Here's why gas prices soar and oil supplies drop: The Devil's Playground gives work to wasteful hands.
Petroleum is used to make plastics, you know. Including those plastic bags that nobody wants, the plastic bags whose only redeeming quality is being just the right size to be used as liners in small wastebaskets.
Remember the days of the paper sack? Made from trees? Trees which are sustainable energy, growing back in a human lifetime, replanted by the timber industry as they harvest the big 'uns. Paper sacks that could be used to conceal the identity of the Unknown Comic. Used as art paper for kids with crayons. Used to create a fringed vest for a kid in a Thanksgiving play. Used as a container for home-popped popcorn to take to the family drive-in for a Disney double-feature like Mary Poppins and The Three Lives of Thomasina.
I made a brief stop at The Devil's Playground today, for an abbreviated food stock-up. My items would have fit into three bags. However...the 20-items-or-less checker insisted on using four, and double-bagging my purchases. She must have some form of OCD where these plastic bags are concerned. In addition, each pair of bags enclosing my groceries had an unopened bag attached. A flat freeloader, a svelte sidecar, a tag-a-long little brother, a plastic parasite.
My take-home plastic bag tally was 12. For items that would have fit into three bags.
This is why we can't have cheap petroleum-based things.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Perhaps An R-Rated Chick Flick Is Not The Pony's Cup Of Tea
Can you believe The Pony turned down a chance to see The Heat? It's Sandra Bullock! AND Melissa McCarthy! Does he not have a funny bone? I know he was born with one, unlike his unfortunate father. I'm sure The Pony's funny bone has not atrophied. Only last night, on the phone, he exhibited his droll sense of humor.
"I can tell you don't want to talk to me. So I'll hang up now."
"It's not that I don't WANT to talk to you..."
"I know. You're not much one for small talk. You can't wait to get off the phone with ANYBODY, not just me. You're just not much of a talker."
"I'm not GRANDMA."
So...he is well aware of how to set up a punchline. Responds appropriately to my humor. Perhaps I've mentioned that we hear things afoot in the Mansion. Lately, there's been a rash of soda-openings. You know, the sound a flip-top makes when you crack open a can. The Pony hears it in my office while I'm not in there. I hear it out in the main basement when The Pony isn't there. Then we have the new light-switchy sound, and closing doors upstairs to accompany the phantom footsteps.
Yesterday, the #1 son commanded The Pony to bring him a soda. We keep them in the basement mini-fridge, where The Pony hangs out, even though he doesn't drink much soda. It frees up Frig, the main kitchen stainless steel Frigidaire, for four 18-cartons of eggs, and enough spare room should Farmer H cart in some Auction Meat. The Pony sighed heavily, grabbed a Sprite (bet you thought it was going to be Diet Coke, huh) and ran it upstairs to #1's room. He huffed back down the steps. He doesn't mind bringing sodas to Farmer H, but it gets his goat to wait on the layabout #1.
I was folding boys' boxer briefs while not relaxing in Farmer H's La-Z-Boy in front of the fake fireplace. "Hey! Pony! I just heard a soda open in #1's room!"
I could hear his snort and chuckle one floor below.
"I can tell you don't want to talk to me. So I'll hang up now."
"It's not that I don't WANT to talk to you..."
"I know. You're not much one for small talk. You can't wait to get off the phone with ANYBODY, not just me. You're just not much of a talker."
"I'm not GRANDMA."
So...he is well aware of how to set up a punchline. Responds appropriately to my humor. Perhaps I've mentioned that we hear things afoot in the Mansion. Lately, there's been a rash of soda-openings. You know, the sound a flip-top makes when you crack open a can. The Pony hears it in my office while I'm not in there. I hear it out in the main basement when The Pony isn't there. Then we have the new light-switchy sound, and closing doors upstairs to accompany the phantom footsteps.
Yesterday, the #1 son commanded The Pony to bring him a soda. We keep them in the basement mini-fridge, where The Pony hangs out, even though he doesn't drink much soda. It frees up Frig, the main kitchen stainless steel Frigidaire, for four 18-cartons of eggs, and enough spare room should Farmer H cart in some Auction Meat. The Pony sighed heavily, grabbed a Sprite (bet you thought it was going to be Diet Coke, huh) and ran it upstairs to #1's room. He huffed back down the steps. He doesn't mind bringing sodas to Farmer H, but it gets his goat to wait on the layabout #1.
