Freedom Fries

Traffic jangled even my steadfast nerves when this morning's drive, which usually takes about 30 minutes, clocked in at 1 hour and 27 minutes.

It was slow going, but going nonetheless. The following conversation began as follow up to one of the wizened crones talking about getting permits for her show cow (I don't know either, just stay with me).

Driver: So, Wizened Crone, have you gotten the permits yet to have your show cows on your property?

Wizened Crone: No, not yet.

Dora the Explorer: Why do you need permits for your cows anyway?

WC: When we first bought the property, there were no restrictions for farm animals. Now the neighbors are complaining about our cows, so we have to get the right permits to keep them.

D: Ugh. We have a neighbor like that, he's a pain in the neck. His cows are always getting out and a few weeks ago, my daughter's boyfriend was coming home and he hit one.

[Editorial aside: I assure you this conversation actually happened and that, no not everyone who lives in Texas owns livestock.]

D: This neighbor is really crazy. I think he must have gotten a deal on potatoes one time because once I saw the bed of his Escalade filled up with potatoes and there were potatoes rolling all over the street in our neighborhood...

The cabin fills with hysterical laughter due, in part, to tales of the rural Escalade-drivin' potato bandit and a heady brew of exhaust fumes from the hour in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

D: ...I wonder what he was doing with all those potatoes.

Don't we all.

Dora, Dora, Dora

There's been some van drama recently, and the blame can be placed squarely on Dora's shoulders.

Evidently, Dora was recently promoted and her schedule has changed. Which means that accommodating her new schedule has become the responsibility of every other person on the van. After we made our final pick up last week, she floats the idea of changing the pick up and drop off routes and insists that she be at her desk no later than 7:15 a.m.

Well, gee, princess, I'd like to crowd surf into my office every morning where a feast of calorie-free biscuits with gravy and non-annoying coworkers are waiting for me. But that ain't gonna happen either.

Dora's plan went over (to borrow a phrase from my brother), "like a turd in a punchbowl." And poor Wizened Crone (who has recently taken over the Van Mother role) it was on her to diplomatically explain that not only was Dora's suggestion rubbish, but would be massively inconvenient to, oh, everyone.

So how does Dora retaliate?

She changes the clock on the van.

It has been previously addressed that the van clock runs s-l-o-w. But all the vannies have compensated by showing up a few minutes late. Last week, by pure chance, I found myself arriving to the van a few minutes early, or so I thought. When the clock read 6:30, less than a minute after I got on, our half empty van left. Rather, I should say our half empty van left about 6 people behind.

The next morning, having forgotten about the clock being moved, I drove into the parking lot in time to see my van pulling away. Instead of admitting defeat, I gunned my puny 4 cylinders and caught up to the van. The murderous glint in my eyes as I took my seat prompted Wizened Crone to say, "Everyone adjust your time because someone has changed the clock in the van."

Someone? Someone!?!? Often times in adult life, I find myself hopelessly frustrated by the lack of directness in the world. How's about something along the lines of, "Dora? Yes, you. Your little clock stunt has pissed everyone off. In time we will get over it, but right now everyone thinks your a selfish ass."

Although, Karmic justice reigns supreme: since changing the clock, Dora has missed the van three times. Which reminds us all that no one fiddles with van destiny and gets away with it.

Say What?

Monday mornings are usually on the quiet side. But not today.

I found myself uncharacteristically disinterested in both my book and music this morning so I tuned out and stared out the window. That is until the Gap Lady and one of the Wizened Crones snapped me back into cognizance with their chatting about car washing and tractor repair. Seriously: tractor repair.

The two of them chatted for a while and I got the impression that Gap Lady really wanted to talk. After a few minutes of silence she says:

I just don't know what to make of all this political stuff.

My eyes widened, my jaw clenched, I leaned forward slightly, and I held my breath. I was beside myself with anticipation.

The response was a total let down. The wizened crone said matter-of-factly that she'd been hearing alot of ads for Obama, but very few from Clinton.

Then she said she heard that it was supposed to rain later.

And then there was silence.

It was, gentle reader, a deliciously awkward moment.

Cletus, Is That You?

As summer approaches my fellow vannies are bringing their kids with them to work more often. I don't know if the youths are too irresponsible to be left home alone during the day or if mom is just putting them to work.

One of the more regular additions is the wizened crone's daughter. I'd be hard pressed to peg her age because I tend to lump kids into one of two age brackets. To me, kids either look like they're 4 or 17.

She's a nice enough girl I suppose, in the first flush of youth with bright eyes and the awkward dopiness known only to teenagers.

One thing I will say about this gal is that she speaks with a twang reminiscent of the marble-mouthed back woods Appalachians I've seen featured in documentaries on PBS.

A sampling:

Mama = "Maw-Muh"
Mini Cooper = "Mini Cooh-Purgh"
Why = "Wh-I-Ugh"

Another thing I tend to forget abut Today's Youth is that they tend to suffer from acute ADHD. Riding in the van with this girl makes me think of that mediocre Billy Crystal/Debra Winger comedy wherein Billy Crystal drives around with his father-in-law who insists on reading aloud the name every billboard sign, building, and vehicle they pass, as in: "You ask for it, you got it. Toy-Oh-Ta."

A sampling:

"Maw-muh, look its a Jag-wurh! [Editorial aside: The girl seems to have an inexplicable preoccupation with cars] What do they do over thay-urh? Look at this bump. It hurts. What is it? Look at it, maw-muh."

I'm sure there's more but after pleas to the matriarch to examine a bump of unknown origin, I had to put my earphones in to listen to this song and block this whole episode the hell out.

Fat Camp & Johnny Depp Miscellany

This day has been a medley of emotions running the gamut from delight to heartbreak.

The delight began as soon as my mp3 player's lone AAA battery died this morning and I was forced to listen to the conversation around me. From what I was able to piece together, Gap Lady was singing the praises of a local fat camp, or as it's euphemistically named, "Healthy Weigh of Life," to one of the Wizened Crones. It seems the crone was either looking for a job for her daughter during the summer as a fat camp counselor, or she actually wanted to send her daughter to fat camp. It was unclear.

The delight swelled when, at my first meeting of the day, the group was treated to a puppet show about the dangers of cigarette smoking. There really is nothing sweeter on this earth than the palpable awkwardness of a room full of professionals watching a puppet show while swilling their morning coffee and masticating on cream cheese-smeared bagels.

My delight overcame me when the two college-aged puppeteers began their show. The male half of the duo was about 5' tall and 250 pounds with olive skin and a greasy ponytail wearing thick yellow-framed glasses that screamed, "I am an ar-teeste!" and a voice that was a spot-on ringer for Johnny Depp. I was enraptured listening to the dangers of tobacco addiction and lung cancer from Willy Wonka/Edward Scissorhands/Raoul Duke himself.

After my brush with the Johnny Deppesque puppeteer, my day came crashing down. The second meeting of the day handed me the news that one of my favorite colleagues is retiring. I'm going to miss her terribly. Mighty Zen N, you're a woman for the ages.

All was not lost, my day was buoyed when I passed a hallway and saw that the maintenance staff had left their many cleaning carts and trashcans parked outside the break room. This made me smile as I thought of roughnecks lining their Hogs up outside a biker bar. I would no sooner mess with a grizzled biker than I would any member of janitorial services. Because either way, you're going home with some broken bones.