Okay, I did not really find my mom's antics funny yesterday. I picked her up to ride along on my end-of-the-month trip to pay my house bill. Mom loves to go for a ride, and she loves to eat some Rally's. Though disappointed that her yearned-for Big Daddy was no longer available, Mom settled for a chicken sandwich and fries. And a Diet Coke, of course.
Mom at first insisted she didn't want the fries. But I knew she did. In fact, I strong-armed her into having some. She said she was going to give them to me, but I thought not. Little did I know what a problem those fries were about to become. That's foreshadowing. Try to keep up.
In T-Hoe's cup holders sat my 44 oz. refill cup, all tall and foamy and majestic. In the other hole, I put my Rally's Diet Coke. Mom always holds her soda. She sips intermittently. I offered to give up the holder, but she declined. "Okay...then put my fry container in that refill cup, and I can eat them before they get cold, and they won't slide all around every time I make a turn." Not that I'm reckless or anything. The cardboard fry container slipped down a little below the rim of the refill cup. A 44 oz. cup is really rather spacious.
Mom looked into the open bag and declared that she was going to give me her fries. I did not want them. "Take a bite, Mom. I know you love them. Last time that's all you wanted. Go ahead. While they're hot." Mom noshed on those seasoned taters off and on. When we were almost back to her Blazer rendezvous, Mom decided that she was giving me the fries that were left.
"Here. I'll put them in with yours."
I thought she meant that she'd drop a couple into my fry container that was inside my refill cup. That's what she did. At first. Then she took a handful and dumped them in. Then she upended her fry container over my refill cup, and shook it. Here now! That is not what I expected.
"Whoa! It's not a garbage bin. I don't want my refill cup filled with fries!"
When I pulled over beside Mom's Blazer, I picked up my refill cup. Just as I thought. Several of Mom's cast-off fries were down deep in the bottom. I tried to corral them in my fry container. The static of the foam cup made crumbs of greasy batter and seasoning stick to the sides like hair to my just-Chapsticked lips on a windy day.
Today I wanted a 44 oz. Diet Coke. As Mom might say, "I like to never got those crumbs out of my cup." I lamented to The Pony that I wished Grandma had not been so generous with her unwanted fries.
"Huh. Why don't you just leave them in there and drink them. You'll never know."
Turns out The Pony is really some kind of genius.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Just A Note Before I Go Watch King Of The Nerds
Time is short this evening. I have been stealing moments here and there to work on my tax returns. Oh, and I also filed the FAFSA for the #1 son. Of course I will have to update it when the taxes are processed. And he does not qualify for student aid anyway, what with our independent wealthiness and his plethora of scholarships. Still, he has to have a FAFSA on file.
The Pony had a good day. No errant food assaulted his person. AND he was awarded a medal for his 1st Place finish in the English portion of the last W.Y.S.E competition. I knew he got the medal, because every time I saw him walk down my hall of Newmentia, it was around his neck.
It stayed there during his academic meet this evening. And I'm pretty sure it's still there.
I wonder how it will hold up in the shower.
The Pony had a good day. No errant food assaulted his person. AND he was awarded a medal for his 1st Place finish in the English portion of the last W.Y.S.E competition. I knew he got the medal, because every time I saw him walk down my hall of Newmentia, it was around his neck.
It stayed there during his academic meet this evening. And I'm pretty sure it's still there.
I wonder how it will hold up in the shower.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
You Take The Good You Take The Bad You Take Them Both And There You Have The Pony's Life
Alas, our poor Pony had a regular buffet of a day yesterday.
By now, you must realize that The Pony is set in his ways. He does his own thing. He's a creature of habit. Always takes the same items in his lunch every day. Does not stray from a routine. Dislikes fuss and muss. Is as happy sitting at a lunch table all alone as he is sitting with his Smartypants Team colleagues.
Funny I should mention lunch tables.
Yesterday after school, The Pony was a bit perturbed with a little lass who has been a good friend all year. She's a bestie, she's a pesty, she's a midnight textee.
"I'm really kind of mad at her. She put her finger in her gravy, and kept poking at me with it. THEN she got it on me. She SAID it was an accident. I said, 'Really. REALLY?' It got all over the side of my pants, by the pockets."
"Oh, well. Tomorrow I'll tell her, 'Our car smelled like gravy all the way home. Did The Pony eat the pork chop and mashed potatoes for lunch? Because he has never eaten a school lunch before. He must have spilled some gravy. I had to cut off the legs of his pant and make shorts.'"
