Secret Squirrel
Sabotage -- How To Identify and Ignore It
We all do what we can do . . .
Anything even your below average psychopath and/ or Cluster F-er can do, they will. Big or small. They particularly like sabotage, though not to frequent or not too significant so you would notice. The goal is to make your life a bit more inconvenient -- from seemingly random and unconnected acts -- or to take away just enough joy to ruin all the fun.
The remedy is to focus on the light, ignore the dark, and you will find a door out lurking in the background. Like this:
Image courtesy of PFFK #7
Or you can focus on the beautiful colorful things that make you enjoy the world, and by doing so, reach escape velocity. Like this.
Image courtesy of PFFK #7
I can think of several examples where sabotage has been sent my way over the years. Here are a few examples.
Scratched Biscuits
HANNIBAL ANNE
“Someone must REALLY not like you. Like really does not like you.”
Sure, I thought. The odds of somebody out there not liking me must be pretty high. In this case, however, I could have asked, “Is that someone in the room with us now?”
Anyway, my view is, if everyone likes you, you must be doing something wrong or not doing something right.
It’s Summer 2010. It was definitely summer.
The sleek shiny black Batmobile had arrived all by itself in Amarillo from Manhattan. I had been waiting for this moment for months.
I let Hannibal know I was heading to Market Street to pick up groceries to make Bunny Pasta, which was a favorite of my Nieces. Well, my Nieces hadn’t even been born yet, so it probably wasn’t their favorite. Also, it wasn’t called Bunny Pasta back then. We just called it Pasta. How did it become “Bunny Pasta”, you ask. That will be explained (by me) in a future Episode entitled “Meet My Uncle Bun and My Other Uncle Bun”.
There are generally four classes of grocery stores one visits in Amarillo. There’s Walmart and Sam’s Club. That should really be one class I guess, seeing as how they are both owned by the Waltons of Bentonville, Arkansas. Then we have the United Supermarkets and Market Streets. Well, I guess, that should also be one class, seeing as how they are both owned by United Supermarkets, L.L.C, all rights being reserved of course.
So, I guess there are only two classes of supermarkets in Amarillo. But Rudy’s has good brisket! Although that’s a drive through, so technically not a grocery store. Plus, they only serve brisket and other meats. And coleslaw. And potato salad. Macaroni and cheese also. And biscuits.
Although, if you really like biscuits, you go to Butterlove Biscuits, where what counts as a biscuit has a wide interpretation. They are like full meals. We[1], here at the Handbook, call it Buddy Loves Biscuits in honor of our friend Buddy from Hansford county. Buddy definitely loves him some biscuits, is always good for a good laugh, and an all around good guy.
We also love his Mom-In-Law, O.P., who is probably the sharpest 90+ year old you will meet. We used to stop by to pick up my Grandmother from coffee gang, sit for a while and listen to O.P. tell a story. Usually, the story starts out, gets more detailed and specific and, just when you think it’s a nice little story, she gets to the point. The point is always delivered with a politeness typical in rural TX small towns, so if you were not paying attention, you might just miss it.
She also had a cool old school bread mixer sitting on top of her fridge.
OK, back to Market Street.
HANNIBAL ANNE
“Make sure you park way out in the parking lot, where there are no other cars. I don’t want your car getting dinged by someone’s door. Plus, if people can see your car from the street, nobody can steal it.”
I drove along thinking it was nice to drive again. I had traveled for a few years and had not driven much.
So, following Hannibal Anne’s advice, I parked way out in the Market Street parking lot, making sure to pick a spot visible from the street, and went shopping.
I grabbed ingredients that were needed, and got some of that cheese you melt in the oven. I forget what it’s called. Cheese turds or something. I paid, walked out through the swooshing glass doors, where it was approaching 100° F. The shock from a cool 60° F inside to the hot outside curled my hair and made it stand up straight and hiss like Medusa’s. The Sun was hot enough to melt elbows.
At least that’s what it felt like.
