More on the Creeping Crud Conspiracy

I know there is a conspiracy to infect me with the flu virus.

There must be. Everywhere I appear, people go out of their way to share their sickness. There must be a ring of top-level secret operatives who track my movements. Sure, they look like everyday Backroads denizens. But they are highly trained to take out Val with one sneeze.

Take, for instance, the District Honors Band concert on Monday night. Hick could not attend, being needed elsewhere for a meeting with parents of the junior class that involved Genius. My mom volunteered to go, perhaps looking for another opportunity to show off her three purse knives. We selected seats on the end of the oval field house. Most people sat in the main section, behind the conductor, facing the band. The choir was on the opposite side of the oval, taking up seventy percent of the seats. Mom and I had a good view of The Pony's face, a side view of the conductor, and were as happy as a baby who just found his feet with our somewhat isolated seats.

A woman walked in and crossed in front of me. She stepped up to my row and sat down. My nonexistent conjoined twin could sit farther away than that woman did from me. Nobody else was within eight rows or thirty feet of us. Let me reiterate: we did not have prime seats. Oh, and did I mention that the Close Lady had a hacking cough? Yeah. And instead of facing forward, like most people do who sit on bleachers, she turned sideways, like a man with size sixteen shoes descending steep stairs. Did she turn to the side away from me? What do you think? Heck no. She angled herself toward me, the better to spray her phlegm over my encroached bubble of personal space like mist over the produce at the local Backroads County Mart. But without the cute thunder noise to warn me. Unless some of you find a noise like hacking up a human hairball cute.

Every time I needed to inhale, I turned toward my mom. She offered to trade places with me. I declined. She was on the end, by the stairs, where people sometimes paused before walking down. And breathed and coughed while gathering enough oxygen to continue. That would be just asking for infection. Unlike sitting away from people. Or so I assumed. I've really got to stop doing that.

At the surgery center with Hick on Tuesday morning, we faced a minefield of hackers. They were scattered randomly, like bombs on a Minesweeper game. I cut across a middle row, where nobody had yet staked out a place to expire from lack of oxygen, and made a beeline for the back row, in front of the windows. Hick followed. "Why are you sitting way back here?"

I don't blame him for his line of questioning. He was, in fact, there for surgery to repair torn cartilage in his right knee. And my chosen encampment was as far away from the reception desk and operating suite entrance as one could get. We were at the opposite end of the hypotenuse that formed when the rectangular waiting room was bisected by a diagonal. That's a free math lesson for you. Using your brain in later years can slow the onset of dementia, you know. Use it or lose it. Which is how I justified making Hick walk up to that reception desk twice on his bad knee.

The Hacking Bombs sat on their duffs and hacked at intermittent intervals. If they only had the wherewithal to organize, they could have treated us to an impromptu performance of the Hallelujah Chorus, to rival that of the barking dogs Jingle Bells. So sly was I! They were all coughing AWAY from where I sat. Plus, I had the positive air flow of the cold draft from the window pushing the room air forward. The only fly in my clean air ointment was the lady to my left. She was merely accompanying her own husband while happily hacking to beat the band. She was superfluous. The Hacking Bombs had numbers without her. But she insisted on supporting her dude. And she got up every five minutes to walk across in front of me to the corner coffee and snack room, hacking all the way.

I'd like to know her secret agent badge number.

Choir and the Art of Removing Skin from Felines

Last night I went to watch The Pony play his trombone in the District Honors Band. There are eleven schools in our conference, so this was quite a production. As if a full band was not enough, the District Honors Choir also performed. That's a lot of middle-schoolers under one roof.

The choir went first. One of the songs they sang was Alabama's Mountain Music. You know the one..."Oh, play me some mountain music, like Grandma and Grandpa used to play, then I'll float on down the river, to a Cajun hideaway." They did other songs, too. And very well. But this is the one that caught my attention. Because when they got to a certain part, it was missing. I don't know if they left out the whole stanza, or switched the words. I was too busy noticing that a crucial part was not sung.

I did not hear..."Climb a long tall hick'ry. Bend it over, "skinnin' cats."

Now it's possible that the kids did not enunciate clearly. And it's possible that my old ears ain't what they used to be. But I was listening specifically for that part. I heard about drifting away like Tom Sawyer, and swimmin' across the river to prove that I'm a man. But as my mom is my witness, I did not hear about skinnin' cats.

Was I merely inattentive? Or was this song censored? Who doesn't know what "skinnin' cats" means? Well. Apparently, my son The Pony, my husband Hick, and my stepson The Veteran. Go figure! I'm sure all of my readers, as persons of a certain age, have skinned a cat or two. Pity my poor Hick, who must have had quite a disadvantaged childhood, bereft of cat-skinning. I know he was poor. But I didn't think anyone could be so poor as to be denied the inalienable right to skin a cat.

