While the Cat's Away

The mouse. . .

Read 5 books – 3 by Margaret Maron, 1 by C. J. Box, and a 1 by Anne Perry,

Washed dishes once (she loves paper plates),

Completed very little housework,

Spent uncounted hours playing games on the computer,

Watched several Inspector Lynley DVD’s,

Worked a bit on her quilt,

Bought that red handbag that she had been drooling over,

Ate at Sonic once,

Ignored the treadmill,

Made a big mistake perming her hair (she now looks like a time traveler from 1964)

Planned to attend Noah’s first traveling team baseball tournament this weekend, and

Counted the days until the cat returns.

Seeing Through a Seven-Year-Old's Eyes

Most of the baseball fields where Cole plays are of the same wagon wheel design—four fields surrounding the concession area hub. As I was coming in, Bella and her mom were walking toward the concession area. Dena asked, “Did you see a restroom on the side where you came in?” I told her that I saw a sign, but that I didn’t know whether it was for men or women. I meant that I didn’t really pay attention to the sign other than to notice it was there.

Bella said, “Mimi, the women on the signs have on clothes, and the men are naked.”

She’s right.

Madison Avenue, What Were You Thinking?

Is it just me or has Advertising sunk to heretofore unknown levels just to make a buck?

The “$5.00 foot-long” spots are almost as annoying as Dr. Scholl’s “gelling” series of commercials. I hate them! The young woman who appears in the Progressive Insurance (I think it’s Progressive—I mute every time she appears on the screen) ads grates on my nerves. The cave men have become so-o-o annoying. I just don’t understand most of their new ads. It’s time to come up with something new.

The most tasteless commercials are those for male-enhancement products, the K-Y products, and the ones for impotence. TMI, people, TMI! Those giggling women actually embarrass me. Then we have the Go Daddy girls. Those ads are just . . . icky!

And speaking of . . . icky, most of the evening programming on Spike TV is distasteful.

This has nothing to do with today’s minor rant, but when did the Sci-Fi Channel become the Syfy Channel? Is Syfy more hip than Sci-fi? I wonder how much it cost for the change. It just seems goofy to me.

Happy 4th!

Mr. Fixit is at the beach for nine days, and I'm at home. I don't really care for the beach and someone has to feed the cats. I plan to do a lot of nothin'.

My parents were married July 4, 1940.

C-O-O-O-O-L!!!

We have lived in this house for almost 27 years. During those 27 years I have parked the car in the garage maybe five times. The garage is used as Mr. Fixit’s workshop, my laundry room, and his storage facility for tools and his irreplaceable treasures like old, broken thermostats from almost all the cars we have owned during the 43 years we’ve been married. This week something different has been added.

Monday morning I discovered that my CAR was in the garage. I never asked to have my car parked in the garage; it seemed the impossible dream. Confidentially, I don’t think Mr. Fixit cleared the space just for me; the sap from the pecan tree was making a mess of his truck. He cleared the space so he could park in the driveway where I usually park away from the pecan tree.

Whatever the reason, I’m so glad he did. I didn’t realize what I had been missing. When I get in the car, I don’t have to bake until the AC begins cooling, and I don’t have to use a towel in order to touch the steering wheel.

Can it last? I don’t think so. I’m sure that I will again be parking in the driveway when Mr. Fixit begins a new project. Until then, I’m going to enjoy it for as long as I can and try not to moan and groan about getting inside my car when the temperature tops 145 degrees in it.

By Hook or CROOKS

Last Friday Mr. Fixit and I decided to do a bit of exploring. When we began our little trip, we had no idea where we were going. I wanted to be home by 6:00 pm so we decided to head down to Columbia, SC.

On the way back, I stopped to get gas. We have been checking our mileage since we bought the car, and I thought we should be getting very good mileage on the highway. When I stopped, I had an eighth of a tank. When it gauge gets down that low, it usually takes about 10 to 10 ½ gallons to fill it up. When Mr. Fixit told me it took a little over 12 gallons to fill it up, I didn’t think too much about. Mr. Fixit figured out the mpg, it was a little over 24 miles to the gallon. I told him that must be an error because when driving around town, I get about 30 mpg. Half of the gas had been used for stop-and-go driving while the other half had been used on the highway to Columbia. He checked his figures, and there was no error.

Then it hit me. I have never put 12 gallons of gas in that car. I always fill it up when the gauge shows there is an l/8 tank left, and it always takes about 10 ½ gallons. Mr. Fixit checked the little book where I figure the mileage and saw that it usually takes 10 or 10 ½ gallons.

I suggested he figure the mileage using 10.1 gallons instead of the 12.1 gallons indicated on the pump. Using those numbers, my mileage would have been about 31 mpg. That seems more likely.

The only explanation is the pump was wrong. What I don’t know is whether the pump had been tampered with or if there was some malfunction. All I know is that the gas was $2.46 a gallon. If that pump had been deliberately tampered it, someone stole almost $5.00 from us. I wonder how many people use that pump in one day. The service station was a major chain station with about 10 pumps on a major interstate highway. Someone could be making a small fortune on the side.

Things like this make me so angry! Even if I could discover the right agency to report these people to, I know I have no way to prove what I suspect happened.

A Young Realist

Levi, Mr. Fixit, and I were riding on the highway when I saw an obviously dead animal lying on the shoulder. I said to Mr. Fixit, “Was that a coyote?” (I was very surprised when I learned that coyotes are found in this part of the country. I thought they were only found in the West.) He said he thought it was a baby deer. I began giving Mr. Fixit my “look” so that he wouldn’t mention the baby animal again. I was afraid that Levi would get upset about a hurt baby deer.

Levi, being three years old, asked his usual “why” question. “Why is it on the road?”

Wanting to no upset him, I said, “Maybe he’s taking a nap.”

Levi then offered his opinion. “I think he’s dead.”

So much for tender sensibilities.