As I was approaching the Batmobile, at first I saw what looked like a faint line, almost like a chalk line. As I got closer, I could see a deep long key mark across the hood. Like over half way, that’s how long. I couldn’t figure out how my car was already getting keyed. I did not see anyone that I knew in or around the grocery store. I would have noticed too. Being raised as a scapegoat / commodity kid, I am super vigilant. Hypervigilant, even. One might go so far as to say I was super-hypervigilistic. Expialidocious.
One day -- in a future Episode entitle “A Spoonful of Hannibals“ -- I will tell you about how, when I was young, I had an anti-kidnapper word. It was “Supercalifragilistic-expialidocious” from that movie with the guy with the worst fake Cockney accent. What’s his name? The idea was that, if someone I did not know came to pick me up, I was supposed to ask for the word. By the way, as adorable and wonderful as I was back then (and now -- I mean, I would totally kidnap me), there was no way I needed an anti-kidnapper word. In the history of my small town, I can count on zero fingers the number of kidnappings that took place.
Key Fargo
Keying cars was not a big thing in Amarillo. It is a pretty low buck type of behavior, and cheapo. Might be more common in Canyon, or Palo Duro or Rolling Hills -- especially on Ramada Trail near the end where it meets up with Cherry Ave. But not Amarillo!
I arrived back at #6 Accosted and no one was home. A bit later Hannibal came in the back door with a happier than usual face.
HANNIBAL ANNE
“Did you see your car? Someone must REALLY not like you. Like really does not like you.”
ME
“I did. It hasn’t even been a day since I have been in town. I don’t think anyone knows I am here or cares. Plus no one knows what car I drive, I just got it.”
HANNIBAL ANNE
“I bet someone saw you from Georgia Street as you were getting out of your car. They could probably see you because you parked so close to the street. When they saw it was you, they keyed your car when they knew you were inside of grocery store. Just sayin’.” Hannibal says “just sayin’‘ a lot, usually when she is giving you the Hannibal whisper and trying to get you to believe or remember something different from how it, in fact, happened.
ME
“Whatever Hannibal. It doesn’t matter to me. I won’t even notice it,” I said, totally honestly. OK, it did matter to me. I might even notice it every time I walked in front of the car to get to the driver’s seat. However, I always focused on the bright happy things right in front of me.
HANNIBAL ANNE
“That’s going to be expensive to get fixed,” she said, totally lying. The repair is inexpensive. There are touch up kits at most auto parts stores and nowadays the Amazon Machine makes them. Less than $100.
ME
“I’m not fixing it. It doesn’t matter much to me,” I said, totally honestly. I did not get it fixed and it doesn’t bother me.
For the next few days Hannibal was telling everyone that the Batmobile had been keyed. She really went on and on. Like it was too much (fun).
Did Hannibal Anne tell me to park my car so it was visible from the road, do her Secret Squirrel thing, sneak up and key it?
Looking like this.
Image courtesy of PFFK #7
Well, just between me and I, yes.
Chitty Chitty Clang Clang
There was a distinct feeling that I was getting. Where was it familiar from or when? Had there been another time when something not so positive had happened and Hannibal Anne would broadcast it? Like her broadcasting had much more energy and enthusiasm -- displaying some (barely) disguised true tell -- than her usually stale mealworm self.
Then I remembered.
Fall 1994.
There was a Varsity football game in Plainview (the name makes sense because the view is pretty plain there). Hannibal Anne was one of the parents to volunteer to drive our squad to cheer in the game. The trip was an al fresco . . . oooops, I mean a fiasco. . . not even an hour in. I was in the middle seat of the suburban and I heard one of the male cheerleaders sitting behind me.
He was a really nice kid. I liked him. The others called him Peckerhead, because he looked like a woodpecker. Kidding. I don’t know why they called him that. I don’t think that was his real name, although I cannot remember what his real one was. I suppose that is the power of a moniker.
PECKERHEAD
“Pull over! Pull over! Something is loose on the tire!”
