I am fixin' to have a go-round with one of The Devil's Handmaidens.
Hear that? I'm letting you in on the ground floor. Anybody want to produce this match and promote it for pay-per-view? Or even for pay-fer-view, as Farmer H calls it? This could be a rip-roarin', hair-yankin', ear-bitin'-off shindig! Sorry, though, to all of my male fans. I don't anticipate getting violent enough for any clothes to fall off, or an accidental kiss.
It's between me and Methuselah's long-lost great-great-grandma. She of the coal-black hair in a 1950s 'do. The one I usually seek out to bag my sundries, because she is efficient and logical in her combinations. But this morning, she rubbed me the wrong way.
I had popped into The Devil's Playground on the way to taking The Pony to summer school. The purpose of the pop-in was to garner some sweet treats for my mom. Today is her birthday. Seventy-nine, thanks for asking. I found a tiny Turtle Cake. And a slice of Carrot Cake. But I was torn between it and a slice of Red Velvet. My mom used to make both kinds. But it's not very rewarding to make one for yourself. And nobody else likes them. So I got all three. Your mom only turns seventy-nine once, you know.
So I carted up to the check-out, after tossing in some frozen chicken-fried rice and sweet-and-sour chicken. Because Mom loves that stuff, and we're not taking her out until we can all be together. Oh, and I gave her cards from me and the boys, and a National Enquirer and a Globe. That's what you give an ol' gal who has everything. But we're digressing. I'll try to keep you on track.
I'll be ding dang donged if that Devil's Handmaiden did not make a smart crack about the cake. "Huh. I'd never pay $2.88 for a slice of cake. That costs the same as half a whole cake!"
I pointed out that it was my mom's birthday, and I was getting her a selection instead of a whole cake.
"Still, you could have got her a whole cake. She could have frozen what she didn't eat."
I pointed out that she might freeze some of her slices as well. But I wanted a variety for her.
"That's too much money for a slice of cake."
Hmpf! Devil's Handmaidens should be seen and not heard. Who made them the food critics of Hillmomba? The arbiters of what people should and should not buy? I suppose I'm lucky she did not call me a fat hog or a P-I-G pig, and declare that she would not sell me three kinds of cake.
Yes, Devil's Handmaidens should be seen and not heard. Unless they are screamin' in pain from a proper beat-down administered by Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
My Dog Is A Real Knock-Out
I don't for one minute regret rescuing our sweet, rambunctious dog Juno. She would have starved to death on my mom's porch if the #1 son and I had not intervened. She has repaid us tenfold with her sunny disposition and unconditional love. I forgive her for her transgressions. The chickens she chased. The cats she tried to chew on. The eggs she eats before The Pony gathers them. The poop on the brick sidewalk when she was sore from her special operation. For the most part, her pluses outweigh her minuses.
We have a special bond. She waits for me on the side porch, the breezeway area that connects the Mansion with the garage. From this raised platform, she leans her head on my chest, her nose against my neck. Waiting for me to hug her. It started when she was a tiny pup. I picked her up and held her close. She remembers. I don't care what dog experts say about dogs not having a sense of time, or a memory of routine. She knows that when I come through the garage door, I will join in our daily lovefest.
Sometimes, Juno gets carried away. Like that time she jammed her wet doggy nose inside my mouth in a frenzy of affection. So I'm wary now. She can only hold herself motionless for short periods. I can sense when she gets antsy, and the hug is over.
Today, I foresaw the old nose-in-the-mouth trick again. And I don't mean my nose in her mouth. Unfortunately, our lovefest had happened sooner than I was prepared. I was barely out of the garage. When Juno pulled her nose away from my neck, and jabbed at my mouth area with her snout, I was ready. I yanked my head back and to the left. No doggy snot for my tasting pleasure today.
I rammed my temple into the corner of a shelf against the garage wall. I'm lucky I didn't knock myself out. Both boys were at summer school. I would have laid on the sidewalk from noon until three. But I'm sure my loyal Juno would have kept me company. Probably by laying on my chest.
She's a good dog.
We have a special bond. She waits for me on the side porch, the breezeway area that connects the Mansion with the garage. From this raised platform, she leans her head on my chest, her nose against my neck. Waiting for me to hug her. It started when she was a tiny pup. I picked her up and held her close. She remembers. I don't care what dog experts say about dogs not having a sense of time, or a memory of routine. She knows that when I come through the garage door, I will join in our daily lovefest.
