All right, everybody. Tune up your world's smallest violins. You're invited to a pity party for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. You might want to bring a Totes umbrella, or one of those blue or yellow ponchos sold to tourists at Niagara Falls or Silver Dollar City. Wouldn't want you to catch the grippe if you take a chill while soaked with Mrs. HM's crocodile tears.
Wednesday was Christmas. Did you know that? Well, it was. And on Christmas, it is kind of customary for folks who are related and live under the same roof to exchange gifts. They don't have to be elaborate. Just a token. To show love and caring, or at least the concept of reciprocity.
I went all out. Okay. I went somewhat out. The Pony never could tell me anything he wanted, short of a Kindle Fire HD 8.9 inch thingy, and a certain collector sword that was on backorder, and a Dr. Who pocket watch. But the #1 son had a list. Two, in fact. Of guts for a computer he was planning to build. And a few books on programming, and a poster and soldering set. He got it all. Plus a few more items. Farmer H was showered with a couple of Coca Cola 1/64 truck replicas, plus some glass chickens, a chainsaw sharpener, a hand-chainsaw for the coming apopadopalyspe, and of course a push broom. The Pony was quite pleased with the extra gifts I pulled out of thin air, like a dragon's eye treasure box, and two sweet pocket watches, and a couple of Roman daggers, and a brass Trojan pencil sharpener, and a promissory note for five computer games to download, and five books.
You know where this is heading, right? Do you know what my loving family gave to me? Huh? Drawing a blank? I guess they did, too. Because I got some jelly-stick candy, which I totally like, and some lottery tickets, which I love, and the DVD of The Heat, which I had asked for, and a pair of men's work gloves. Okay. That last one was a mistake. I expressed my liking for them, of course, holding them up, trying them on, flexing my fingers. And I noticed Farmer H looking at me like I'd grown two heads, or like I'd actually cooked something, rather than warming it in the oven or heating it in the microwave.
Farmer H: "Where did you get those?"
HM: "From this package right here with my name on it."
Farmer H: "Oh. That wasn't supposed to be yours. Those belong to #1."
HM: "Look. Right here. 'MOM.' Right there on the package."
#1: "That's okay, Mom. I have these other two pair I just unwrapped. They fit me better."
HM: "Yeah. I bought them for you. I made The Pony try them on."
Farmer H: "I guess you can keep them. But they weren't for you."
Yeah. I'm not all about the material goods. But you would think I might be worth more than jelly sticks, scratch-offs, and The Heat. My sweet Pony had even asked me several days before, "So, you like those pens like that one in your checkbook?" Yes. I do. As well as the little notebooks that I had pointedly mentioned I enjoy so much. Unfortunately, The Pony does not have a driver's license. He must be hauled to and fro by me. Or by Farmer H. Or by #1. I don't blame The Pony. I think his intentions were good.
It didn't help that Farmer H hauled #1 off to his workplace on Tuesday morning, under the auspices of "getting his saw." Heh heh. They couldn't fool ME. I was sure they were picking up a special present. A new office chair, perhaps. Or a dishwasher--my first ever. When they got home, Farmer H told The Pony to run open the basement door in the workshop. That #1 had something to carry in. Uh huh. I was sure my special present was languishing in the workshop until Christmas morning. I made a point not to enter the workshop. I am not a surprise-spoiler. Guess what the surprise was? THERE WAS NO GIFT FOR ME!
Sorry. I'm having a flashback to the Three-Dollar Pink Change Purse/Box of SnoCaps Mother's Day.