Hannibal acted like she couldn’t hear him. I finally started slapping her shoulder and told her to pull over. So the entire caravan pulled over.
Peckerhead (really, the nicest guy, no idea how he got this name) and a few other dads figured out the noise. The lug nuts were loose. I recall Hannibal Anne standing near with her fists on her hips, almost smirking, and smirking.
Hannibal Anne
“Oh I’m so glad y’all figured it out. Can you imagine if I wrecked with a bunch of cheerleaders in the car? That would have been a nightmare.”
Well, Hannibal Anne. Maybe someone doesn’t like me. I mean, like REALLY doesn’t like me. Is that someone in the car with us now, I could have asked.
Once we were all loaded back in the car, I thanked Peckerhead multiple times. Then I grilled Hannibal on how this could have happened. She said she had her tires rotated that day -- she never gets her tires rotated in case you are asking -- and the service people must have not tightened the lug nuts correctly. As Dana Carvey would say, “how convenient”. General rule, the last person to touch something is the first suspect.
Has Anybody Seen My Mascot?
We pulled up just as the game was starting. One of the principals asked why we were late. A different male cheerleader forgot his cheer kicks. He had to borrow Peckerhead’s dad’s sneakers. It was normal, to all of us, for him to be in his cheer uniform with cowboy boots. If that’s not male Texas cheerleader spirit, then I don’t know what is.
Then the principal asked where the mascot was. She went missing. Hannibal Anne stayed at the game while the other parents went searching through Plainview for the missing mascot, which was The Rebel Kid, or a cowboy looking person dressed in a red shirt. Good for her, though, because in the 1950s the mascot was a goat.
Halftime arrived and so did Peckerhead’s parents, his dad in socks, with the mascot. She had fled for the Plainview Pizza Hut as we rushed to the field because we were late. Mascot Rebels have a big appetite, as it turns out, so that was understandable.
Over the next few days Hannibal, with the same mischievous enthusiasm, was relating to everyone what had happened.
Hannibal Anne
“Can you believe that. What if I had wrecked with a car full of cheerleaders? Then what if we had lost the d@mn mascot? No good dead (yes, I meant to say that) goes unpunished. I can tell you that for sure.” Wrecking a car full of cheerleaders was probably a histrionic dream of hers.
Anyway, while I can’t speak to the rest of the world’s customs, in the Texas panhandle, loosening someone’s lug nuts is not considered a good deed.
That was that episode. The same type of energy behind keying the car seemed to be behind loosening lug nuts. Then, in each case, over the ensuing few days repeat with an unusual amount of enthusiasm.
So, do I think Hannibal was behind loosening the lug nuts? Between me and I, yes.
You are probably starting to see how these type momsters operate. Patterns. They each have their own simplistic type of behavioral Morse code - which consists of only dashes.
Focus on the light and the beautiful things in front of you.
Please, may I have another? Yes.
Field of Creams (with Coffee)
Summer 2019.
Hannibal Anne
“Get over here. I’m an estate sale on Teckla. You need to buy this carpet and take a look around. Possibly some good pieces.”
The 18 foot carpet was by Edward Fields. Edward Fields carpets can be found in The White House and The Glass House by Philip Johnson.
Here is a picture of it.
Image courtesy of PFFK #7
This was a nice large example. How large? So large, we had to rig up a mount, consisting of a child’s swing, fastened to a ceiling I-beam way up off the ground to photograph it. How high? So high that, to access the mount, we had to place a ladder on a card table, climb said ladder and pull ourselves up into the mount -- like a muscle up on rings in gymnastics, which we are proud to say we could do. Not to worry. We had a back-up. It was a rope, one end tied to the I-beam and the other to our waist, in case someone decided to start calling timber.
But there is good news! I had never seen Fredo speechless -- he always has something to say, like names of High School mascots, rankings of bodies of water or stories he dropped himself into. Not this time. When he walked in and saw us swinging in the mount, taking photos, he looked up. Looked down at his feet. Looked at the table and ladder set up. And walked out. Later he told Myron about it, though. I know this because Myron asked me who shot the carpet pics. Oh man, so glad I ain’t talking to him any more.
