Proper Convenience Store Penny Dish Etiquette

Do you ever leave a penny in the dish by the cash register? Do you ever take one?

Depending on the friendliness of the cashier, how many pennies I already have in my coin pile in T-Hoe, and how many times that establishment has dipped into the penny dish for me, I sometimes leave them. But I never reach in and take them. That's up to the cashier, in case the drawer is low on change, I suspect.

Thursday, I encountered a situation that made me never want to leave another penny.

I was at the gas-station-chicken store, buying a 44 oz. Diet Coke, because I didn't want to drive all the way to Sonic. A man came in with two boys. He didn't really know what he was doing with those boys, if you ask me. Which HE certainly didn't. Or I would have given him a piece of my mind.

Cad Dad got in the chicken line while I was catching my Coke in a recycled cup. Only $1.07 for a refill. He seemed flustered that there was no size chicken order between the 8-piece and the 20-piece. Never mind that you can buy it by the piece. He could have added whatever he wanted to an 8-piece. It's not like the package deal is such a bargain, when you consider that you get pieces that nobody likes anyway.

The boys stood behind him, asking questions about what chicken they were getting. They fingered candy on the counter, and were antsy in a way that made me think they were going to wipe out the liquor aisle across from the chicken counter. Cad Dad told them to go to the next aisle, and pick out something to share. I was glad to get them away from me. The sour-faced but nice chicken dipper got his 8-piece box ready in a jiffy. He moved two steps to the pay counter. I followed. The boys came back around and got between me and Cad Dad. They were within arm's reach of him. He could easily have grabbed them by their collars and yanked them closer. I most certainly would not have objected or called DFS on him.

The kids looked about 7 years old. The were not bad kids. Only kids in need of guidance. To learn how to behave in a convenience store. One spied the penny dish by the unused register. "Take a penny." He grabbed the penny and put it in his pocket. He turned to his kiddy companion, and said, "There's not one for you. It said 'take a penny' so I took it. You don't have one." The penniless kid ran his fingers around the dish, just making sure. The penny lifter smirked. "I got the last penny."

I know Cad Dad heard them. I heard them. How could he be so oblivious to what was going on? Well, you might say, he was a man, after all. But still. That excuse is not good enough. How are these boys going to learn proper convenience store penny dish etiquette if he does not teach them? What's next, they open a snack and eat it because the label says, "Try the new, improved Sweetysmacker"?

Handbaskets. Get them ready. We're all going on a trip.

Choose Your Words Carefully

The #1 son has been driving me crazy this week. Not that he's been home all that much. He actually rises before the crack of noon, and then goes to his grandma's house, and from there to a local basketball tournament. It's the short time that we're confined in the Mansion together that gives me fits.

Wherever I am, that's where #1 is. I swear, he's as bad as his dad. If I sit in the living room, he plops on the couch. Not to have a meaningful conversation. Just to complain about what channel I put the TV on, or to blurt out words of wisdom during a critical quote on my show. Or he's forcing his laptop screen into my face to admire a photo he's taken with his outrageously expensive camera, or shoving his phone under my nose to illustrate some crony faux pas that garnered ridicule.

Yesterday, I was trying to make a cup of ice water. I do it every day. But #1 suddenly needed a cup of ice water at the same time. He stood behind me, tapping his bare, sweaty foot. "You're going to take all the ice!"

I moved to the sink. I turned on the water and held my cup of ice under the stream. #1 thrust his cup above mine, blocking the torrent. "Stop that! I was here first!"

"So?"

"Get away. I'm getting water."

"Not now, you're not. I'll be done in a minute."

Another time, I came in from picking him up lunch in town to see him wash his hands and sling water all over the kitchen.

"Hey! Stop it!"

"Stop what?"

"You know better. Get a paper towel."

"I don't need one. They're dry now. Besides, we're out."

"Get a roll out of the pantry."

"All right!"

"And don't let me catch you doing that again."

"Doing what?"

"You know what. You slang water all over the floor!"

"Ha! Whaaaat?"

"Don't deny it. You slang it. I saw it with my own two eyes. And don't even try to tell me there's no such word as "slang"!"

"Ha, ha. I know "slang" is a word. But not like that."

"I'll use it how I want. And don't you forget it."

Sometimes, it's tedious to have a 34 on the ACT living under your Mansion roof.

A Rough Road To Go

It's that time of year. Pothole time.

I'm not talking about hubcap-loosening indentations in the pavement. This is Hillmomba. I'm talking about craters in the gravel road. Or, more succinctly, craters in the path of mud that we travel from the Mansion to the county blacktop road. In the morning, when temps are below 32 degrees, that's eight-tenths of a mile of pockmarked frozen hardpan.

It's like a real life whack-a-mole course, but without the moles and mallet. Just the holes. I swear that one of them goes all the way through to a country on the continent of Asia. When we have a bit of rain, these bottomless pits look deceptively shallow. But they're not! I always think I have avoided a main offender by driving all the way over to the wrong side of the road. Off on the opposite shoulder a bit, in a rare area next to the creek that has a shoulder. But no. My entire right front wheel is swallowed up. And even at the outrageous speed of 10 mph, it is Pony-jarring.

Oh, but Even Steven lives! To make up for those potholes, to balance out the universe, we also have huge hunks of bedrock that stick up in parts of the road. I'm thinking of hiring out my T-Hoe as a paint mixer for Lowes. He'll shake it up good.

