straw for a week. It's only water.
Every morning and every night, I fill my cup with ice and top it off with water. Cool, clear well water. Mmm. Unfortunately, the in-door ice-maker in my Frigidaire sometimes goes on the fritz. Like tonight. My sixteen-year-old, Genius, cleaned out the clog in the works. The bad news is, he took the remaining ice. That left me with none.
I am not one to swill lukewarm water. Nor can I wait two hours for a cup of ice. So I took the logical step of fishing my knee ice out from behind two frozen containers of chicken broth. The knee ice started out as ice cubes in a Ziploc bag, their purpose being to ease the constant pain of the bursitis in my right knee. As the ice melted, I put it back in Frig, the Frigidaire. It re-froze, and was used another day. Perhaps ten or twelve other days. In fact, as my frigid compress began to leak, I encased it in another Ziploc. It has been stashed away for two weeks or more behind the chicken broth. Out of sight. Out of mind. Until tonight.
My quest for a cool beverage led me to the freezer, with a hope that by gazing longingly into Frig's innards, I could make some ice appear. It worked! I spied the knee ice. Within thirty seconds, I had stripped that frozen log out of its plastic skin, and plopped it into my BJC tankard.
Val is the mother of invention.