Are we so politically correct now that we cannot sing about a childhood playground gymnastic move? Seriously? My sister and I used to skin cats all the time. We were nigh on world-record-caliber cat-skinners. We skinned cats in the backyard on our rusty swingset. You remember swingsets, don't you? Those metal contraptions with a couple of swings, a two-man glider, and an attached slide that burned the flesh off your rumpus from noon 'til four? The legs of said swingset that lifted off the ground once your swing reached a certain altitude, threatening to tip the whole kit 'n' caboodle over on your head?

That little yellow bar that held the two blue legs at one end of our swingset together, the end opposite from the slide, was our favorite skinnin' place. First, we grabbed that bar and pulled our legs up over it so we were hangin' upside down. Then we swung our legs back away from the bar so we kind of turned inside out. At just the right moment, we knew to let go with our hands and drop onto our feet, right side up again. Because otherwise, I'm pretty sure something gristly and grindy would have happened in the shoulder area. And the back of our head might have whacked that bar. It's been a long time. But I know what skinnin' a cat means.

And so, it seems, does this unidentified connoisseur of cat-skinnin' that I found on the internet.

Perhaps these days, it must be done under cover of darkness.

Backroads' Most Wanted

Shh...don't let Homeland Security in on this, but my mom is a latent Public Enemy Number One.

Last week, we attended The Pony's academic team meet. One of his buddies has a younger brother, so the parents had picked up some earphones for him to listen to his computer games while the meet was in progress. You know how hard those plastic packages are to pry open. The mother came to our table and asked if anybody had some scissors.

Don't go thinking that folks here in Backroads roam the countryside, concealing scissors willy-nilly. That's not our style. The academic coach was sitting at our library table, so the mother was wondering if there might be scissors in the librarian's desk. She wasn't being forward. She's also a faculty member within the district. We have certain unalienable rights. Don't begrudge them. We have so few perks.

Before Coach could rifle through the librarian's desk, my mom hauled her snack-filled purse onto the table. She rummaged momentarily, then withdrew a zippered bag. The kind of purse bag that most women of her years would use to hold lipstick and powder. Not MY mom. She whipped out three knives. They were Case pocket knives of varying colors and sizes.

Some might assume that Mom was merely carrying them as keepsakes. That they had belonged to my dad. Au contraire. You know what happens when you assume. And I'll thank you not to make me an...um...one of those donkey-animals. Mom carries those knives just in case somebody might need a knife. And not to cut warm butter.

She handed the medium-sized brown knife to that mother, who used it to slice through the hard, clear plastic at approximately the speed of light. That blade was razor-sharp. The kid put on his earphones, the mother folded the knife and handed it back, and Mom stowed it away like it was perfectly normal.

Did I mention that weapons are not allowed on school property?

Some Might Call It OCD. I Call It an Isolated Incident.

Yesterday, on my bargain-hunting quest, I popped into The Dollar Store to look for things I couldn't find at The Dollar Tree. One thing I found was that The Dollar Store needs to change its name to The Five-Dollar Store. Used to be, you could get things there for a dollar. Don't count on it now.

I did, however find some items on the clearance end-cap for fifteen cents. FIFTEEN CENTS! Can't beat that with a stick! But what I would like to beat with a stick is the woman who was ahead of me in line. Sorry. I am not a tolerant person at times. Times when instead of going through the checkout line between the magazines, last-minute candy and battery displays, and the cart corral, a person comes in sideways and gives me the evil eye like I am the one going against convention. Criminy! I know she was there ahead of me. Excuse my audacity to stand in the actual line. It's not like I was trying to cut her off or ask for cuts from the smelly old man handing over his money.

As if that was not bad enough, she was hacking up her left lung and half the right. See, if she had been in the line proper, her effusions would have gone straight ahead. But as it was, she was sending them at right angles to my respiratory system. AND the checker had the same germ-dispensing act down pat. So bad was it that I actually turned my head toward the back of the line to avoid breathing their spray.

When Sideways Susie finished her transaction, both giving and receiving a dose of Stephen King Superflu to and from Checker, she left her tiny yellow-handled cart right there. At a right angle to the counter. Didn't even bother to push it into the cart corral. Wench. I hipped it out of my path. No way no how was I touching Sideways Susie's infected buggy. I even pulled my shirt collar up over my mouth to get a somewhat filtered breath of air while Checker bagged my bargains.