I was folding boys' boxer briefs while not relaxing in Farmer H's La-Z-Boy in front of the fake fireplace. "Hey! Pony! I just heard a soda open in #1's room!"
I could hear his snort and chuckle one floor below.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Woe Is Number One
1 is the woe-iest number that you'll ever view
None can be as sad as 1
It's the woe-iest number since the rooms are none.
The #1 son is struggling with the recent knowledge that he has been placed in overflow housing at his college. After he conscientiously sent in his dorm preferences in April, as per instructions. He made this discovery via internet while away working virtually free for 10 days in the tech department at Missouri Boys State. The salt in this wound was the fact that others who applied way after he did were given their first choice, while he was denied first, second, and third. So he did what he has done since he was a wee 1, and called the powers who set him adrift on the sea of unhappiness.
I asked him about overflow housing. At least he had a place to stay, I consoled. "Not really. There are four buildings in that oldest complex, which isn't even near campus, and they only use three of those crappy buildings because the fourth one is way too crappy to put people in. So actually, we do not have any rooms, but are on a waiting list to get the crappy ones." Not verbatim, I'm sure, but he's not here now and I am, so that's my story and I'm stickin' it to him.
He called once while at Boys State, but did not receive an answer. On Wednesday, he called again. According to him, "The woman was really hateful with me, and said she couldn't do anything about it. I asked to talk to someone else. SHE was really polite. She said that didn't sound right. That she'd look into it, and call me back. She might not have time to all by 4:30 when they close, but she'll call tomorrow." I suppose you can guess how that went. He waited home and kept us off the phone. No call. Thursday, he stayed home all morning, then took off to spend time with one of his many friends who will disperse to the four winds when college starts. I stayed off the phone. I checked the machine. As you might assume, 4:30 came and went. No call. I told my mom, and perhaps #1 himself, though I don't recall nor keep a log of my witticisms, that the rude lady probably held the phone out to the next person who walked through the office, and that chick just pacified him with false hope to get him off the phone. Because I used to be a state employee, you see, and I know insider secrets.
This morning, #1 called and asked for The Pacifier by name. Because HE keeps a log. She said that she found out the reason for the mishap. In reviewing his request, they saw the first choice, but no preference for room type. So they put him at the bottom of the entire list. Welcome to college, my boy. No second choice. No third choice. Incomplete info, bottom of list. The Pacifier said that since #1 had called to check on it as soon as he found out, as soon as the housing assignments were posted, she backdated his request. And that even though they never do this for freshmen, she put him on the waiting list for his first choice. The list is five pages long. He is about a third of the way down the second page. Hope springs eternal.
I'm sure Farmer H would build him a tiny house and pull it down to college on a trailer made from a severed truck bed. However...freshmen must live on campus, which probably is not zoned for Farmer H's handiwork.
I have not mentioned it to #1. No need to dump ice water on that exposed nerve. But I am picturing Revenge of the Nerds, and Lewis and Gilbert moving into the gym, their cot-sleeping interrupted by an occasional errant basketball sailing over the canvas curtain divider.
None can be as sad as 1
It's the woe-iest number since the rooms are none.
The #1 son is struggling with the recent knowledge that he has been placed in overflow housing at his college. After he conscientiously sent in his dorm preferences in April, as per instructions. He made this discovery via internet while away working virtually free for 10 days in the tech department at Missouri Boys State. The salt in this wound was the fact that others who applied way after he did were given their first choice, while he was denied first, second, and third. So he did what he has done since he was a wee 1, and called the powers who set him adrift on the sea of unhappiness.
I asked him about overflow housing. At least he had a place to stay, I consoled. "Not really. There are four buildings in that oldest complex, which isn't even near campus, and they only use three of those crappy buildings because the fourth one is way too crappy to put people in. So actually, we do not have any rooms, but are on a waiting list to get the crappy ones." Not verbatim, I'm sure, but he's not here now and I am, so that's my story and I'm stickin' it to him.
He called once while at Boys State, but did not receive an answer. On Wednesday, he called again. According to him, "The woman was really hateful with me, and said she couldn't do anything about it. I asked to talk to someone else. SHE was really polite. She said that didn't sound right. That she'd look into it, and call me back. She might not have time to all by 4:30 when they close, but she'll call tomorrow." I suppose you can guess how that went. He waited home and kept us off the phone. No call. Thursday, he stayed home all morning, then took off to spend time with one of his many friends who will disperse to the four winds when college starts. I stayed off the phone. I checked the machine. As you might assume, 4:30 came and went. No call. I told my mom, and perhaps #1 himself, though I don't recall nor keep a log of my witticisms, that the rude lady probably held the phone out to the next person who walked through the office, and that chick just pacified him with false hope to get him off the phone. Because I used to be a state employee, you see, and I know insider secrets.