"Uh. No. Don't do that."
I was only joking. As I was when I told him how one of my students was bragging about being Superman, because he got the lid off a bottle of Dr. Pepper by using his teeth and a T-shirt. "He said he was the only one who could do it. Like he could make a career out of a skill such as that. Except he kind of spilled that Dr. Pepper, and had to change his shirt."
"Uh. Did he tell you that it was in algebra?"
"Yes. The class right before he came to mine."
"Did he tell you that he sits right beside me? And that the Dr. Pepper kid sits behind me, and that he had left the Dr. Pepper in his truck, and it was frozen, and nobody could open it, and Superman's brother tried to open it, and when he couldn't, he shook it up really hard, and when Superman chewed it open, it sprayed out all over everything, including the paper on his desk that he was supposed to be grading at the time. Did he tell you that we pass our papers one desk to the left, and IT WAS MY PAPER?"
"No. Somehow he left that part out."
It was not a red-letter day for The Pony. At least things were looking up today, when he found out he placed first in the English division of the W.Y.S.E. competition held a couple weeks ago, and that he scored a 30 out of a possible 32 on the PLAN test all sophomores took last fall.
But best of all, no food or drink was inflicted upon him against his will.
By now, you must realize that The Pony is set in his ways. He does his own thing. He's a creature of habit. Always takes the same items in his lunch every day. Does not stray from a routine. Dislikes fuss and muss. Is as happy sitting at a lunch table all alone as he is sitting with his Smartypants Team colleagues.
Funny I should mention lunch tables.
Yesterday after school, The Pony was a bit perturbed with a little lass who has been a good friend all year. She's a bestie, she's a pesty, she's a midnight textee.
"I'm really kind of mad at her. She put her finger in her gravy, and kept poking at me with it. THEN she got it on me. She SAID it was an accident. I said, 'Really. REALLY?' It got all over the side of my pants, by the pockets."
"Oh, well. Tomorrow I'll tell her, 'Our car smelled like gravy all the way home. Did The Pony eat the pork chop and mashed potatoes for lunch? Because he has never eaten a school lunch before. He must have spilled some gravy. I had to cut off the legs of his pant and make shorts.'"
"Uh. No. Don't do that."
I was only joking. As I was when I told him how one of my students was bragging about being Superman, because he got the lid off a bottle of Dr. Pepper by using his teeth and a T-shirt. "He said he was the only one who could do it. Like he could make a career out of a skill such as that. Except he kind of spilled that Dr. Pepper, and had to change his shirt."
"Uh. Did he tell you that it was in algebra?"
"Yes. The class right before he came to mine."
"Did he tell you that he sits right beside me? And that the Dr. Pepper kid sits behind me, and that he had left the Dr. Pepper in his truck, and it was frozen, and nobody could open it, and Superman's brother tried to open it, and when he couldn't, he shook it up really hard, and when Superman chewed it open, it sprayed out all over everything, including the paper on his desk that he was supposed to be grading at the time. Did he tell you that we pass our papers one desk to the left, and IT WAS MY PAPER?"
"No. Somehow he left that part out."
It was not a red-letter day for The Pony. At least things were looking up today, when he found out he placed first in the English division of the W.Y.S.E. competition held a couple weeks ago, and that he scored a 30 out of a possible 32 on the PLAN test all sophomores took last fall.
But best of all, no food or drink was inflicted upon him against his will.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
How Else Am I Supposed To Mark My Territory?
You would think that if one walked into a computer lab, and saw 22 computers, with 22 chairs, some with people sitting in front of them, some with dark screens and no people sitting in front of them, and a single computer showing the screen was locked, with a red gradebook, a stack of science project lists labeled 5th Hour, 6th Hour, and 7th Hour, and a pair of bifocals with dark purple frames resting upon the stack of science project lists resting upon the red gradebook directly in front of that monitor...one would choose an unoccupied computer at which to work. You would be wrong.
"Hey! Is somebody sitting here?" The One picked up my gradebook, glasses, and three classes worth of science project hypotheses, research, and procedures and started to set them on a desk in the middle of the room. "I'm taking this computer."
Au contraire.
I stopped him. "What are you doing with my stuff? I am using that computer to take attendance. When I am done, anybody can use it."