The next step was to get to my car without contracting their crud. I opened the store door and turned immediately into the 30 mph wind. There. I got a good breath. Then I put my bag in the back seat, climbed in, and grabbed my GermX. A good scrubby dub dub, a wipe of the steering wheel with a clean tissue, another scrubby dub dub, a blow of the nose to get rid of any virus that might have invaded, a swig of water to wash any back-throat virus into my deadly stomach acid, and I was off for home. I made certain that I did not allow my hands anywhere near my face. No scratching, no eye-rubbing, no picking of teeth or nose. Gosh. Doesn't that make you want to get to know me on a personal level? I'm a regular high-class lady, I am.

After carrying in the bags, I washed my hands with soap and water before I began construction of my big salad for lunch. I don't want to seem like a germophobe. I don't do this routinely. But that double-whammy made me a bit paranoid. Even though I had the flu shot, there's no need to temp fate.

It Was Real, and It was Spectacular

I made a run to town around noon to check out bargains at The Dollar Tree. My mom met me there, because she had some coupons for the allergy medicine Genius takes. We're all about saving a buck out here in Backroads. The more you save, the more you have to spare for fattening yourself with gas station chicken and getting all hopped up on caffeine from those 44 oz. Diet Cokes.

I found a few items I was looking for, and picked up some Buncha Crunch for The Pony. We are having movie night with the second installment of The Planet of the Apes set that he got for his birthday. Tonight is Beneath the Planet of the Apes.

At the end of the aisle, I snagged a green plastic see-through leaf-shaped dish. It looks like the type of container that you might use to set out snacks on your coffee table if you threw a party in the 1950s. I'm not planning a party, and I wasn't around to throw any in the 1950s. But I know a deal when I see one.

I've been looking for a bowl to hold a big salad. I didn't want a deep bowl. And I didn't want to put my salad on a plate. I wanted a large, flat bowl to get maximum saladage, and dressing across the top so I didn't have to eat a bite with plain lettuce. This leaf bowl was perfect. It was about two inches deep, perhaps ten inches long and five inches wide. But irregular, of course, because it's shaped like a leaf. A monocot, apparently, because its veins are parallel, not netted or branched. That's some free science knowledge for you to lap up from my leaf bowl. Enjoy.

To endear itself to me further, this leaf dish was my favorite color: green. And I'm going to use it for salads. Green, leafy vegetable salads. Of large proportions.

The minute I got home, I washed my leaf. I set it in the dish drainer while I boiled an egg from our recalcitrant chickens. I also tossed some fajita chicken strips in there, just to boil the salty fajitaness out of them, not having any regular chicken to add to my salad. Shh...don't want my front-yard fowl to hear of this plan to consume their brethren and sistren.

While that pot was cooling, I grabbed some romaine, some shredded cheese, some croutons, my pepper-grinder, sliced some tiny tomatoes-on-the-vine, and commenced to constructing a masterpiece of a big salad. The only thing missing was some sunflower kernels that I had forgotten at The Dollar Tree. A dash of Hidden Valley Ranch Light, and I was good to go.

Mmm...there's nothing better than a big salad. Unless it's a big salad that somebody else picks up for you and pays for, then lets another somebody hand it to you and get the credit.

The Sound of One Hand Washing

Here are some words of wisdom that I learned at The Pony's middle school academic meet last night. Some of the knowledge imparted was impressive. The kids are math wizards without wands or calculators. They know their parts and participles of speech. The geography of the globe. But when it comes to proverbs, they have a bit of perfecting to do.

The question was, "Finish this sentence: 'One hand washeth...' "

Now, older than the hills am I. No spring chicken. Long in the tooth. It has been suggested that God signed my yearbook. That my social security number is "1". So of course, I was familiar with this expression. "One hand washeth the other, and both, the face."

The first team buzzed in. "One hand washeth...and the other taketh away." A unique take on beginnings and endings, but no match. Try playing that Concentration game some more.

The other team had a chance to steal the point. "One hand washeth...and the other dryeth." Cleanliness is next to point-scoring. Not.

All students seemed surprised by the real answer. Go figure!

Reason #167

This morning as we walked to the garage, our rescued pup, Juno, galloped around the corner of the house and sat down on the porch to be petted. She usually waits by the kitchen door to launch her ambush, refusing to join the others on their morning rounds. She's about six months old now. Growing like a weed. I don't partake of our special lovefest in the morning, because I don't want to smell like dog all day. Besides, Juno likes to lick the fresh Bath and Body Works Vanilla Bean lotion from my arms and hands. That can't be good for her. And it's a waste of good lotion.

I reached down to give her a little pat before saying, "See you later, Alligator," our special parting words. The wavy, silky black hair of her neck was wet like her canine companions had tried to chew off her bright red collar. "Yuck! Later, Alligator." I followed The Pony through the garage door and into the car. "I think Juno has been play-fighting with the big dogs." We snapped our seatbelts.

"Your theory is lent credence by the fact that she came from the front yard."

Reason #167 that my son will be a subject of ridicule throughout his high school career. Not that he will notice.