Day 3 of the unending
downpour kicked off with a whimper as we left the driveway after The Pony
hauled the trash dumpster through the drizzle. We stopped for gas, because
T-Hoe was growing a mite peckish, down to a quarter of a tank, which I never
let happen. The wind swirled around me in a whimsical fashion, first mussing my
lovely lady mullet one way, then taking a different tack as I turned my head to
adjust. I might as well have combed it with an electric mixer.
By the time we got to
Newmentia, the skies were darker than when we left home, and rain was beating
down like rice thrown by a petulant ex-husband who has taken his kids to their
mother’s next wedding. I dropped The Pony at the door, after instructing him to
get me an umbrella from T-Hoe’s rear. I drove back to our space in the next to
next to last parking slot at the end of the building, and picked up the
umbrella from the passenger seat.
In keeping with his
fashion of selecting the most dented can, the most squashed bread, and the most
crushed chips, The Pony had picked a special umbrella for me from the trio we
keep stashed in case of emergency. It was the red-and-royal-blue-paneled umbrella
with the bent metal spike on top, and the fabric ripped from one pointy metal rib, so that it
flaps in the wind. The smallest of our umbrella triplets. Let the record show
that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not the smallest of anything. I felt like an elephant
in a circus holding a tiny parasol in my trunk.
As I started down the
sidewalk, I debated on whether to hold down my flapping shirt so as not to
expose my ample cleavage when the wind whipped the shirt up over my head…or to
hold onto that umbrella with both hands as it shot to and fro with the forceful
winds. I chose the umbrella. The parking lot was not heavily occupied, unless
you count those 18-inch worms undulating across the blacktop. The prime
audience would be those folks sitting around the office watching the security
camera feeds.
All I needed was a
flat-topped hat and a large satchel.
Oh, and a spoon full
of sugar.
4 comments:
Chim-chimmery, chim-chimmery, chim-chim-charoo.
Good luck'll come if they get to see your b**bs.
Sioux,
WHAT? That, Madam, is preposterous! Mass blindness would result. Hysterical blindness, because the sight would be so upsetting.
Sioux,
WHAT? That, Madam, is preposterous! Mass blindness would result. Hysterical blindness, because the sight would be so upsetting.
So nice I said it twice. BLOGGER has some issues, it seems, having posted one comment for each b**b.
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