This morning, #1 called and asked for The Pacifier by name. Because HE keeps a log. She said that she found out the reason for the mishap. In reviewing his request, they saw the first choice, but no preference for room type. So they put him at the bottom of the entire list. Welcome to college, my boy. No second choice. No third choice. Incomplete info, bottom of list. The Pacifier said that since #1 had called to check on it as soon as he found out, as soon as the housing assignments were posted, she backdated his request. And that even though they never do this for freshmen, she put him on the waiting list for his first choice. The list is five pages long. He is about a third of the way down the second page. Hope springs eternal.
I'm sure Farmer H would build him a tiny house and pull it down to college on a trailer made from a severed truck bed. However...freshmen must live on campus, which probably is not zoned for Farmer H's handiwork.
I have not mentioned it to #1. No need to dump ice water on that exposed nerve. But I am picturing Revenge of the Nerds, and Lewis and Gilbert moving into the gym, their cot-sleeping interrupted by an occasional errant basketball sailing over the canvas curtain divider.
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Even Steven Giveth...
...and Even Steven taketh away.
Today we had to transfer some of our vast fortune to prepare for the #1 son's imminent foray into higher education. The Pony wanted to spend the day at his grandma's house, soaking up love and high-speed internet. He has a couple of new computer games that need installation.
On the way, I stopped for gas. Because of a rickety bridge replacement, we have been taking an alternate route to town since April. It comes to a T right across from a Casey's General Store. If you people don't have Casey's in your neighborhood, you don't know what you're missing. This particular store always gives me the best gas mileage, and it's on the way to and from work. Getting across that road, though, is problematic.
This morning fortune and Even Steven smiled upon us. No traffic in either direction. I darted straight across the business route and into the parking lot. Nobody was at either side of the four gas pumps. I had my pick of that petroleum litter. I pulled up to the farthest one so upon leaving, I could hit a side street and resume my Grandma-bound journey.
There was a yellow OUT OF ORDER plastic bag over the pump handle. I made a skinny U-turn to get to the other side. I pulled to the last pump to get back out on the business route after The Pony paid. There was a yellow OUT OF ORDER plastic bag over the pump handle. I backed T-Hoe to the pump behind me. Like The Duke John Wayne as Marshall Rooster Cogburn, I always go backwards when I'm backin' up.
That wacky Even Steven! So like him to be a Sour Patch Kid. First he's sour, then he's sweet. Gives me a clear route to the pumps, then makes them non-working. He got me! Cheeky monkey! But then he let me pump my gas in peace.
No sooner had I pushed the button for "pay inside" and shoved the nozzle into T-Hoe's flank than a worker in a red Casey's vest walked across the pump island to the store sign. He had a long-handled sucker, which he used to remove the price numbers and LOWER THE GAS BY ONE CENT PER GALLON!
Even Steven, I'm still waiting for some sugar.
Today we had to transfer some of our vast fortune to prepare for the #1 son's imminent foray into higher education. The Pony wanted to spend the day at his grandma's house, soaking up love and high-speed internet. He has a couple of new computer games that need installation.
On the way, I stopped for gas. Because of a rickety bridge replacement, we have been taking an alternate route to town since April. It comes to a T right across from a Casey's General Store. If you people don't have Casey's in your neighborhood, you don't know what you're missing. This particular store always gives me the best gas mileage, and it's on the way to and from work. Getting across that road, though, is problematic.
This morning fortune and Even Steven smiled upon us. No traffic in either direction. I darted straight across the business route and into the parking lot. Nobody was at either side of the four gas pumps. I had my pick of that petroleum litter. I pulled up to the farthest one so upon leaving, I could hit a side street and resume my Grandma-bound journey.
There was a yellow OUT OF ORDER plastic bag over the pump handle. I made a skinny U-turn to get to the other side. I pulled to the last pump to get back out on the business route after The Pony paid. There was a yellow OUT OF ORDER plastic bag over the pump handle. I backed T-Hoe to the pump behind me. Like The Duke John Wayne as Marshall Rooster Cogburn, I always go backwards when I'm backin' up.
