I spent about an hour this afternoon blowing my brains out. As you can plainly read, I still have enough brains left to type up a mediocre (and I think that's a bit of an exaggeration) blog post. My head is kind of like an egg when you put a hole in each end and blow the stuff out, leaving the shell. I still have some sticky brains clinging to my hollow head.
The Pony and I bought four floatie toys for Poolio this morning at The Devil's Playground. The Pony's nieces were coming out to swim. Never mind that the oldest one is just a year younger than The Pony. They're the kids of Farmer H's oldest son. We have pool toys left from past years, but Farmer H does not take care of them like he takes care of his giant vat of buttwater soup that is Poolio.
I sent The Pony to get four pool floaties. See there? That's an understandable number. Four. Yet that little Scholar came back with only one. ONE. "I sent you to get four. This is not four."
"I didn't like any of the others. Just this one." It was a kind of curved, rocking-chair-like floatie chair with blow-up arms.
"I'm sure there were some plain air mattresses in the pool stuff. Go get three."
"The only ones I saw were already blow up. Like displays. I knew we couldn't push them around in a cart. So I only got one. This is all we need."
"I don't think so. Who's going to use it, you? How fair is that? And when you and Dad are in the pool, you can be sure he will take it away from you."
"Well, I can't help it that there was nothing else."
Sure. Nothing else. Up front by the registers, I saw a box with air mattresses and funny triangle things like inner tubes. I grabbed a green air mattress, and a blue and a green triangle. Touche'. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is always right.
We rushed home with only five minutes to spare before the niece arrival. Or not. Because their dad had called Farmer H to say they weren't coming. But then they did when he shamed him into it by playing on The Pony's feelings, and my recent purchases. Anyhoo...The Pony and I sat down to blow up the playthings, because we don't know what the #1 son did with the pump he used to use to blow up Poolio floaties.
I gave my convalescing lungs a good workout. It did not help that the valve thingy would not squeeze open properly for my breath to enter. The Pony declared that HE pinched that valve open with his teeth. That does not seem conducive to long-term air-holding if you ask me. Which he didn't, but I told him anyway, not that he changed his method. I lamented that I'd been working over twenty minutes on that air mattress, and it still wasn't inflated.
"Don't worry. Yours is bigger." The Pony was blowing up that rocking-chair thing. It was only a back and a seat, with attached little water-wingy sized arms. Not something you could lay full-length on.
I finally got my valve to cooperate intermittently. "There. I'm done. Oh, are you still blowing?"
"Yes! Mine was bigger, you know." Funny how circumstances change to fit The Pony's needs. I almost thought I was talking to Farmer H or #1.
"Toss me one of those triangles. Yes. Stop blowing and toss it. I can get another one inflated while you're still working on yours." Never let it be said that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom mollycoddles her young 'uns into thinking they're successful when they're not. I only had one leg of the triangle done when Farmer H walked in.
"Here. Let me do it. You guys are crazy. We could blow them up over at the BARn with the compressor." So much for the logic of Farmer H. One minute we're Tom Sawyer, tricking him into blowing, seeing how much fun we're having. The next minute he's as crazy as us, because he asked to blow it up by mouth.
"There's another one on the couch. You can do that one." Farmer H had wandered into the kitchen and made himself a bologna sandwich on the white bread The Pony had bought for himself to make toast with this week, and not the Nutty Oat bread which I regularly buy for Farmer H and me. He came back with the sandwich on a paper plate. I don't know why he was so formal all of a sudden, seeing as how he usually just grasps that sammy with his meathooks and chows down while walking.
"This one? Farmer H opened the package and threw that flat plastic triangle around his shoulders like a green mink stole. He went out on the porch and walked in the direction of the BARn holding his sandwich on the plate like Bob of Big Boy fame. I would much rather breathe for twenty minutes than hike to the BARn to squirt air into a plastic triangle.
Farmer H returned shortly, and The Pony added his triangle to the stack of Poolio toys. When the nieces arrived, along with their little brother and his mom and Farmer H's adult boy, The Pony grabbed the stack of floaties and ran through the laundry room to toss them off the back porch into Poolio.
I hear that the afternoon went swimmingly.