Ruminations of a Red Dirt Hussy

September 4, 2017

I know stuff. Really.

Filed under: General — Vadasmaker @ 2:47 pm

I know a lot of stuff. You may counter this with things like, I don’t know, the time I blew myself off the porch. I know you remember it. I’ve told that story so many times that people I’ve never met have heard it. Clearly, there was a time when not knowing things didn’t bother me.

That particular incident happened somewhere around 1988. I was going to TCC, then known as TJC, and the career office had all these wonderful aptitude tests. I love tests, especially if there’s no way to fail them. So I took all the tests they’d allow, and I didn’t have an issue with the results. My verbal skills were about as high as they could get and all my others—knowledge of science, nature, mechanics, and just plain common sense—were in the shitter. No. Really. That didn’t bother me much because I like words, but I wasn’t as fond of dirt and sticks and stuff like that. I was 35 and apparently never needed any of that, right? Right. So I just laughed and laughed.

Stupid tests.

I went home that day intending to cook hamburgers on the grill. This was back when charcoal briquets were harmless. You know. Before they caused cancer or whatever. The grill was in the yard but I was afraid it was going to rain, so I put it on the porch. Somehow the fire went out. I poured a bunch more fluid on the coals, which were warm, but not hot, shut the lid, and closed the vent. Sat on the swing for a few minutes. Got up, opened the vent, and dropped in a lit match.

What happened then was the minor explosion blew me off the porch into the driveway, almost to the hibiscus. I was picking gravel out of my thighs for a week.

Stupid grill.

To this day people act like that was my fault. I say if you don’t want people to blow themselves off the damned porch, put some explicit directions somewhere, like on the lighter fluid can, the grill, and the bag of charcoal. Maybe drop me a postcard. I’ve looked, people, and nowhere did it say, “Don’t pour lighter fluid on hot coals, close the lid and shut the vent, wait a few minutes, then drop a match in.” Nowhere. Consequently, not. My. Fault.

Anyway, that was a long time ago, and I haven’t blown myself up since then. I do learn from experience. However, there’s always some other something I don’t know, just waiting to bring me down. They’re smaller things, nowhere near the scale of blowing myself off the porch, but I’m afraid that many of them do have to do with that bogus science and nature stuff.

Like the other day. I was walking across the church grounds from the education building to the sanctuary with another member of the congregation. I asked if she knew what the huge tree with the little clusters of hangy down things (that is a technical term which I’m going to copyright as soon as I get a minute, so I’d appreciate it if you don’t appropriate it and use it as your own) was.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But those little balls have stickers on them.”

“Maybe it’s a sycamore.”

She shook her head and poked and with the toe of her shoe, poked a little round brownish thing on the sidewalk. “That’s from a sycamore. The ones from that tree over there have sticker-y things.”

I pointed at another roundish brown thing lying on the grass. “Is that one?” I asked.

She looked at me strangely. “No,” she said, edging away. “That’s an acorn.”

And then she sped up and almost ran into the sanctuary. When I got in she was talking to some other ladies. I think she was probably telling them I’m an imbecile who doesn’t know what an acorn looks like.

How am I supposed to know what an acorn looks like? It’s just another kind of stick, right?

It’s possible I’m losing brain cells from being old or drinking too much wine or just thinking too much. You know. Like you do. But I’ll tell you this. I know a lot more stuff than people give me credit for.

Like the tremendous number of serial killers whose middle names are Wayne. John Wayne Gacy. Keith Wayne Jesperson. Elmer Wayne Henley. Elmer Wayne Watson. Jeffrey Wayne Leaf. Ronald Wayne Clark, Jr. I could go on and on, but you probably want to know if this information is documented. Well, if you can’t trust News of the Weird, who can you trust?

It takes 142.8 licks to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop. Of course, that might depend on the size of your tongue. Mine is normal, so there’s that.

The quack of a duck doesn’t echo.

There’s a town in Canada named Dildo. And there’s a South Dildo. I find that unaccountably hilarious.

That little hashtag thing-y on your keyboard that makes you feel so much more clever than I? It’s called an octotroph.

For every non-porn page, there are five porn pages. And no. I will not share with you where I got this information.

In 1907, an ad campaign for Kellogg’s Corn Flakes offered a free box of cereal to any woman who would wink at her grocer. I can tell you, the guys at Quik Trip are immune to this. Even after I explained. Tradition means nothing to them.

The average sexual experience lasts 37 minutes. I don’t know why I believe that one. It certainly hasn’t been my experience.

In addition–new obscure fact–now I can tell you what kind of tree that was in the church yard. It’s an Arizona Bald Cypress, that’s what. I may not know a lot of things, but I can Google all day long.

And sometimes I do.



1 Comment »

  1. Just curious, how do you get .8 of a lick? The rest of it, good information to have. Don’t know where your church is but good to know what the tree is.


    Comment by Nita — September 6, 2017 @ 9:10 am | Reply

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