Sometimes, Juno gets carried away. Like that time she jammed her wet doggy nose inside my mouth in a frenzy of affection. So I'm wary now. She can only hold herself motionless for short periods. I can sense when she gets antsy, and the hug is over.
Today, I foresaw the old nose-in-the-mouth trick again. And I don't mean my nose in her mouth. Unfortunately, our lovefest had happened sooner than I was prepared. I was barely out of the garage. When Juno pulled her nose away from my neck, and jabbed at my mouth area with her snout, I was ready. I yanked my head back and to the left. No doggy snot for my tasting pleasure today.
I rammed my temple into the corner of a shelf against the garage wall. I'm lucky I didn't knock myself out. Both boys were at summer school. I would have laid on the sidewalk from noon until three. But I'm sure my loyal Juno would have kept me company. Probably by laying on my chest.
She's a good dog.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Life, And Its Opposite
The Mansion is bursting with life.
More specifically, the grounds of Hillmomba just outside the Mansion are bursting with life. Don't want any creepy crawlies inside the Mansion proper. I despise the creepy crawlies. Especially those millipedes that worm their way in every couple of years. And the field mice that appear every few years when we get our first cold snap. And the flies that flutter in wait, darting in as soon as one of the menfolk open the door.
But outside the Mansion, that addition of critters is usually positive. We had a new baby goat born yesterday. As opposed to and OLD baby goat, I presume. But that's how people talk, new baby style. I don't have a picture yet. Didn't you hear? She was just born YESTERDAY!
The goat momma was missing from the herd when Farmer H went to release his horde to nibble my yard plants. He could not find her, so sent for reinforcements: The Pony. The Pony found her in a nanosecond. Maybe it was a nannysecond. She's a small white goat. This is her first baby. According to The Pony, she is a good mother. Farmer H moved them to the BARn lean-to rather than let them reside in a brush pile on the trail to his cabin. They had moved again by this evening. But The Pony is intent on capturing them on his phone camera as soon as possible. The new baby is a black-and-white girly-goat. I have not yet seen her with my own eyes.
I do, however, see the new baby chicks who are approaching chicken adolescences. The first four are already going through a fowl puberty of sorts. All gangly and unattractive, bold and adventurous. The second set of twelve are moving around with more confidence, though still sticking close to their hatch-mom, a black banty hen with ankle-feathers. Another black hen is sitting, her offspring due any day now.
But because Even Steven lurks, some critters had to expire. Nature's balancing act, you know. Thank the Gummi Mary, we did not cede like for like. I did not feel at all guilty on my killing spree. My faithful accomplice, The Pony, and I made short work of a gaggle of wasps the size of my index finger. Evil things, they were. Dive-bombing The Pony when I wasn't around. And he only trying to reach the safety of the Mansion. So we took the Black Flag Wasp and Hornet Spray that shoots 20 feet, and shot those slim villains dead. Though perhaps we took too much joy in watching them writhe until still.
I'm not going to Folsom Prison. I don't know anything about that man in Reno.
More specifically, the grounds of Hillmomba just outside the Mansion are bursting with life. Don't want any creepy crawlies inside the Mansion proper. I despise the creepy crawlies. Especially those millipedes that worm their way in every couple of years. And the field mice that appear every few years when we get our first cold snap. And the flies that flutter in wait, darting in as soon as one of the menfolk open the door.
But outside the Mansion, that addition of critters is usually positive. We had a new baby goat born yesterday. As opposed to and OLD baby goat, I presume. But that's how people talk, new baby style. I don't have a picture yet. Didn't you hear? She was just born YESTERDAY!
The goat momma was missing from the herd when Farmer H went to release his horde to nibble my yard plants. He could not find her, so sent for reinforcements: The Pony. The Pony found her in a nanosecond. Maybe it was a nannysecond. She's a small white goat. This is her first baby. According to The Pony, she is a good mother. Farmer H moved them to the BARn lean-to rather than let them reside in a brush pile on the trail to his cabin. They had moved again by this evening. But The Pony is intent on capturing them on his phone camera as soon as possible. The new baby is a black-and-white girly-goat. I have not yet seen her with my own eyes.
