Ol' Man Winter is kicking our butt. Newmentia's butt, anyway. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's butt is fat and sassy, plopped in the La-Z-Boy, in the her dark basement lair chair, or in her blue basement recliner. No skin off HM's nose if she has to stay home from work.
The only hardship is the thwarting of the quest for the 44 oz. Diet Coke. I did not venture out today. The Pony went out to feed and water the chickens and the stupid goats. Stupid. You'd think those old goats would stand together in their very first wooden shed, the one they crammed 11 of themselves in at night to sleep back in the day, stepping on an hours-old kid, which thankfully proved hardy enough to survive. Or maybe they'd want to stand in the lean-to devoted to them over at the BARn, the lean-to with a roof over their heads, hay to stand and lay in, bales of which form a wall to block out wind on the only exposed side. But no. The goats chose to stand in the middle of the pen, not under trees, not shielded by the feed trough or the Gator shed. Goats. The roaches of Hillmomba.
Oh, yes. The missing 44 oz. Diet Coke. Let the record show that Mrs. HM is getting by on a mere 24 oz. today. On home-made Diet Coke, in a 44 oz. cup, half full of crushed ice from Frig, half full of two cans of store-boughten Diet Coke, along with a sprinkling of Great Value Sugar Free Cherry Limeade Powder. It was actually quite tasty, though only half as filling.
Newmentia. So close but yet so far. I wonder if I could pitch a reality show called 17 Days and Counting.