I have spent a snow-filled morning chasing wild geese.
Don't think Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a newly-dedicated ornithologist. She has been chasing the elusive kind of goose. Might as well make her squat down in the dark woods holding a gunny sack and tell her to wait for a snipe to run into it.
The trip to town was meant to be a sortie to the dead-mouse-smelling post office, and a mission to capture a wild 44 oz. Diet Coke. But the #1 son had other ideas. He found it befitting that his very own personal shopper venture farther afield. Twice as far, in fact, to obtain the elusive tennis ball. Did you know that tennis balls are not carried by Save A Lot, Country Mart, or the Dollar Store? Not even by the gas station chicken store. I know that comes as a complete surprise. I'm sure city people can step out the door and find a tennis ball shop on every corner. Not so here in Hillmomba.
Mrs. HM had her trusty Pony in tow. A Pony capable of dashing through The Devil after being dropped at the door, picking up a can of balls, paying cash, and homing in on T-Hoe in the parking lot. Simple enough. Except when #1 is called to inform him of the mission, and he replies that he also needs a meter stick. What's with that boy? He suddenly needs balls AND a stick?
Do you know where to find a meter stick? Europe, perhaps? Oh, gloat about it, city people. I'm sure there are meter stick stores in the middle of every block, keeping the tennis ball shops from running together. But here in Hillmomba, meter sticks are yardsticks, and yardsticks are given away free at lumberyards for advertising purposes. I have never seen a yard/meter stick without advertising upon its narrow back. And front. This was not a mission to spring upon The Pony. He of minimal interaction with members of his species.
I parked. A surprising number of people seek The Devil on New Year's Eve in a blizzard. I suppose they require bread and milk for their New Year's celebrations this evening. T-Hoe was tethered over halfway up the parking aisle. The Devil has a stunningly large investment in real estate.
So...have you formulated and answer yet? About where to find a meter stick? The office supply section, you think? No. Hardware? No. Lumber? Ahem. We are at The Devil's Playground, not Lowe's. There is no lumber at the Playground. Because Mrs. HM knew that she would be combing The Devil's maze for these items, she called #1 and told him to get on the phone to The Devil's people, and ask if they harbored meter sticks, and in what department. She then dispatched The Pony to sporting goods for the tennis balls. She made a beeline for rulers. A meter stick IS just a big, overgrown ruler, right?
A meter stick in office supplies? No dice. And no meter stick. Luckily #1 called back. He was indignant. "It took me FIVE people to figure out what a metric system even WAS! And finally some lady in Fabrics said they have one." Well. As you can imagine, my cold, cold heart bled for put-upon #1. How hard it must have been for him in the warmth of his room, sitting in his cushy office chair, in his sock feet, Facebooking, to Google The Devil's number, punch it in his phone, and wait while being transferred from one clerk to another. Oh, how hard it must have been to explain five times the description of a meter stick. And its uses!
I headed to Fabrics. Looked up and down the aisles. Stumbled upon a frazzled fabric-cutter. And inquired about a meter stick. "Yes. We have one right over here, Honey." She led me to it. Slipped it off its hook, hidden against the back of the pegboard, one of only two in stock. I thanked her and placed it in my cart, next to the can of tennis balls The Pony had just deposited, having searched aisle by aisle to find me after discovering me AWOL from office supplies. That meter stick promptly slipped through the wire lattice of the cart. The Pony grabbed it for me.
"Um. This is NOT a meter stick. It is only thirty-six inches long. I'm sure a meter stick is longer than that. This one only goes to ninety-one centimeters. A meter stick should have one hundred centimeters."
"Well, it is clearly marked with centimeters. It will have to do. That's the best we're gonna get around here."
"But technically, #1 asked for a meter stick. And this is not a meter stick. It's a yardstick. A meter stick has one hundred centimeters. It's longer."
"OKAY! Can we just drop it now? Let's go pay."
A terrible tragedy had occurred during our shopping. The speaker system called for a housekeeping associate to report to the liquor aisle. Oh, the humanity! Also, a call was made for checkers to report to the front. Uh huh. Lines were even longer than normal. We were not our usual seventh in line. Plus, an old lady behind me stepped up and interrupted right before I was to put my two items on the short checkout counter. She asked if, even though she and her husband had way more than twenty items in their cart, could they check out here. Seriously? SERIOUSLY? The poor checker agreed. I'm sure they're forbidden to forbid extra items.
When we arrived home, after taking an alternate Hillmomba route, due to snow cover on our regular blacktop pig trail, the #1 son welcomed us with open arms. All right. That's a lie. He took one look at the merchandise we risked our lives for, and said,
"That's not a meter stick."
Monday, December 31, 2012
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Like Safety In The Bank
Farmer H is a saver.
Sure, sometimes that can be synonymous with hoarder. But not in this case. We're not talking about his collection of chicken figurines, or Coca Cola memorabilia, or out-of-business-breweries beer paraphernalia. Nope. We're talking about putting something back so it will be ready when you really want it. A saver.
When I was in high school, our volleyball team was really good. Second place in the state tournament good. Before schools were divided into classes depending on enrollment. We had special socks with our school colors. Pardon my fashion faux pas by today's standards, but the sock of the era was the tube sock. Ours had alternating red and royal blue stripes around the top. They were a status symbol of sorts. A thick, white, knee-high athletic sock with blue/red/blue/red stripes above the calf. Only the volleyball team had them. Each player had two pair. Don't think the school GAVE them to us. We had to pay. They were socks, you see.