I do, however, see the new baby chicks who are approaching chicken adolescences. The first four are already going through a fowl puberty of sorts. All gangly and unattractive, bold and adventurous. The second set of twelve are moving around with more confidence, though still sticking close to their hatch-mom, a black banty hen with ankle-feathers. Another black hen is sitting, her offspring due any day now.
But because Even Steven lurks, some critters had to expire. Nature's balancing act, you know. Thank the Gummi Mary, we did not cede like for like. I did not feel at all guilty on my killing spree. My faithful accomplice, The Pony, and I made short work of a gaggle of wasps the size of my index finger. Evil things, they were. Dive-bombing The Pony when I wasn't around. And he only trying to reach the safety of the Mansion. So we took the Black Flag Wasp and Hornet Spray that shoots 20 feet, and shot those slim villains dead. Though perhaps we took too much joy in watching them writhe until still.
I'm not going to Folsom Prison. I don't know anything about that man in Reno.
Monday, May 28, 2012
A Hot New Business Venture
I spent the morning roasting in The Devil's Playground.
Doesn't The Devil know that it costs more to cool those open receptacles of frozen food when the store temperature is near 80 degrees?
I actually felt faint while waiting ten minutes in line to check out. There was a little old lady on a beeper cart in front of a regular lady with a regular cart. I think they were working in tandem. But it was still two orders to put on the conveyor, and two orders to pay for.
While waiting, leaning on my cart, trying to decide whether to put my head between my knees to keep from losing consciousness, I witnessed another near beeper-cart collision in the 20-items or less aisle next to my line. A slim oldster started backing for no apparent reason, making the no-spring-chicken gal behind her scurry out of harm's way. She had no cart to absorb the shock. A tragedy was narrowly averted. Those beeper people think they own the aisles.
Meanwhile, I was losing fluids at an alarming rate, the collection of sweat on my scalp forming a regular watershed of tributaries to flow into major waterways and eventually pool at my feet. I tried fanning myself with a National Enquirer and a Globe, but they soon soaked up my hand perspiration and became as effective for evaporating sweat as a bundle of wet noodles.
I patted myself on my sweat-soaked back for not buying eggs. They would have hatched before they were scanned. Thank the Gummi Mary, it was not a week to buy biscuits, because they would have exploded from the can with nary a spoon jammed into their cardboard crevices.
With my transaction finally complete, I rejoined The Pony in the game room, where he was recklessly driving a video car. I resisted the urge to collapse in a vibrating chair for fear that I would never arise, and my flesh would grow into the fake leather fabric.
I am considering a sideline while I whip my handbasket factory into shape. I will rent space in a section of The Devil's game room, and have nurses on standby with IV fluids.
I think I could make a killing.
Doesn't The Devil know that it costs more to cool those open receptacles of frozen food when the store temperature is near 80 degrees?
I actually felt faint while waiting ten minutes in line to check out. There was a little old lady on a beeper cart in front of a regular lady with a regular cart. I think they were working in tandem. But it was still two orders to put on the conveyor, and two orders to pay for.
While waiting, leaning on my cart, trying to decide whether to put my head between my knees to keep from losing consciousness, I witnessed another near beeper-cart collision in the 20-items or less aisle next to my line. A slim oldster started backing for no apparent reason, making the no-spring-chicken gal behind her scurry out of harm's way. She had no cart to absorb the shock. A tragedy was narrowly averted. Those beeper people think they own the aisles.
Meanwhile, I was losing fluids at an alarming rate, the collection of sweat on my scalp forming a regular watershed of tributaries to flow into major waterways and eventually pool at my feet. I tried fanning myself with a National Enquirer and a Globe, but they soon soaked up my hand perspiration and became as effective for evaporating sweat as a bundle of wet noodles.
I patted myself on my sweat-soaked back for not buying eggs. They would have hatched before they were scanned. Thank the Gummi Mary, it was not a week to buy biscuits, because they would have exploded from the can with nary a spoon jammed into their cardboard crevices.
With my transaction finally complete, I rejoined The Pony in the game room, where he was recklessly driving a video car. I resisted the urge to collapse in a vibrating chair for fear that I would never arise, and my flesh would grow into the fake leather fabric.
I am considering a sideline while I whip my handbasket factory into shape. I will rent space in a section of The Devil's game room, and have nurses on standby with IV fluids.
