Future Enterprisers, Take Note

I have been enjoying a staycation this week. Hick took Genius and The Pony on a little vacation to the Badlands, through the valley of the shadow of Roosevelt's nose, (yes, I'm listening to Emmylou Harris right now), and up Pike's Peak. I've been there. I dislike vacation travel immensely. So we are all enjoying the best of both worlds right now.

They left Friday morning. I had an optometrist appointment at 2:30, so I fiddled around enjoying myself with a couple loads of laundry, a sink full of dishes, and some bill-paying. Lunch was debated amongst me, myself, and I. The office was 20 minutes away. I didn't want a big spread. But I didn't want to put off the meal until after the appointment. So I settled for a Banquet.

A sorrier name for a product you'll never see than Banquet. A banquet is an elaborate, sumptuous repast. Mine was neither sumptuous, nor elaborate. And repast is in question. I was not expecting Paula Deen cuisine. Or even Lean Cuisine. I am a bargain shopper, you see. Every now and then, on my jaunts to Save A Lot, I toss a couple of Banquets in the cart for Hick in case I have to stay after work, or for a rare occasion when I want to ingest a hot meal at the school lunch table. They only cost $0.88, you know. Which means they are horribly overpriced.

The one I grabbed was meant for Hick. I'm more of a Boneless BBQ Pork Rib kind of gal, whereas he's a Chicken Fried Steak kind of guy. He's lucky I saved him from this one. He might have had a flashback to the unfortunate Linguine with Clam Sauce debacle. I will not take the fall for that one. Hick picked it out for himself. So it's not my fault he was green for three days, and missed work, and thought he was the first man ever to have food poisoning. Who buys a TV dinner with clam sauce, for cryin' out loud? Apparently, nobody but Hick, because I haven't seen them for about twelve years now.

Anyway, I must report that my Chicken Fried Steak was as tasty as a wet piece of drywall that might have fallen off a sodden ceiling into a plastic tray compartment of bland white paste, right next to some see-through mashed potatoes and neon-yellow corn. Normally, I like the corn in Banquet frozen dinners, but on this day I saw no reason to consume a healthy vegetable when I was busy desiccating my internal tissues with a boatload of processed sodium.

This meal made the frozen Salisbury-steakcicle that Tom Cruise as Joel Goodson licked for his supper in Risky Business look good. But then, he had a glass of whiskey with a drop of Coke on the side. The Banquet people are crazy-smart to call their product Banquet. Some of them must have been Future Enterprisers. Instead of making a Memo-Minder, they made Grub in a Box, and named it Banquet.

Mirror, Mirror

While I was biding my time in the optometrist's chair, I let my peepers roam about the exam room. Straight ahead, mounted side-by-side on the wall, were two square mirrors. I know they are used to reflect the vision chart once the lights go down. But during down time, they are simply mirrors. As such, they reminded me that I am not the fairest one of all. In fact, they reminded me that I really needed to touch up my roots. Cheeky mirrors.

It's not that I was rockin' the skunk look. Than unfortunate coiffure faux pas sometimes befalls those of us who inherited our dad's dark brown locks rather than our mother's red tresses. Especially those of us with grandparents known for their flowing white manes during their septuagenarian decade, the foundation for such having been laid down in their twenties. It's true. I come from an early-graying lineage. Not a problem. After the first thirty or forty inquisitive adolescents kindly graced me with the observation, "Hey! You have gray hair!" I decided to remedy the situation. And never looked back. I even find it entertaining when the students ask, "Did you dye your hair?" Because they think I am just doing it for a darker shade. That's what they do, you know. Nobody ever insinuates that it's to cover gray. I would like to think that they are uber-compassionate and do so to spare my feelings. But all signs point more towards inattentive oblivion.

Recessed in the ceiling in front of the mirrors was a row of lights. I'm not sure why they were positioned so. The doc always dims them for the exam, and  uses a hand-held torch to peer into my soul. I don't know the exact number of foot-candles emitted by the ceiling, but the ambience was much like a community theater stage. I briefly considered putting on my own private show. A dance routine, perhaps. A chorus line of one.