That wacky Even Steven! So like him to be a Sour Patch Kid. First he's sour, then he's sweet. Gives me a clear route to the pumps, then makes them non-working. He got me! Cheeky monkey! But then he let me pump my gas in peace.
No sooner had I pushed the button for "pay inside" and shoved the nozzle into T-Hoe's flank than a worker in a red Casey's vest walked across the pump island to the store sign. He had a long-handled sucker, which he used to remove the price numbers and LOWER THE GAS BY ONE CENT PER GALLON!
Even Steven, I'm still waiting for some sugar.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
I Think A Bit Of Prospectin' Is In Order
Hear ye, hear ye! The Pony, of first house on the right past the abandoned portable meth lab and the old red barn, Outer Hillmomba, USA, is now permitted to drive. That means he has a learner's permit. Legal permission to cruise the highways and byways of rural Missouri.
I know this may come as a shock to some of you...but after missing four out of 44 on his first practice test, and four out of 25 on his next practice test...The Pony took his official written driver's test today, and missed...wait for it...are you ready for this...FOUR!
He wasted no time in informing his buddy who had to repeat the test several times. Who replied, "It was beginner's luck."
Farmer H called the insurance man who lives a billionaire's life on the coattails of the Hillbilly family. It costs nothing to add a learner to our policy. The catch is, it costs thousands a year to insure a 16-year-old boy on a $1000 Caravan. The cheapest vehicle in our fleet. The go-to car for our beginning drivers.
In six short months, when we have TWO teenage male drivers, I will go the way of those wacky new parents I saw on a rerun of 16 and Pregnant.
Panning for gold on my day off.
I know this may come as a shock to some of you...but after missing four out of 44 on his first practice test, and four out of 25 on his next practice test...The Pony took his official written driver's test today, and missed...wait for it...are you ready for this...FOUR!
He wasted no time in informing his buddy who had to repeat the test several times. Who replied, "It was beginner's luck."
Farmer H called the insurance man who lives a billionaire's life on the coattails of the Hillbilly family. It costs nothing to add a learner to our policy. The catch is, it costs thousands a year to insure a 16-year-old boy on a $1000 Caravan. The cheapest vehicle in our fleet. The go-to car for our beginning drivers.
In six short months, when we have TWO teenage male drivers, I will go the way of those wacky new parents I saw on a rerun of 16 and Pregnant.
Panning for gold on my day off.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
How To License A Pony
I have drawn a line in the sand for The Pony. He WILL get his driver's license. He will NOT put it off any longer. In fact, last week I informed him that he would be taking the written permit test this week. The office is only open on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Since I had to go to the doctor today, that means The Pony is being tested TOMORROW.
Of course he put off opening the Driver's Guide until today. While I was gone four hours to the doctor, he was reading the manual and taking two practice tests. Here are the results, straight from The Pony's mouth:
"I took the practice test in the book. I missed four. That's out of 44 questions. Which I think is pretty good. Then I took and online test. I only missed four. Out of 25. Which still gives me an 80-something. They asked how high bumpers can be from the ground! That was nowhere in my book! That's not fair."
"It sounds like you did pretty good. You only have to get a 60 to pass, right?"
"Um. No. You can only miss five. Out of 25. More than that, and you fail. My friend took it seven times."
"We're not going back over there every week! You need to study and take some more practice tests."
"I'll do it tonight. And in the morning, on the way there."
The Pony needs to take this more seriously, methinks.
Of course he put off opening the Driver's Guide until today. While I was gone four hours to the doctor, he was reading the manual and taking two practice tests. Here are the results, straight from The Pony's mouth:
"I took the practice test in the book. I missed four. That's out of 44 questions. Which I think is pretty good. Then I took and online test. I only missed four. Out of 25. Which still gives me an 80-something. They asked how high bumpers can be from the ground! That was nowhere in my book! That's not fair."
"It sounds like you did pretty good. You only have to get a 60 to pass, right?"
"Um. No. You can only miss five. Out of 25. More than that, and you fail. My friend took it seven times."
"We're not going back over there every week! You need to study and take some more practice tests."
"I'll do it tonight. And in the morning, on the way there."
The Pony needs to take this more seriously, methinks.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Was It Real, Or Was It Memory Lapse?
The innernets are slow today, my friends. Slow, like a kinda short woman, big wall o'hair, face like a frying pan, and a guy with a horse face, big teeth, and flared nostrils trying to buy a chocolate babka at Schnitzer's Bakery.