James Bond would like our martinis.

How To Get Ahead In Hillmomba

Farmer H is known for his unique taste in gifts.

The year the #1 son was born, when he was a mere 15 days old, I was gifted with a Red Devil Vacuum. It was one of those handheld jobbers, a bit bigger and more powerful than a Dust Buster. There I sat, holding tiny #1 in my arm, unwrapping that magnificently inappropriate gift with the other, assisted by the young Veteran and Farmer H's Number One Son.

Upon the reveal, I said, "Oh. A Red Devil Vacuum."

Farmer H replied, "Hey! That'll work great in my shop!"

I never saw my Red Devil again.

But the purpose of this post is not to garner sympathy for myself. It is to illustrate the eclectic taste of Farmer H. I've explained how he thought about buying me Auction Meat. And how the mysterious Auction Bread turned up on my cutting block. But this Christmas, Farmer H turned his gift-giving acumen on The Pony.

An oddly-shaped package was hidden behind the tree, next to the light plug-in. On Christmas morning, Farmer H announced, "Oh, there's one more back there. It's for The Pony." The Pony has not yet reached the consensus that a gift from Farmer H is not always a good thing. He excitedly tore into the wrapping. What he revealed left us all smack dab in the midst of a bubble of silence.

It was an 18-inch tall, dark greenish-brown head.

The features were not exactly chiseled. But it had a face. And a ridge on top of its head like a funky hard mohawk, or an upside-down push broom like Marvin the Martian.

"Cool," said The Pony. A chip off the old Pop.

What I Need Is A Genie Monitor

"I wish I could scratch my head with my foot."

Be careful what you wish for.

That's The Pony's most recent desire. I asked him if it was because then he could keep playing his computer game with his hands, and not have to stop to scratch.

"That. And I just like being different. It's fun being different."

"Oh. So you already know that?"

"Hey! I can lick my elbow! Doesn't that make me different?"

Well. I guess that settles it. I hope Farmer H never buys The Pony a really cool oil lamp at the auction, and then The Pony shines it up, and a genie pops out, and grants him three wishes. Because before you know it, The Pony would be wasting his wishes on feats of contortion such as this.

Look And Listen

I am on the lookout for those three inches of snow that are supposed to be coming Hillmomba's way after 2:00 a.m.

My main concern is that I will hurt my eyes looking for the snow, much like that squirrel-headed b*astard at the Monarch Boarding House in the original John Wayne True Grit warned Glen Campbell as LaBeouf to look out for the chicken and dumplings, because he might hurt his eyes looking for the chicken.

The #1 son is out and about in his little Ford Ranger, taking in a basketball tournament and eating up some nachos with a Christmas gift card. I cautioned him to be in by 7:00, to which he replied he would be in by "Sevenish," meaning before 8:00.

Now I hear that there is sleet in the area. I am certain that #1 took off without a one of the three pairs of gloves he received for Christmas. I know for a fact that he left the Mansion without bagging up the trash that I told him three times that I wanted done before he left.

That boy inherited his father's hearing.

Best-Laid Plans

We had a sandwich Christmas dinner here in Hillmomba this year. That was the plan, anyway. My mom always hostesses our family shindig, and we decreed that enough it enough. She does not need to be stressing in the kitchen over seven side dishes and two main courses and kid food for the spoiled brats.

Mom planned to go to church, and a 1:00 dinner sounded like too much on her plate to me. I told her that sandwiches were fine. I took some deviled eggs, potato salad, vegetable dip, a chocolate pie, an Oreo cake, some wheat rolls, sugar-free brownies, sugar-free pumpkin pie, and sugar-free Angel Food cake. I bought those last four at the Devil's Playground, but made the other stuff. The last I heard, Mom told me we would eat at 2:00. But last night, my brother-in-law told me 1:00.

We arrived to find Mom darting about the kitchen, muttering that church let out late (gosh, do you think so, on Christmas day?) and that she didn't have anything ready. By anything, she should have meant turkey and ham, that she'd baked on Saturday. But no. She was baking hot rolls and pigs-in-blankets and whipping up some macaroni and cheese and deep-frying chicken fingers. I protest. Mom should have stuck to the plan.

I had informed The Pony before we left that he was going to eat a sandwich. That meant turkey or ham on a roll of some kind. I explained it would be like a chicken sandwich. He could coat it with ketchup if he so desired, but he was going to eat it. Not just dessert. The Pony was fine with that. He declared that he would take some turkey and put in on a roll not with ketchup, but with butter. He's a true Butterton, The Pony.

So I was not pleased to see Mom running around cooking dishes for kids that are grown. Out of school already. Old enough to eat adult food, or say, "No, thank you." Besides, if I am going to sacrifice green beans and bacon with new potatoes, and seven-layer salad, and hash brown potato casserole, and broccoli and cheese, and cauliflower/broccoli/carrot/onion salad, and sweet potatoes, and stuffing...I expect the young-adult-fry to have some skin in the game as well. It doesn't matter that they didn't ask for it. Or that Mom says it makes her happy to give them what they like to eat. They're not toddlers any more!!!

Just sayin'.

I hope that right now, Mom is lolling about in her new executive chair, reading Regis Philbin's autobiography, wearing her new slippers, snacking on some raspberry jelly sticks, sneaking sidelong glances at her new navy blue Berber coat draped over the back of the couch and thinking about having a piece of chocolate pie.

She says she had a very good Christmas.