I could have presented, for my two-mirror audience's pleasure, that dancing frog routine: "Hello, my honey! Hello, my baby! Hello, my ragtime doll!" But since I was lacking a cane and top hat, a simple kick-ball-change beginning tap routine would have had to suffice. I'm not a natural dancer. That must come as quite a surprise to you. Some might think my hoofing more akin to that of Rhoda in The Bad Seed, with her Claude-Daigle-bashing metal taps, than that of Ann Miller. Far be it from me to try and sway the tide of public opinion.

Alas, my Chorus Line audition was rain-checked for another day. The doctor chose that moment to enter and get down to business. I think he saved me from a fate worse that being caught out of the chair, jotting down blog ideas in a tiny spiral notebook.

And Now, the Rest of the Story

I mentioned that I made a visit to the optometrist Friday. And while sitting in the waiting room, I got the urge. That uncontrollable urge...to write. Believe me, it was worse than those dripping bladder pipe people driving in pipe cars, or the overly-distended balloon-bladder people at the class reunion. I could barely control it.

I started making up mind pictures. Then, like the eighth digit that would have broken the telephone number's back, an idea tried to take hold. My short-term memory cache was full. My mind overflowed like a toilet flushed by a want-ad handyman who had the other urge while breaking up a concrete porch slab. I searched for mental towels to sop up the runoff. The assistant called my name.

There I was, walked through the maze and into a darkened room, directed to sit here, put my chin there, lean my forehead thus, open my eye wide, grab the clicker, squeeze when I saw wavy lines, move to this chair, lean forward, look at the red barn at the end of the lane, don't move, wait here. My overflowing thoughts had suspended themselves. I couldn't dwell on them, what with a woman, man, and different assistant behind me in the dark, performing a different, unconfidential medical test. I ran through my mental picture gallery. At least it was intact.

My assistant (I like the sound of that) called me into the exam room. She directed me to a chair in the corner. After leafing through my folder, she motioned for me to sit in the exam chair. I got up, expecting her to leave and go about her business. She watched me. It was unnerving. Did she think I was incapable of striding three steps to the other seat? Did she expect me to trip? Fear that my gargantuan proportions would not fit between the armrests? Have a premonition that I would make an escape? Anticipate a monetary gratuity? She stared at me until I was ensconced in the hot seat. Then she left and closed the door.

I tried to be good. For all I knew, they had hidden cameras. I conjured up my story images plus overflow. Mistake. More ideas began to surge. The looming contraptions spoke to me. "I'm worth a lot of money. The doctor is still paying for me. Don't touch me. I know you want to. Your fingerprints can be traced. Look at me. My name is Phoroptor. I was deadly in the dinosaur days. I can be reanimated. NO! Look at ME! I'm Topcon. I am privy to state secrets. Maybe you've heard of my cousin, DEFCON. My relatives work deep inside Cheyenne Mountain. Can you keep a secret?"

I may just be channeling Danny in the topiary of the Overlook Hotel (Help me, Dick Halloran!) but I think I saw one of the shining metal monsters move. I turned way. I swung my feet down off the foot-holder platform. I leaned forward. This chair was not built for comfort. Who knew how much longer my wait would be? In the dark room, there had been a debate about who to call back first, the dude already in there who had a 2:45 appointment, or the dude who had a 2:15 appointment but got there at 2:35. They settled on Mr. 2:15. Sucked to be Mr. 2:45, all early-arrivin' for his time slot, taken back ahead of the prima donna belle of the ball, only to be sidelined for his royal majesty.

Normally, I am a goody-two-shoes, and follow directions to a T. Not anymore. My bad two shoes stepped down from that torture rack and walked over to my purse, from which I took my black-covered, $.79, flip-top, spiral mini-notebook. I furtively filled three pages with cryptic scribblage. I was afraid of being caught, of being assumed a secret shopper, of having my materials confiscated. And I don't even read mysteries.

