Well, now, that went pretty well

Friday was a blur of blurriness, brought on by a condition the medical journals call “Brain Blurriness”, indicated by extreme fatigue, tiredness, listlessness, ennui, blurriness, and torpor. I remember we had supper, and there was some laundry in there, and then there was blessed sleep. I thought long and hard about disconnecting the phone—I even felt around on the back for the power cord, and then felt that pang of guilt about it all. I mean, so what if relatives call and wake me up? It’ll be good for me to get up, right?! I just left the phone alone, and prayed I would get enough shuteye.

Phone rings. ::sigh:: Pitch black, I answer, mother in law. ::sigh:: I look over at the clock—9 a.m. Why is it so dark? So I turn to her as we stand in line at the counter, and we carry on a conversation on our respective handsets, standing there facing each other as we wait our turn. I notice that even though the shop is dark, through the venetian blinds there are tons of people walking on the sidewalk, which make me tired, so I lie on the floor for a bit as my mother in law continues to chat. AAARGGHH!! Stupid STUPID dream!

I woke myself up enough to see that it was indeed still dark, although morningish. GRR. And went back to a fitful sleep. That lasted until I felt Reba bungee out of bed and heard her rustling Catherine to the potty. ‘I might as well jusssgehhhhtottathhheee…’ [insert image of little Xs over my eyes as I drift back off] Which lasts about until CRASH-SKREEEEE-WHAM-TINKLETINKLE-WHUMP-SKIIIIITCH exactly 7 a.m.

Real time, this time, no dream. Reba’s downstairs fixing breakfast. Just like her mother does, with maximum pan-whangage so that the whole house is briskly awakened. She was in the drawer under the stove pawing through the muffin pans and cooling racks and cookie sheets and skillets and all the other percussion instruments. Why she and her mom do this, I do not know. Her mother could wake the dead with her rummaging and slamming about in the kitchen, and I guess that arcane knowledge just got passed along. The food’s always good, but it sure is loud.

I started to go back to sleep, but figured I might as well not fight it. Up, pee, shave, take medicine, brush teeth, pants on, look at the computer for a minute, watch the news, mumble at kids, creak down the stairs and see pretty wife eating a bowl of cereal. I gave her a good one and got myself some milk and drew open the blinds so I could watch the hummingbirdies and sat down and said hey. “Burnt up the bottom element this morning.” “Huh?” “In the oven. The bottom element flamed up like a welding torch. I was going to make muffins this morning. But I couldn’t.”

“Hmm. Have to get that fixed.”

“Yeah, because I was going to cook some muffins this morning. But I couldn’t. Because the oven wasn’t working.” I sat there looking out the window for the longest time, watching the little buzz bombs work the feeder, drinking my milk, watching the TV.

*ping*

Oh. OH!

“Hey, you want me to get something and fix the oven RIGHT NOW, don’t you?!”

“Well, I started to come wake you up, but I figured I would wait until you got downstairs. But it would be nice to be able to use my oven.”

Ladies. Please. If you want something fixed, please just say “Fix This”. You really don’t have to be subtle about it—just come on out and say it. Remember, boys are like hammers—we may be very useful, but we are rather dense, and we can’t read minds.

So, after reading the tea leaves and finally discerning the signs of my future, I brightly wagered that one of the plethora of hardware stores around our lovely burg would most surely have a range element. You know, because I’m sorta stupid that way.

Finished my milk, added AA size batteries and nutgrassicide and bird seed to the shopping list, yanked out the burnt-up element, put on my Officially Licensed Bedhead Concealment Device and was off to Home Depot.

Okeedoke—batt’ries, seed, no chemicals, annnnd, no element. WHA? They had tons of burner eyes, but no oven deals. I carried around my little burnt up part and finally found a guy—“Do you ha…” “No sir, we don’t carry those, but Lighting and Lamp up the road here does, and Mayer Electric, and there’s some applicance place out in Gardendale that carries them.” ::sigh::

Paid for my seed and batteries, then decided that surely he was just overlooking the obvious. There’s a Lowe’s less than a quarter of a mile away, and I bet anything he was just trying not to steer me to a competitor. Out to the van, off to Lowe’s. Who don’t carry range elements, either. Shoulda known.