Seriously? Who does that? Oh. I know. The kind of kid who will grow up to be a teacher who shows up after the festival seating is filled at the faculty meeting, and moves a colleague's pile of papers waiting to be graded surreptitiously during the information dissemination.
Elaine Benes had an easier go of saving theater seats for "Checkmate" at the Paradise Twin.
"Hey! Is somebody sitting here?" The One picked up my gradebook, glasses, and three classes worth of science project hypotheses, research, and procedures and started to set them on a desk in the middle of the room. "I'm taking this computer."
Au contraire.
I stopped him. "What are you doing with my stuff? I am using that computer to take attendance. When I am done, anybody can use it."
Seriously? Who does that? Oh. I know. The kind of kid who will grow up to be a teacher who shows up after the festival seating is filled at the faculty meeting, and moves a colleague's pile of papers waiting to be graded surreptitiously during the information dissemination.
Elaine Benes had an easier go of saving theater seats for "Checkmate" at the Paradise Twin.
Monday, February 24, 2014
A Drillin' And A-Chillin'
The Pony is suffering from hoof and mouth disease. For the first time ever, The Pony has a cavity. TWO! Never having gone under the needle, The Pony is shaking in his horseshoes. He would like nothing better than to hoof it over the horizon and live out his days with the wind whistling through his chompers.
While The Pony is being drilled, I sit cooling my heels and every other body part in the waiting room. I swear. A patient with a swollen jaw does not need to apply ice while in this venue. The only sign of warmth is a space heater. No vents. It's like caveman dentistry.
The Pony is apprehensive about the pain. Anxious about the numbness and how long it will last. I feel his anxiety. I can't bear to go to the dentist. I need nitrous oxide. I need the kid dentist. I have an irrational fear. Not of pain or numbness...of being trapped. Tipped nearly upside down. Hands in my mouth. I can't stand the thought of not being able to get up and leave if I get the notion. I feel like I can't breathe.
My mom and my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel used to frequent the same dentist. Not The Pony's. Arch Nemesis went to him, too. Maybe they all still go. I call that guy The Butcher. Mom's face is bruised for a week after every appointment. That is not normal. She also has a partial plate that makes her talk like she has a speech impediment. That can't be right. The Butcher must be in cahoots with those Optical Delusion folks. My dental fears were far from assuaged when Arch told me last week, "Hey, tell your mom that one time, our dentist dropped a crown down my throat. I had to barf it back up!"
Yeah. Did nothing for my dentophobia.
While The Pony is being drilled, I sit cooling my heels and every other body part in the waiting room. I swear. A patient with a swollen jaw does not need to apply ice while in this venue. The only sign of warmth is a space heater. No vents. It's like caveman dentistry.
The Pony is apprehensive about the pain. Anxious about the numbness and how long it will last. I feel his anxiety. I can't bear to go to the dentist. I need nitrous oxide. I need the kid dentist. I have an irrational fear. Not of pain or numbness...of being trapped. Tipped nearly upside down. Hands in my mouth. I can't stand the thought of not being able to get up and leave if I get the notion. I feel like I can't breathe.
My mom and my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel used to frequent the same dentist. Not The Pony's. Arch Nemesis went to him, too. Maybe they all still go. I call that guy The Butcher. Mom's face is bruised for a week after every appointment. That is not normal. She also has a partial plate that makes her talk like she has a speech impediment. That can't be right. The Butcher must be in cahoots with those Optical Delusion folks. My dental fears were far from assuaged when Arch told me last week, "Hey, tell your mom that one time, our dentist dropped a crown down my throat. I had to barf it back up!"
Yeah. Did nothing for my dentophobia.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
The Semi-Weekly Meeting Of The Newmentia Lunchtime Think Tank
Quite a lively discussion ensued on Thursday at the Semi-Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank.
Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was having sinus issues that day. Sinus issues in the form of a clogged upper nasal area that extended to the forehead portion above her eyes. A headache was not yet present at the tender hour of 8:00 a.m., but it was knocking on the door like a vacuum cleaner salesman at the end of the month earning only commission.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom had duty that day, duty normally performed in the parking lot, but brought inside by the high winds. She purloined a soft rolly chair from the library to serve out her time in comfort. The replacement for my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel strolled down the hall. I refuse to say the one who took Mabel's place, because we all know that Mabel is irreplaceable. Not-Mabel smiled and sniffed her armpits. "Is it just me, or does this hall smell like BO? I really noticed it when I came out of the office, and now it seems to have followed me down the hall. I know I put on my deodorant this morning."