Whew! I felt so much better after relieving myself of those ideas. I climbed back into the exam chair successfully, without supervision. The doctor came in, checked out the windows to my soul, and released me.

Heavy equipment for optometry office: astronomical.
Annual eye exam with insurance: five dollars.
Enough material for a week of blog posts: priceless.

Out and About with Val

Maybe I need to change my style. It's getting all Wild Kingdom up in here. Looking back over the last couple of weeks, I've had the moth, the chicken, the spider, the possum. I might as well start a cooking blog: Val's Bizarre Hillbilly Treats. Is it a Freudian slip that I first typed "teats" in place of treats? That would be a different blog entirely.

Yesterday I had an appointment with the optometrist. I didn't take a book with me like I do at the doctor's office, because I didn't want my eyes all focusing and unfocusing just before the exam. An opto appointment is not as stressful as a doctor's appointment. There are no sick people to breathe on you, only whiny kids who commandeer the ceiling-mounted TV for cartoons that they pointedly ignore. And I was lucky enough to get a 2:30 appointment, so no whiny kids were around. Nap time, you know.

Another good thing about the opto office is the carpeting throughout. More homey instead of industrial. You know there won't be any emergency gurney-racing down the halls, or clean-up pages for various and sundry effluences that might taint the tile. Once you get back to the inner sanctum, you don't see sharp or hosey objects that may be applied to your body. Only stainless steel contraptions that twist and turn and telescope and retract, kind of like adult Transformer toys.

After checking in with picture ID and insurance cards, I sat down to wait. And wouldn't you know it? I got the urge. Don't you find that you get the urge at the most inconvenient times in the most inconvenient places? You know what I'm talking about...the urge to write. Thoughts were pinging through my noggin like spitballs through a classroom controlled by a substitute. I was generating enough material for a week's worth of posts. On both my blogs. Woe was me. I started making pictures in my mind. That's a way to remember things, I've been told. If you can't remember names, then when you're introduced to John Goodman, picture a dude sitting on a toilet with a teacher's red stamp of "Good" on his forehead.

I don't want to foreshadow what you're in for this week, but my picture was somebody peeing on Tom Cruise, who had gray roots and feet dripping with sweat.

Say Hello to my Great Big Friend

Unbagging the Cats: not just a crummy memoir-writer's blog anymore. Now with more Lepidoptera!

I found him on the porch this afternoon. Please excuse the quality of the photo. I did not have the expensive camera of my son, Genius, at my disposal. This is from my phone. In order to get Mothra to stand out, the background kind of blew out in an atomic-bomb-like flash. Technology is not my friend.

This is a Luna Moth. It only lives for one week. That's because it has no mouth for eating people's sweaters, or perhaps foliage. The main duty of this fine specimen of adult Luna is to mate. That might explain the faded, tattered body found on the porch under the Dolomedes fishing spider a few days ago. It either loved and died, or was murdered by Spidey. Which reminds me of a Hick tale.

When Hick first discovered the unregulated livestock auction a few miles from our home, he started with chickens and rabbits, then branched out to a guinea, then declared that he needed a turkey. He found one a couple weeks later. It was a dark turkey, not wild-looking and thin, but more like a kid's drawing of a Thanksgiving turkey. Without the neon-colored, finger-shaped tail feathers.

The turkey could often be found in front of Hick's truck, fanning his tail, admiring himself (and sometimes fighting himself) in the bumper reflection of his likeness. Hick decided that Turkey needed a mate. Hick loved that bird. On more than one occasion, I stuck my head out the door to hear, "Who's a big turkey? Who's a big turkey? Him's a big ol' turkey!"

The first wife did not last long. She was a dainty white bird, perhaps of the Butterball persuasion. Turkey and the Missus did not bond. Hick was always trying to play the matchmaker. One day, when he went out to feed, Turkey attempted to consummate the union. Hick went on about his business of stalking his new goat. He heard a commotion, but figured that Turkey was enthusiastic about his amorous adventure.

When Hick returned to the scene of Turkey's honeymoon, he found the Missus dead. She had been loved to death.