An interesting aside is that even though they didn’t carry oven elements, I did happen across Little Baby Smoking Girl over in the plumbing supplies. Little Baby Smoking Girl is the name I gave to a girl that Reba and I used to see all the time downtown when we would go to lunch. The first time I saw her, she was walking away from us and I nudged Reba and whispered, “Look at that little kid smoking!” Some time later, we saw her again, this time from the front, and even though she tops out at 4 feet and a few inches, she quite obviously weren’t no little kid. But, boy, she could burn up a pack of Camels. Anyway, her nickname became Little Baby Smoking Girl, and I steadfastly refused every opportunity to go up to her and tell her smoking would stunt her growth. We haven’t seen her in a long time, so it was good to see that she still exists. (If for no other reason than it makes interesting blogfiller.)

ANYway, off to Lighting and Lamp. Who are closed on Saturday. Grr. Then on to Mayer Electric. Who are closed on Saturday. GRR. Then finally on to home, which was open. Hauled out the phone book, and thank goodness, the first place I called, Southeastern Appliance Service in East Lake was 1) open, and more importantly 2) had the right thing. Off again.

(Wind Rider, a shout out to you here, because Southeastern sits at the corner of First Avenue and 76th Street, right next door to the dirty movie theater and the dirty book store, and right across the street from your favorite eating place, Andrew’s Barbecue!)

Parked in the back by the tiny loading dock, walked up the old steps and saw an older fellow with his name on his pocket and a younger guy who looked a bit like the Unabomber. I held up my now bent and forlorn oven element—“I need one of these, please.”

“You want one all burnt up like that?”

Ahhh…a real character. Been in the business a jillion years, heard every complaint, developed a line of patter for each one.

I stopped in my tracks and looked down a bit, and began to study the wire loop in front of me. After a good while, I looked up at him and carefully said, “No…no sir, I think I might better get me one that ain’t all broke.” “Well, we can fix you up then—awful hard to make biscuits like that!” Yep, chief, if you only knew…

We walked into the front of the store, which didn’t appear to have changed since 1966. He went over to a pegboard full of parts and held up the element to several before coming up with one. Which was decidedly a different shape and length as the one I brought in. The cashier lady roused up and wrote out a receipt—“I’m the one who had called a little earlier, ma’am, with the Kitchen-Aid?” “Yes.” “Well, I was just looking at this new element—it looks a bit different from this one, and I was just wonder…” “It’s the same one.” “Uh. Okay then.” I had my doubts.

She totaled up the bill—34 bucks and some change. Whew! Derned things must be made out of gold. Which I had none of. I told her I might have to go get some cash and stood there counting out what I had in my billfold, which came up about ten shy of where I needed to be. ::sigh:: “I’ll be right back, ma’am.” [redacted portion of unverbalized vile language] Walked back out the shop and met up with the Name Tag Guy—“Did they get you fixed up so you can cook you some cornbread?” In so many words, no. Jumped in the van and whipped around to the SouthTrust two doors down. No ATM. (Bad neighborhood—who in their right mind would stop there anyway?) Then on down the street to the CVS Pharmacy, where I picked up a bag of peanuts and a cold drink and got enough change back to get my stove fixed.

Back to the shop, back in the back door, once more exchange banter with Name Tag Guy, go to counter, hand over my money, receive my not-quite-the-same part, and meet up with the Unabomber coming around the corner—“Well, looks like you’re going to be able to cook up a nice batch of biscuits, now!” I resisted the urge to say that I was going to cook my neighbor’s springer spaniel, and it was back to the house.

I just KNEW it wasn’t going to fit—it was about an inch longer toward the front of the oven and I figured it would hit the door, but HALLELUIAH, the silly thing still fit and it worked and there was GREAT JOY IN ALL OF THE KITCHEN. Amen.

Then on to the rest of the day, which included feeding the birds and other vermin, picking and eating a couple of Jonathan’s tomatoes (which are fantastic, by the way), cleaning, folding clothes, moving stuff out of the kitchen floor so Reba could mop, and watching Some Like It Hot on DVD in fits and starts all afternoon. (You know, I don’t know if any of you have ever noticed this, but that Marilyn Monroe girl was real attractive. And despite the attempts of some to say she was a porker—here’s a nice debunking from Snopes for you! And here’s one about her NOT having six toes.) Anyway, I love that movie—then again, I like Jell-O on springs, too.