I think I could make a killing.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Priorities, People. Priorities.
Farmer H threw a rod.
No, it's not some little-known hillbilly sport that deserves to be in the Olympics right alongside rhythmic gymnastics. And it's not a grown-man temper tantrum. He was mowing the field this morning when his trusty mower that he purchased used from my deceased grandma, right after she had it in the shop several months being repaired, for $800, the exact amount that I had saved for a new laptop, finally quit being contrary and stopped running entirely.
In case that last sentence was too much of a "This morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas" moment for you, let me clarify. The mower is unusable without a new engine. It was used when we got it from my then-alive grandma for the price of $800. She'd had problems with it before we bought it. WE means Farmer H. My laptop money went for a lawnmower.
Now we are faced with buying a new mower. Even though Farmer H has a tractor that he used to utilize for mowing. His idea of having two teenage boys to trim six acres with push mowers was not well-received. He says a new motor would cost about what a mower would cost. Sounds kind of fishy to me. Like the mower salesman would throw in a seat and four tires and a steering wheel and blade for nothing. I'm so sure.
Farmer H went a-shoppin' for a mower after making The Pony pick up sticks for thirty minutes and then swim in Poolio for an hour. He called to say that he found a Cub Cadet (used) for $700. Which kind of seems like putting us back in the same predicament. But Farmer H was convinced it was a good deal. And it's cheaper than a new mower. So we won't have grass as high as an elephant's eye.
There's no saved-up laptop money to skim from. I'm sure #1 will understand that we can only send him to three years of college. Because I refuse to give up gas station chicken and 44 oz. Diet Cokes.
No, it's not some little-known hillbilly sport that deserves to be in the Olympics right alongside rhythmic gymnastics. And it's not a grown-man temper tantrum. He was mowing the field this morning when his trusty mower that he purchased used from my deceased grandma, right after she had it in the shop several months being repaired, for $800, the exact amount that I had saved for a new laptop, finally quit being contrary and stopped running entirely.
In case that last sentence was too much of a "This morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas" moment for you, let me clarify. The mower is unusable without a new engine. It was used when we got it from my then-alive grandma for the price of $800. She'd had problems with it before we bought it. WE means Farmer H. My laptop money went for a lawnmower.
Now we are faced with buying a new mower. Even though Farmer H has a tractor that he used to utilize for mowing. His idea of having two teenage boys to trim six acres with push mowers was not well-received. He says a new motor would cost about what a mower would cost. Sounds kind of fishy to me. Like the mower salesman would throw in a seat and four tires and a steering wheel and blade for nothing. I'm so sure.
Farmer H went a-shoppin' for a mower after making The Pony pick up sticks for thirty minutes and then swim in Poolio for an hour. He called to say that he found a Cub Cadet (used) for $700. Which kind of seems like putting us back in the same predicament. But Farmer H was convinced it was a good deal. And it's cheaper than a new mower. So we won't have grass as high as an elephant's eye.
There's no saved-up laptop money to skim from. I'm sure #1 will understand that we can only send him to three years of college. Because I refuse to give up gas station chicken and 44 oz. Diet Cokes.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Helping The Helper
The #1 son sought me out this afternoon in search of chores. For money, of course. After driving to town and unloading his mower, his pre-agreed-upon mowing job this weekend fell through. I have a standard list of such chores, and corresponding compensation. #1 is somewhat finicky about which jobs he will or will not do. He would rather scrub a toilet than wipe down a dusty, powdery tile floor. So I was surprised when he contracted to clean the kitchen floor.
It's a good-size kitchen. You have the main sink/stove/Frig U-shaped area around the cutting block, and a main walkway to the table area by the back door. I quoted him a price, and reminded him that a half-butted job would result in half pay. I reminded him that the broom and mop were in the laundry room beside the washer. He responded that he KNEW that already.
About an hour later, I went upstairs to start supper. Imagine my surprise upon encountering an abandoned Swiffer, a pile of debris, and the four cutting-block stools all akimbo in my kitchen. I called to my dear son. Nothing. Louder. Nothing. I started to his room. I suppose that set off vibrations like I was some Jurassic Park denizen, because #1 came rushing out of his room, wild-eyed.
"Hey, I thought you were cleaning. I need to get in there and start supper."