"I don't really smell anything. My head is stuffed up. But if you smelled it up by the office, that explains it. All the kids are crammed in the cafeteria. They're marinating in their own juices. Maybe it's leaking out into the hall." I went to return my library chair, but the door was locked. So I started to the cafeteria to tell its owner, who was on duty there. Tomato-Squirter had just arrived, and accompanied me up the hall. I castigated her for not claiming her regular lunch chair from Jewels, and she declared that at this point, she thinks Jewels takes that chair on purpose, and furthermore, is there any subject under the sun that Jewels does not know enough refrain from commenting on. Oh, and she also declared that she was about to be physically ill from the smell in the hall.
The abandoned chair vouched for, I returned to my hall post. A couple of students walked by. "It stinks down here!" In fact, after my duty was over, and the regular day began, and one class period passed, Mrs. Not-A-Cook went by and said, "Whew! That end of the hall smells terrible! It's like cat pee."
While grading papers, I heard teaching going on in the cafeteria. It was Tomato-Squirter and her band of merry freshmen. Something was definitely up. Maybe we had toxic waste build-up. Maybe some cleaning chemicals, the kind that smell like cat pee, were leaking from a 55-gallon drum in the lower janitor closet. By the end of my plan period, I saw the secretary sniffing lockers. That's not her regular job. She has to maintain the command post, and buzz people in and out of the building. But as of 9:50 a.m., nobody was getting in. The counselor joined her, in absentia for the boss, who was across town at the main office momentarily.
I think that perhaps, in the preceding six paragraphs, I've managed to convey the notion that the hall stunk, and I couldn't smell it. Flash forward to 10:53 at the faculty lunch table.
"Oh, we figured out who it was, by the rooms the smell traveled to, and the people in each class. I knew it was in my room. I even told the kids, 'Yes, I know it smells. It is one of you. I think somebody has a cat, and overnight that cat marked your shoes or you jacket, and now you smell like cat pee.' Can you believe nobody would own up to it? I had them in groups of three, and I knew exactly which group it was. Then we had to figure out which kid. While moving to the cafeteria where we had better ventilation, Mr. Principal got the stinker and sent her home for the day. Now we just have to air out the hall and classrooms." So sayeth Tomato-Squirter, two seats to my left.
"Cat pee? Really? And she didn't even know? It's an ammonia smell. I told Mrs. Not-A-Cook maybe it was meth. There's a lot of it around here, you know." All the kids know, too. I was not telling any secrets out of school right there at the school lunch table.
"Well, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, I don't really think Sweetums cooked up a batch of meth this morning." Tomato-Squirter thinks she is a regular Sherlock Holmes.
"SHE didn't have to cook it. If somebody in her house was cooking it, she'd have that smell on her, too." Thank goodness Chipper took time out from rolling food around in his mouth to back me up.
Czar gab nodded wisely, like the meth expert that he is. Then he changed the subject to actual meat content of Taco Bell beef. I don't know why. He's kind of random like that. "Yeeessss...it was found to be only 88 percent beef..."
"Eighty-eight percent! That sounds a little high to me. I thought it was less." I can't let Czar Gab go unchallenged. He's not stealing candy from THIS baby.
"What was the rest of it, then? Soy?" Chipper is a curious sort.
Tomato-Squirter ducked her head over her cafeteria tray of brown chicken pieces in a dark sauce that was proclaimed to be of the Chinese variety, though no rice was served this time, and there was no breading on the chicken. "I don't think I'm going to be able to eat this chicken. My stomach is still upset from that smell."
"Actually, some of it was soy, and a lot of it was pink slime. That, or once they stopped using pink slime because it was in the news, it might have been worm protein." Nope. There IS absolutely no subject on which Jewels is without comment.
Tomato-Squirter turned a little green around the gills. For once, I'm almost ready to believe her lunch seat conspiracy theory.
Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was having sinus issues that day. Sinus issues in the form of a clogged upper nasal area that extended to the forehead portion above her eyes. A headache was not yet present at the tender hour of 8:00 a.m., but it was knocking on the door like a vacuum cleaner salesman at the end of the month earning only commission.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom had duty that day, duty normally performed in the parking lot, but brought inside by the high winds. She purloined a soft rolly chair from the library to serve out her time in comfort. The replacement for my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel strolled down the hall. I refuse to say the one who took Mabel's place, because we all know that Mabel is irreplaceable. Not-Mabel smiled and sniffed her armpits. "Is it just me, or does this hall smell like BO? I really noticed it when I came out of the office, and now it seems to have followed me down the hall. I know I put on my deodorant this morning."
"I don't really smell anything. My head is stuffed up. But if you smelled it up by the office, that explains it. All the kids are crammed in the cafeteria. They're marinating in their own juices. Maybe it's leaking out into the hall." I went to return my library chair, but the door was locked. So I started to the cafeteria to tell its owner, who was on duty there. Tomato-Squirter had just arrived, and accompanied me up the hall. I castigated her for not claiming her regular lunch chair from Jewels, and she declared that at this point, she thinks Jewels takes that chair on purpose, and furthermore, is there any subject under the sun that Jewels does not know enough refrain from commenting on. Oh, and she also declared that she was about to be physically ill from the smell in the hall.
The abandoned chair vouched for, I returned to my hall post. A couple of students walked by. "It stinks down here!" In fact, after my duty was over, and the regular day began, and one class period passed, Mrs. Not-A-Cook went by and said, "Whew! That end of the hall smells terrible! It's like cat pee."
While grading papers, I heard teaching going on in the cafeteria. It was Tomato-Squirter and her band of merry freshmen. Something was definitely up. Maybe we had toxic waste build-up. Maybe some cleaning chemicals, the kind that smell like cat pee, were leaking from a 55-gallon drum in the lower janitor closet. By the end of my plan period, I saw the secretary sniffing lockers. That's not her regular job. She has to maintain the command post, and buzz people in and out of the building. But as of 9:50 a.m., nobody was getting in. The counselor joined her, in absentia for the boss, who was across town at the main office momentarily.
I think that perhaps, in the preceding six paragraphs, I've managed to convey the notion that the hall stunk, and I couldn't smell it. Flash forward to 10:53 at the faculty lunch table.
"Oh, we figured out who it was, by the rooms the smell traveled to, and the people in each class. I knew it was in my room. I even told the kids, 'Yes, I know it smells. It is one of you. I think somebody has a cat, and overnight that cat marked your shoes or you jacket, and now you smell like cat pee.' Can you believe nobody would own up to it? I had them in groups of three, and I knew exactly which group it was. Then we had to figure out which kid. While moving to the cafeteria where we had better ventilation, Mr. Principal got the stinker and sent her home for the day. Now we just have to air out the hall and classrooms." So sayeth Tomato-Squirter, two seats to my left.
"Cat pee? Really? And she didn't even know? It's an ammonia smell. I told Mrs. Not-A-Cook maybe it was meth. There's a lot of it around here, you know." All the kids know, too. I was not telling any secrets out of school right there at the school lunch table.
"Well, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, I don't really think Sweetums cooked up a batch of meth this morning." Tomato-Squirter thinks she is a regular Sherlock Holmes.
"SHE didn't have to cook it. If somebody in her house was cooking it, she'd have that smell on her, too." Thank goodness Chipper took time out from rolling food around in his mouth to back me up.
Czar gab nodded wisely, like the meth expert that he is. Then he changed the subject to actual meat content of Taco Bell beef. I don't know why. He's kind of random like that. "Yeeessss...it was found to be only 88 percent beef..."
"Eighty-eight percent! That sounds a little high to me. I thought it was less." I can't let Czar Gab go unchallenged. He's not stealing candy from THIS baby.
"What was the rest of it, then? Soy?" Chipper is a curious sort.
Tomato-Squirter ducked her head over her cafeteria tray of brown chicken pieces in a dark sauce that was proclaimed to be of the Chinese variety, though no rice was served this time, and there was no breading on the chicken. "I don't think I'm going to be able to eat this chicken. My stomach is still upset from that smell."
"Actually, some of it was soy, and a lot of it was pink slime. That, or once they stopped using pink slime because it was in the news, it might have been worm protein." Nope. There IS absolutely no subject on which Jewels is without comment.
Tomato-Squirter turned a little green around the gills. For once, I'm almost ready to believe her lunch seat conspiracy theory.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Is Everybody's Friend
Some days, you're the windshield. Some days, you're the bug. Some days, you're Mrs. Hillbilly Mom being lectured by a drug-addled close-walker at a convenience store counter.