Back to the estate sale.
Hannibal Anne
“You can store it here in Amarillo. There is no need to have it shipped out.”
In other words, I paid for the carpet that Hannibal wanted for her future trinket house -- which would probably be on a street named Gem, or Diamond Hills or Julian. They stored it in Fredo’s barn. In actual fact, it was more Hannibal’s barn because virtually every square inch was packed with her junkola.
Late Summer, 2020 -- during the troubles. You know what I mean.
ME
“Hannibal, the Fields carpet sold. I’ll schedule for pick up”
HANNIBAL ANNE
“Oh no. There is a large spill over it. It looks like oil or something dripped on it. I think it is ruined. It probably happened from your dad’s barn”, where it was stored. In actual fact, it was more Hannibal’s barn because virtually every square inch was packed with her junkola. Repeat, I know.
ME
“I’ll ship several cleaners to you so you can try and clean it up.”
Hannibal Anne
“I have tried everything, nothing is working. I have tried for hours. I just think it is ruined.”
She proceeded to send LITERALLY tonnns of images and was encouraging me to issue a refund.
I decided to take matters into my own hands and scheduled one of those Stanely Steamer guys. Then called Fredo a half an hour before he showed up so Fredo could open up the barn.
Stanley cleaned the carpet in no time. He said it was probably coffee. No trouble at all.
I have edited down the overall conversations. It went back and forth for several weeks with Hannibal taking three or so days to reply throughout. It was her pouting and the intentional means to cause stress that I thought was noteworthy.
Carpet Chameleon
However, as luck would have it, when we went to Amarillo to surprise my parents on their 45th anniversary and buy them free food -- as a courtesy of course -- I stopped by the barn before meeting them for the free dinner. The cleaning supplies were there. They had never even been opened.
If Hannibal Anne is good at anything, she is good at being reliably terrible. And terribly reliable at being bad.
Of course she chose coffee to spill on it because she does not drink coffee, Myron does. At first, I thought Myron did it.
Speaking of Myron.
Circuit Blowers
I used to leave the Batmobile in Amarillo for months on end when I was travelling. I would let my family use it. Including, unfortunately, Myron. In about 2016 or 2017, the remotely operated door locks gummed up and wouldn’t retract or extend. These locks are pneumatically operated from a central unit in the trunk. The unit continually tries to engage the locks if they are do not retract and lock the doors. So, the battery would continually run out if I happened to be out of town more than a few weeks. I eventually removed the fuse to stop that happening.
Next, the air conditioner fuse kept blowing. That is a lager 40 amp fuse located in the engine compartment on the right (passenger) side. Eventually it melted and couldn’t even be removed at all. When I next took the Batmo in for service, the garage said it looked like something had spilled or been poured down both the door locks and the air conditioning fuse.
My guess is that it was Diet Dr. Pepper. Hannibal’s favorite drink. Or my brother(?) Myron, the other female psychopath in my family, and his sports drinks. Speaking of sports drinks. I was able to recover a used plastic bottle, which I think was Myron’s. I understand that one can obtain DNA samples from such things.
One more thing. Every year, cars in Texas needed to be inspected. The shop would then issue a report for each inspection, which lists, among other things, the mileage. I saved those and, just for fun, I compiled the mileage in an excel spreadsheet. They were using it pretty extensively for years. I once even found a used fake fingernail on the driver’s side floor.
Then one year, it just stopped. That is when I think they installed a GPS tracker.
The Epiloguer
Sabotage is right out of the Psychopath’s Playbook. Expect it. Look for it. But don’t react to it. Focus on the light and the beautiful things in front of you.
Then you can arrive in unbounded space — green tinted to reflect their jealousy — and have a glass of champagne to celebrate.
Like this:
Image courtesy of PFFK #7
[1] Reader Note: Any references herein to “I”, “me”, “we”, “us”, etc., are to the Royal Me.