"Oh. I forgot. I WAS cleaning, but I got a message, and I went to my room, and...well...I forgot. I'm finishing up now." He Swiffered another sweep, and replaced the stools. Then moved on to the table area on the other side of the sink counter. "I hate to use so much of this." He motioned to the Swiffer wet pad thingies.
"What do you mean? Those have probably been sitting on the shelf for three years. I can buy more, you know."
"They're not old! They're still wet! There were ten in the pack, and I'm on number four now. But I don't know what else to do. They get covered with stuff."
"Hey, you haven't gotten under the table yet."
"I know. I just came over here." He jabbed at the area with his Swiffer."
"I can't believe you just did that. What happened to sweeping first?"
"Sweeping? Yeah. I guess that would make more sense."
"You mean that you haven't even gotten out the broom? You've been using the Swiffer the whole time?"
"Um. Yeah. I didn't even think of the broom."
"I TOLD you where it was! And you said you already knew that."
"Well, to be honest, I had pretty much tuned you out at that point."
"Now THERE'S a surprise."
"I know, right? So you said that if I only half did the job I'd only get half pay? Well...I think I'll just take half pay and leave this pile of stuff here."
"Go get the broom."
"Oh, all right. Hey! Where's the dustpan?"
"Probably under the floorboards in your room, where I will find fifteen years worth of tape, scissors, and mini pencil sharpeners when you move out. Use a paper plate. Or a magazine."
"False alarm. Here it is. I just didn't look good enough."
I am afraid I might have to hire a paraprofessional to follow him through life. Or at least until he can capture a mate.
It's a good-size kitchen. You have the main sink/stove/Frig U-shaped area around the cutting block, and a main walkway to the table area by the back door. I quoted him a price, and reminded him that a half-butted job would result in half pay. I reminded him that the broom and mop were in the laundry room beside the washer. He responded that he KNEW that already.
About an hour later, I went upstairs to start supper. Imagine my surprise upon encountering an abandoned Swiffer, a pile of debris, and the four cutting-block stools all akimbo in my kitchen. I called to my dear son. Nothing. Louder. Nothing. I started to his room. I suppose that set off vibrations like I was some Jurassic Park denizen, because #1 came rushing out of his room, wild-eyed.
"Hey, I thought you were cleaning. I need to get in there and start supper."
"Oh. I forgot. I WAS cleaning, but I got a message, and I went to my room, and...well...I forgot. I'm finishing up now." He Swiffered another sweep, and replaced the stools. Then moved on to the table area on the other side of the sink counter. "I hate to use so much of this." He motioned to the Swiffer wet pad thingies.
"What do you mean? Those have probably been sitting on the shelf for three years. I can buy more, you know."
"They're not old! They're still wet! There were ten in the pack, and I'm on number four now. But I don't know what else to do. They get covered with stuff."
"Hey, you haven't gotten under the table yet."
"I know. I just came over here." He jabbed at the area with his Swiffer."
"I can't believe you just did that. What happened to sweeping first?"
"Sweeping? Yeah. I guess that would make more sense."
"You mean that you haven't even gotten out the broom? You've been using the Swiffer the whole time?"
"Um. Yeah. I didn't even think of the broom."
"I TOLD you where it was! And you said you already knew that."
"Well, to be honest, I had pretty much tuned you out at that point."
"Now THERE'S a surprise."
"I know, right? So you said that if I only half did the job I'd only get half pay? Well...I think I'll just take half pay and leave this pile of stuff here."
"Go get the broom."
"Oh, all right. Hey! Where's the dustpan?"
"Probably under the floorboards in your room, where I will find fifteen years worth of tape, scissors, and mini pencil sharpeners when you move out. Use a paper plate. Or a magazine."
"False alarm. Here it is. I just didn't look good enough."
I am afraid I might have to hire a paraprofessional to follow him through life. Or at least until he can capture a mate.
Friday, May 25, 2012
It's A Thankless Task, This Child-Rearing Thing
I am somewhat concerned about the #1 son. His dream is to attend college at MIT. The Massachusetts Institute of Technology. It's in Boston, you know. Right across that river from Harvard. My fear is that if #1 is accepted, he will set out for school and end up in California. Because that boy is a pure absentminded professor.
This morning, he took his own sweet time getting out of bed. I called to him several times. "I'm getting up!" I told him that I wanted the trash taken out before he left. It's his ONE chore. And The Pony even has to put in the new bag. "All right!"