The short version of this story (there, there, don't weep, the loquacious Mrs. Hillbilly Mom will return soon enough) is that I took my mom for a ride when I went to gas up T-Hoe. I normally go to a different gassing up station, but I wanted Mom to have a longer ride. I pumped the gas, and left Mom clutching her purse on T-Hoe's leather seat while I went inside to pay. There was only one customer ahead of me, and he finished up as I got in line.
I told the Pat (still don't know if that was a guy or a gal) in a work smock how much gas I pumped, and selected two scratch-off lottery tickets from the case. Pat ripped them off their perforations and laid them on the counter, then rang up my total. As I was forking over my cash, two early-twenty-something dudes got in line behind me.
Maybe it was my own fault. Pat was working out of the register on the left side of the counter. But I was standing by the register on the right, because that's where the stand-up clear-cased scratch-off display sat on the counter. The 1st Dude was all up in my hip fat. He didn't make contact. He was just inside my comfort bubble. "That's a bad habit ya got there, lady!"
Normally, I would have waxed all indignant, and told him to eff off. Like that time in the casino when a drunk frat rat pulled my crank, LITERALLY, and it was only the realization that Missouri is a death penalty state that kept me from tearing him limb from limb or a new elimination orifice. But 1st Dude was quite congenial.
He was also high as a kite.
Not that I hold it against him. He was feeling no pain thanks to whatever opioids were coursing through his bloodstream. He was like a friendly puppy. On painkillers.
"I know! I can't help myself."
"Have any luck?"
"Yesterday I had a $100 winner."
"On a five-dollar ticket?"
"Yes. It WAS a five-dollar ticket. Every number was a winner. I knew it would only be five dollars under each one, but since I didn't scratch off the amounts 'til the end, I hoped it was a big one. But still, that's nothing to complain about."
"Yeah. The five dollar tickets are the ones I always win like that. Good luck."
"Thanks."
I don't know what the dudes were buying. I think they had beer. Seems fitting. I told Mom, "Watch these two guys come out. That one was as friendly as could be. He's also as high as a kite."
"You have the most interesting things happen to you."
Aint' that the truth?
The short version of this story (there, there, don't weep, the loquacious Mrs. Hillbilly Mom will return soon enough) is that I took my mom for a ride when I went to gas up T-Hoe. I normally go to a different gassing up station, but I wanted Mom to have a longer ride. I pumped the gas, and left Mom clutching her purse on T-Hoe's leather seat while I went inside to pay. There was only one customer ahead of me, and he finished up as I got in line.
I told the Pat (still don't know if that was a guy or a gal) in a work smock how much gas I pumped, and selected two scratch-off lottery tickets from the case. Pat ripped them off their perforations and laid them on the counter, then rang up my total. As I was forking over my cash, two early-twenty-something dudes got in line behind me.
Maybe it was my own fault. Pat was working out of the register on the left side of the counter. But I was standing by the register on the right, because that's where the stand-up clear-cased scratch-off display sat on the counter. The 1st Dude was all up in my hip fat. He didn't make contact. He was just inside my comfort bubble. "That's a bad habit ya got there, lady!"
Normally, I would have waxed all indignant, and told him to eff off. Like that time in the casino when a drunk frat rat pulled my crank, LITERALLY, and it was only the realization that Missouri is a death penalty state that kept me from tearing him limb from limb or a new elimination orifice. But 1st Dude was quite congenial.
He was also high as a kite.
Not that I hold it against him. He was feeling no pain thanks to whatever opioids were coursing through his bloodstream. He was like a friendly puppy. On painkillers.
"I know! I can't help myself."
"Have any luck?"
"Yesterday I had a $100 winner."
"On a five-dollar ticket?"
"Yes. It WAS a five-dollar ticket. Every number was a winner. I knew it would only be five dollars under each one, but since I didn't scratch off the amounts 'til the end, I hoped it was a big one. But still, that's nothing to complain about."
"Yeah. The five dollar tickets are the ones I always win like that. Good luck."
"Thanks."
I don't know what the dudes were buying. I think they had beer. Seems fitting. I told Mom, "Watch these two guys come out. That one was as friendly as could be. He's also as high as a kite."
"You have the most interesting things happen to you."
Aint' that the truth?
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