Dog-Eating Pony Thrives Despite Unusual Diet

Here are the latest stories, ripped from the headlines of Val's life.

Dog-Eating Pony Thrives Despite Unusual Diet
A thirteen-year-old midwestern boy appears to be hale and hearty, in spite of consuming mass quantities of corn dogs. The little fellow, referred to as The Pony by his family, due to an aversion to My Little Pony Happy Meal toys earlier in his youth, has a taste for the maize canines. He insisted on taking one in his school lunch every day for the entire year. According to The Pony, "I would never eat that junk they serve in the cafeteria." The thought of setting a world record such as that of the Big Mac eater has never occurred to The Pony. "I just like corn dogs," he said.

Wetland Draining Long Overdue
A local woman finally shamed her son into hooking up a dehumidifier that had been placed in her basement two weeks ago by her passive-aggressive husband. She had originally requested a new dehumidifier before Mother's Day. The old appliance had ceased sucking moisture from the air, but continued to emit jet-engine decibels. Bear Grylls recently considered a Man vs. Basement episode, but declined after declaring that a case of basement rot could end his career. He likened the moisture content of the subterranean air to "...the humidity of 10,000 rain forests." Actual humidity was revealed by the new, working dehumidifier to be 75%, or, "Normal," as the man-of-the-house stated. A fact check revealed that this individual had no knowledge of ambient humidity levels, or even a passing acquaintance with reality.

Budding Architect Completes Construction of Eckrich-Ritz Tower
A sixteen-year-old architecture savant revealed his new design Wednesday evening, to an unsuspecting crowd of one. There was no formal ribbon-cutting, but the audience was heard to exclaim, "Ah!" Construction took 90 seconds. Materials consisted of Eckrich Smoked Sausage, sliced to two baloney-widths thick, and Ritz Crackers, low-fat variety. Additional support was provided by Oberle cheese. The tower was pyramidal in shape, with a base of five Ritzes, tapering to an Oberle spire, with load-bearing duties executed by Eckrich. The adolescent engineer has a history of such construction projects, two former structures being his Tokashima Inn (seen below) made entirely of playing cards, and the nomenclaturally-challenged Cat House of  '05.

Missouri Man Harvests Bumper Crop 
A southeast Missouri gentleman farmer is resting on his laurels after harvesting a bumper crop of hen fruit. His refrigerator was filled to the brim this week with brown, green, and cream-colored eggs from his free-range chickens. At last count, his wife found eighty eggs cooling their never-to-be-hatched heels on the bottom shelf. A woman of unremarkable talents, she banished the crop from the house in a fit of jealousy over the farmer's achievement.

Bouts of Sporadic Excavation Observed in the Heartland
Mrs. Val Thevictorian has been heard tapping the keyboard in feverish fits and starts, one day after being released from her sentence of 174 days of school-teaching. She is rumored to be mining her memory for appropriate anecdotes to fill a book-length humor manuscript. Sources close to the wanna-be author report that the world is a much safer place with Val ensconced in her basement lair for the summer. The sources were also heard laying odds on who in her right mind would want to read what they call "Thevictorian's Folly."

The Chicken Pants for Thee

It was so hot today, our chickens were panting. They held their beaks half-open, enough that you could see their tongues. Either they were panting, or they were in awe of my presence. They come running the minute they hear a door open. Front door, basement door, garage door, car door...any old door will do. I confess to spoiling them with handouts. They are not picky chickens.

Their preferred treat is cantaloupe. If it doesn't split open when I toss it off the porch, they peck their way to the center. The seeds appear to be the most appealing to a chicken's taste buds. They also love cereal and bread and tortillas and strawberry tops and corn cobs. The chickens clean the cobs, then the goats get the rest. They are efficient garbage-disposing machines. We repay our fowl friends by stealing their eggs and depriving them of families. Too bad, so sad. That's what happens when you're born low down on the food chain.

If only they could be trained to partake of the Dolomedes tenebrosus before it reaches the house.