The boys normally leave for summer school at 7:20. I had made The Pony's lunch, and also a sandwich for #1. He doesn't like some of the school lunch offerings. So it's a turkey and hot pepper cheese sandwich for the Absentminded Professor. He even wrote his name on the baggie with a Sharpie yesterday, because he was afraid a teacher might steal it out of the Elementia fridge.
The AP packed up his X-Box and some games and controllers to take to his grandma's house this evening. He laid out some earphones that he's sending back because they came apart. He shaved. He brushed his teeth. He wet his head for hair control purposes. He waffled over what shirt to wear with his plaid shorts. He told The Pony, "You might as well get comfortable, because we're not leaving until 7:30." Then at 7:40, he walked out the front door and called over his shoulder at The Pony, "We're going!"
I thought they'd never leave. On my way to the laundry room, I spied the AP's sandwich on the cutting block. I called The Pony. He's now the personal secretary for the AP. I told him the sandwich was still at the Mansion. I heard him relay the message to his boss. Some grumbling. Then, "He says to put it in the refrigerator. He'll eat what they have at school."
At 3:00, the phone rang. "Hey, are you upstairs? Did I leave my earphones that I was taking to UPS in my room? Because I can't find them in my truck anywhere."
"I just came downstairs five minutes ago. Do you want me to go look?"
"No. That's all right. Why are you so hateful?"
"Hateful? I offered to go look in your room."
"Never mind! I'm not coming all the way back home to get them."
"Then why did you call? What does it matter if they're there if you aren't coming home anyway?"
"Just forget it! I'm not wasting the gas."
"You scammed four dollars off of me yesterday in donut change. That will pay for a gallon to get you here and back."
"You are ridiculous!"
"Since I'm so ridiculous, I'll remind you that you left without taking out the trash. And you're welcome for the sandwich that I made you but you didn't take."
"I wish I'd never called you!"
Me too. Maybe we can work out a dual-enrollment deal with Stanford and MIT. A college on each coast. Just in case the Absentminded Professor loses his bearings.
This morning, he took his own sweet time getting out of bed. I called to him several times. "I'm getting up!" I told him that I wanted the trash taken out before he left. It's his ONE chore. And The Pony even has to put in the new bag. "All right!"
The boys normally leave for summer school at 7:20. I had made The Pony's lunch, and also a sandwich for #1. He doesn't like some of the school lunch offerings. So it's a turkey and hot pepper cheese sandwich for the Absentminded Professor. He even wrote his name on the baggie with a Sharpie yesterday, because he was afraid a teacher might steal it out of the Elementia fridge.
The AP packed up his X-Box and some games and controllers to take to his grandma's house this evening. He laid out some earphones that he's sending back because they came apart. He shaved. He brushed his teeth. He wet his head for hair control purposes. He waffled over what shirt to wear with his plaid shorts. He told The Pony, "You might as well get comfortable, because we're not leaving until 7:30." Then at 7:40, he walked out the front door and called over his shoulder at The Pony, "We're going!"
I thought they'd never leave. On my way to the laundry room, I spied the AP's sandwich on the cutting block. I called The Pony. He's now the personal secretary for the AP. I told him the sandwich was still at the Mansion. I heard him relay the message to his boss. Some grumbling. Then, "He says to put it in the refrigerator. He'll eat what they have at school."
At 3:00, the phone rang. "Hey, are you upstairs? Did I leave my earphones that I was taking to UPS in my room? Because I can't find them in my truck anywhere."
"I just came downstairs five minutes ago. Do you want me to go look?"
"No. That's all right. Why are you so hateful?"
"Hateful? I offered to go look in your room."
"Never mind! I'm not coming all the way back home to get them."
"Then why did you call? What does it matter if they're there if you aren't coming home anyway?"
"Just forget it! I'm not wasting the gas."
"You scammed four dollars off of me yesterday in donut change. That will pay for a gallon to get you here and back."
"You are ridiculous!"
"Since I'm so ridiculous, I'll remind you that you left without taking out the trash. And you're welcome for the sandwich that I made you but you didn't take."
"I wish I'd never called you!"
Me too. Maybe we can work out a dual-enrollment deal with Stanford and MIT. A college on each coast. Just in case the Absentminded Professor loses his bearings.
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