Pardon me. I'm a bit discombobulated. The world has once again conspired against me.
Farmer H is off work this week. Meaning that he's underfoot, wreaking havoc around the Mansion. He took off for town this morning to renew the license on some vehicles. Meaning that I had to dig up two years of tax receipts. But not to worry, because even though Mrs. Hillbilly Mom might be accused of skating on the thin ice of Hoarder Lake, she does have a two special drawers in her basement office. One for tax receipts, and one for tax returns.
When Farmer H returned three hours later, making no effort to account for the excess time, he stated that MODOT was finally resurfacing the road to town. Paving it not with good intentions, but with asphalt and broken dreams. The job they started in early May, and worked on two random days since then, was in full swing. Not good news for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Who was at the moment 44oz-Diet-Cokeless. The HORROR!
If the job was proceeding in a normal, workmanlike manner, I would have hopped in T-Hoe and nabbed my fake-sweet elixir. But no. According to Farmer H, the flagmen were gone. Replaced by a pace car. A pace car! I am not entering the Hillmombanopolis 500. Not even testing my skills in the time trials. I had no desire to sit in my running car for five minutes, waiting for a pace car to drive a line of oncoming traffic at me, then turn around, and expect my line of traffic to follow. No. I do not have the patience for such nonsense. I expect my tax dollars to pay young men in orange vests to stand on the steaming pavement with spinning signs denoting SLOW and STOP. I do not expect my tax dollars to pay for gas in a car that drives back and forth all day, a quarter mile at a time.
So I did not have my crack--I mean Diet Coke--today. I was groggy. Time stood still. I could not get my rumpus in gear. At supper, I had to drink half a can of real Coke. I like real Coke. But I prefer my 44oz Diet Coke. Which I had none of. And the three cans of Diet Coke that I spied in the basement mini-fridge last night were GONE. That's according to The Pony, who also thought there were three cans. But the mini-fridge was as bereft of Diet Coke cans as Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard was bereft of bones.
You would think a loving husband, in town for three hours, could see fit to bring his wifey a 44oz Diet Coke. Seeing as how she has one every dang day. But no. The thought never crossed his mind. And neither did it cross the genetically identical mind of his son, who was also in town this morning to pick up some fancy schmancy photo prints from The Devil's Playground.
Farmer H returned to town at 7:00 for some Sweet-Gummi-Mary-forsaken piece of BARn door latch. He had the common courtesy to ask as to whether Mrs. H. Mom would enjoy a 44oz Diet Coke delivered to her desktop upon his return. This, of course, was asked and answered through the Mansion mediator, The Pony. No. The hour is too late, and a regular Coke has been consumed. Ixnay on the odasay.
As I type this chronicle, a 44oz Diet Coke sits at my left hand. What we have here, people, is a failure to communicate.