Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Even Steven Is Out Of Control

I'd better win the PowerBall jackpot tonight. Or at least four dollars.

Even Steven is out of control. I woke up from a recliner nap at 1:45 a.m., with a thumping headache. It lasted through my night's sleep, and welcomed its best friend nausea to the party. I could hardly function. It's a downright chore trying not to vomit up your morning medicine. After a breakfast of two stale saltine crackers, I headed off to school. Without my delightfully cold bubba cup of ice and Hillmomba well water. Frig was on the fritz in the icemaking department last night. No ice at the bin. Move along.

In the middle of first hour, the fire alarm went off. It was not a drill. A girl in the front row screamed, "We're all going to die!" We did not. Even though I felt like it, parading my pounding head and churning stomach around the blacktop parking lot for 13 minutes in the brightest sunlight of recorded history.

Lunch was marred by the mouthful of gristle hidden in my wafered ham sandwich, brought from home. And a grape rolling across the floor to our table that did not seem to raise a question in those non-headachy members of my dining crew. Like a grape just happens to set out on its own, on a pilgrimage to the teacher table.

Club meetings ruled the afternoon. I had the good sense not to require work missed be made up. It was not a crucial assignment.

I talked The Pony into having Domino's for supper. Yeah. I still had the strength to twist his arm. We called it in. Arrived five minutes early. And The Pony went inside and sat for ten minutes. Or more. I saw him looking at me through the window. It was only 88 degrees outside, where I warmed my heels in my black T-Hoe. I either leaned my head back in weakness, or lost consciousness for a few moments. The Pony startled me awake by slamming the door.

"They made a mistake! So we have an extra pizza! They forgot to make it half cheese, and put toppings on the whole thing, and now we have a whole cheese pizza!" Nothing excites a Pony like getting an already half-price weekday pizza for free. He was even more excited after swigging Dr. Pepper, bought from the school vending machine, laced with caffeine, because I was not planning on my 44 oz. Diet Coke, and neither of us wanted to go in a convenience store for a Sprite.

Then I remembered that PowerBall is about $149 million tonight. So I went to the gas station chicken store anyway. And since I was going it, I decided that a refill of mostly ice, with a tiny bit, maybe 14 oz., of Diet Coke, might make me feel better. So I strode confidently inside, clutching my 44 oz. cup like a crutch, and was greeted by the clerk who was recently moved to chicken, but back at the main counter, like I was Norm entering Cheers. Then I saw them. Six homemade signs on six sheets of printer paper taped to six sections of the two soda machines. BACKROADS BOIL ORDER.

There was no ice and no Diet Coke!

I screamed, "NOOOOOO!" The clerk felt my pain.

"Sissy [another clerk] has been coming in here all day, drinking sodas, and she's not sick."

"Oh. I've already been sick today. So I'm not going to chance it." I bought my ticket and left. Funny how I'd forgotten about reading of the water main break by backhoe, and the ensuing boil order. Oh, well. I would have a can of regular Coke at home. And a cup full of ice water, after setting that contrary Frig contraption on extra ice this morning when we left.

Uh huh. I pushed my cup up to the lever, and only air came out. Air and grindy noises. I looked inside. Four half-moon cubes stuck together in the hopper. A couple of others. I knocked them out. At least I would have that little four-pack and friends in my cup after I changed clothes. Farmer H came in early. I told him the ice maker wasn't working. I heard him open it up, and declare that it was fine. Same old routine. "You told me it was broken before, and I put in a new unit. Now you say it's broken again." Funny how he didn't mention the part in between. The part where it WORKED after the new unit was put in. And now it doesn't.

I changed clothes and went back for my ice. I pulled out the bin to grab it, lest any wedges be shaved coming out the lever-hole. THEY WERE GONE! I have a feeling Farmer H saw them, said, "Huh." And tossed them in the sink. If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.

I kind of feel like Even Steven owes me one.


Sioux said...

Even Steven owes you such a big one, I think you should enter the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes, hold onto that lottery ticket, and submit a whole bunch of stories.

Some kind of riches need to rain down upon you...

Hillbilly Mom said...

I was going to submit a bunch of stories, I really was, over the long weekend, you know, but life got in the way, and I had to do family things, and, well...maybe this weekend. Now that Steven owes me a few Evenings.