My cell phone is devouring itself like an Ouroboros. That's the mythological snake eating its own tail. Poor Phony depletes his charge trying to send me photos, then can't send me photos because his charge it depleted.
The #1 son hopped out of bed at the stroke of 10:00 a.m., declared that he was leaving at 10:30 to visit his girlfriend, asked which pair of shorts his brand new shirt went with (after I'd washed his entire shirt wardrobe yesterday so he'd have something to wear), and pointedly ignored the full tall kitchen wastebasket which I instructed him to take out before he left.
The Pony and I hoofed it to town on T-Hoe's back to do the shopping. Funny how things happen that can't quite be coincidence. As we pulled into some prime Devil's Playground parking real estate, The Pony declared, "We're at Walmart, so there's Aunt Sis!" I thought he was jesting. We've seen her the last two Devil visits, walking across the lot in front of the store as we are getting out of the car. Yet there she was! The trifecta of chance familial encounters. We've got to stop meeting like that.
And, as if that wasn't enough of a high point to our day, I heard my name called while I was scanning my debit card to give The Devil his due. I turned around to see none other than the husband of the sister of Sis's husband-the-former-mayor! I think that makes him some kind of inlaw. He's a fellow educator from another district, now retired, who inquired about #1 and his imminent departure for college. I don't know why everyone has to keep reminding me.
Back home, fighting dehydration and heat exhaustion bringing in the supplies, I succumbed to a back spasm. Leaning on the kitchen counter between unbagging foodstuffs did not give any relief. When everything was put away, I told The Pony that I was going to sit down for a few minutes and let my back unclench. Besides, it was so hot, I cranked the thermostat down to a saucy 73 degrees.
I sank into Farmer H's La-Z-Boy and clanked back. Ahh...ten minutes later, I was feeling chipper again. Then I saw it. Real or imagined. Something silver streaked from the front picture window in a straight line across the brown and tan mottled carpet and under my chair! Seriously! It was too thin and fast to be a mouse. Too straight and short to be a snake. I swear! I think I saw a lizard dart across the room. I sat up and called to The Pony in the basement. "You're not going to believe what I just saw! I swear a silver lizard darted from the window to the recliner!"
"Uh huh...I think you need to cool off a little bit more."
My cell phone is devouring itself like an Ouroboros. That's the mythological snake eating its own tail. Poor Phony depletes his charge trying to send me photos, then can't send me photos because his charge it depleted.
The #1 son hopped out of bed at the stroke of 10:00 a.m., declared that he was leaving at 10:30 to visit his girlfriend, asked which pair of shorts his brand new shirt went with (after I'd washed his entire shirt wardrobe yesterday so he'd have something to wear), and pointedly ignored the full tall kitchen wastebasket which I instructed him to take out before he left.
The Pony and I hoofed it to town on T-Hoe's back to do the shopping. Funny how things happen that can't quite be coincidence. As we pulled into some prime Devil's Playground parking real estate, The Pony declared, "We're at Walmart, so there's Aunt Sis!" I thought he was jesting. We've seen her the last two Devil visits, walking across the lot in front of the store as we are getting out of the car. Yet there she was! The trifecta of chance familial encounters. We've got to stop meeting like that.
And, as if that wasn't enough of a high point to our day, I heard my name called while I was scanning my debit card to give The Devil his due. I turned around to see none other than the husband of the sister of Sis's husband-the-former-mayor! I think that makes him some kind of inlaw. He's a fellow educator from another district, now retired, who inquired about #1 and his imminent departure for college. I don't know why everyone has to keep reminding me.
Back home, fighting dehydration and heat exhaustion bringing in the supplies, I succumbed to a back spasm. Leaning on the kitchen counter between unbagging foodstuffs did not give any relief. When everything was put away, I told The Pony that I was going to sit down for a few minutes and let my back unclench. Besides, it was so hot, I cranked the thermostat down to a saucy 73 degrees.
I sank into Farmer H's La-Z-Boy and clanked back. Ahh...ten minutes later, I was feeling chipper again. Then I saw it. Real or imagined. Something silver streaked from the front picture window in a straight line across the brown and tan mottled carpet and under my chair! Seriously! It was too thin and fast to be a mouse. Too straight and short to be a snake. I swear! I think I saw a lizard dart across the room. I sat up and called to The Pony in the basement. "You're not going to believe what I just saw! I swear a silver lizard darted from the window to the recliner!"
"Uh huh...I think you need to cool off a little bit more."
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