Supper, then kids scrubbed and hair dried—this is the first time I’ve gotten to do Middle Girl and Cat’s fur since they got it all sheared off—what a dream. Dry and tangle-free in ten minutes! Off to bed, and time to collapse.

Up again Sunday, get the crew rousted, shove some breakfast down them, then out the door. Class—I gave myself the 5th and 6th grade this quarter—all girls, with an occasional stray from the other species. They’re at a good age, and mostly still respectful of adults. And Rebecca’s in there, too, which makes it fun. She is always amazed when I throw out some bits of Greek or write it on the board. “Daddy, do you speak Grecian?” Heh. “No, sugar, I just know some words and how to spell some of them.” “Oh. Well, how do you know all those words!?” “Well, you have to STUDY!” “Oh. Okay, then!”

One year, your child thinks you’re the most brilliant, most handsome man alive. Wait two, and you’re on the same level as a planarian. ::sigh::

Class over, on to sermon, kids remain blessedly wiggle-free for most of the time, then time to go, pack us all in and start to leave and are assaulted by two little five-year-old demons hiding in the bushes who sling a handful of gravel at Miss Reba’s vehicle. Same two who have become synonymous with the terms “lack of parental control” and “uncontrollable brats” around the building. They basically run wild while their parents stand around inside and chat. Grr.

I stopped and got out, and they had started running back to the other part of the parking lot. I got back in and started backing up the driveway, and then saw in my mirror one of our friends hauling them back toward the building by their arms. Heh. She’s as sweet as can be, and has a couple of girls herself who can be quite a handful, too, but she can also make a dandy Grand Inquisitor, which they weren't at all expecting. (She also cuts her own firewood.)

Torquemama stopped them by the side of the van and gently told them to tell Mr. Oglesby what they had done and that they were sorry. They immediately blamed each other and denied doing anything wrong, which turned out to be the exact wrong answer. She pressed them and finally they relented that yes, rocks had somehow managed to get in their hands; and yes, those rocks did manage to leave said hands with vigor; and yes, they might have impacted the side of my vehicle, as well as several other vehicles which left the parking lot behind mine; and yes, in those circumstances some might say they were wrong; and yes—ooh, here comes the dad of one. The prisoner will most certainly be scolded for at least thirty seconds before being allowed to roam free once again. The other kid’s mom was still inside, so after a few more seconds of fruitless interrogation, he was led into the building to face a stern glance and a finger wag. ::sigh:: I closed the door and the kids were about beside themselves—Catherine spouted off first, “Them those there boys shouldn’t have oughta done throwed those rocks AT OUR VAN!!” “Catherine, what would have happened to you if you were out there throwing rocks?” “I woulda gotted my butt tored up!!” Indeed.

They continued on discussing their own ideas of the level of punishment the boys would receive, and to a one they decided it would be negligible. All of that went by the wayside because it was time to eat. New place this week (and actually, for the past two weeks)—a tiny little storefront Chinese place called Golden Gate. The food was better this week, and the few tables they had were packed. I miss our old place there in Trussville with the Inexplicable Anglo Waitresses, but this one has the advantage of being cheap and on the way. And it has Sriracha! A new one on me in my ongoing quest for hot sauces, it’s made by Huy Fong, Inc. in California and it’s mighty good. Hot, but not inedible, with just a touch of sweet. And it comes in an entertaining giant bottle with all sorts of foreign writing on it! (Alas, none of it Greek)

Full, we went on home, read the paper, played on the computer a bit, then back to church, answered questions from the mom of one of the boys—yes, the precious little darling actually had rocks in his hand; yes, he actually threw them; yes, he actually hit our van; yes, he half-heartedly said he was sorry before blaming the other kids…you know, why would you not believe it if someone went to the trouble to haul your kid in from outside, all the way to you, and then proceeded to tell you he had been out throwing rocks at cars? Anyway, home again, supper, and beddie-bye.

And now I’m here today!!
posted by Terry at 12:43:00 PM