I decided I wanted to save one pair. For my glory days. To remember that special time. My mom was quite accommodating. Even though we played at least two games per week, she washed my socks so I could reserve that second pair. They lay folded in my top drawer, near the back, out of the heavy traffic area. Every now and then I would take them out and stroke them. Perhaps hold them to my cheek. Revel in their championshipness. But then a funny thing happened. Along about my senior year of college, my socks lost their mojo. I tried them on, and discovered that THEY HAD LOST THEIR ELASTICITY! They were almost brittle. With a sickly yellow tinge. The elastic had given up the ghost. My socks were old. Useless. Jaundiced. Not special anymore.
All along, I could have been wearing the bejeebers out of those hosiery. Showing the world my special socks. When they were in fashion, even! But I had wasted them. Shut them away until they turned to dust.
Farmer H is a saver. He volunteered to drive T-Hoe to town in the deep snowfall yesterday morning. As we headed up the driveway, I asked if he had put my loyal vehicle in 4WD. I do that, you know, in times of snow-packed roadways. Even with a dusting. Not to mention the seven-plus inches we were plowing through.
"No. We don't need it."
"Yes. We DO need it."
"I don't know where it is."
That was a blatant falsehood. Farmer H was simply putting me in my place, because he had tried to put my precious T-Hoe into 4WD before backing out of the garage. I told him that he would not be able to turn the tires in 4WD. That I always waited until I was headed up the driveway. Also, that you are only supposed to switch from regular 2WD to automatic 4WD or 4W HIGH while the tires are rolling. And that doggone Farmer H tried to tell me that you are only supposed to switch it when you are stopped. GIVE ME A BREAK! It is my car. I have driven it since 2008. I read the manual that first winter.
PUH-LEASE!
So then, Farmer H proceeded to fumble around and tell me he put my precious T-Hoe in 4W AUTO. Which means the wheels will switch into four-wheel drive if the tires spin. Of course, first you are riding in a vehicle with spinning tires, THEN you have four-wheel-drive to try and save yourself.
SERIOUSLY?
I argued that we bought a car with 4WD so we would have a way in and out of our remote hilly enclave in times of snow and ice. What was the point of NOT using the 4WD? It was already paid for. It wasn't going to wear out. The conditions were exactly what we had purchased the 4WD for. All he had to do was turn a dial the size of a fifty-cent piece, located to the left of the steering wheel.
Farmer H is a saver. He is saving that 4WD for some mystical purpose. He even went so far as to tell me, "This here automatic four-wheel-drive is all you will ever need."
I explained that I always put T-Hoe in 4W HIGH when driving on snow. That one year, coming up the big hill, a tiny sports car coming down had refused to move from the middle, and ran me off the right side. There is no shoulder in Hillmomba. I drove with T-Hoe canted at a 45-degree angle, two tires in the ditch, until that tiny sports car passed. Luckily, my 4W HIGH pulled me right up the hill, and allowed me to claw my way back onto the road.
THAT is why we don't save our already-paid-for, easy-to-use 4WD when Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is piloting T-Hoe through seven-plus inches of snow. The condescending chuckle of Farmer H will not change my beliefs.
Sure, sometimes that can be synonymous with hoarder. But not in this case. We're not talking about his collection of chicken figurines, or Coca Cola memorabilia, or out-of-business-breweries beer paraphernalia. Nope. We're talking about putting something back so it will be ready when you really want it. A saver.
When I was in high school, our volleyball team was really good. Second place in the state tournament good. Before schools were divided into classes depending on enrollment. We had special socks with our school colors. Pardon my fashion faux pas by today's standards, but the sock of the era was the tube sock. Ours had alternating red and royal blue stripes around the top. They were a status symbol of sorts. A thick, white, knee-high athletic sock with blue/red/blue/red stripes above the calf. Only the volleyball team had them. Each player had two pair. Don't think the school GAVE them to us. We had to pay. They were socks, you see.
I decided I wanted to save one pair. For my glory days. To remember that special time. My mom was quite accommodating. Even though we played at least two games per week, she washed my socks so I could reserve that second pair. They lay folded in my top drawer, near the back, out of the heavy traffic area. Every now and then I would take them out and stroke them. Perhaps hold them to my cheek. Revel in their championshipness. But then a funny thing happened. Along about my senior year of college, my socks lost their mojo. I tried them on, and discovered that THEY HAD LOST THEIR ELASTICITY! They were almost brittle. With a sickly yellow tinge. The elastic had given up the ghost. My socks were old. Useless. Jaundiced. Not special anymore.
All along, I could have been wearing the bejeebers out of those hosiery. Showing the world my special socks. When they were in fashion, even! But I had wasted them. Shut them away until they turned to dust.
Farmer H is a saver. He volunteered to drive T-Hoe to town in the deep snowfall yesterday morning. As we headed up the driveway, I asked if he had put my loyal vehicle in 4WD. I do that, you know, in times of snow-packed roadways. Even with a dusting. Not to mention the seven-plus inches we were plowing through.
"No. We don't need it."
"Yes. We DO need it."
"I don't know where it is."
That was a blatant falsehood. Farmer H was simply putting me in my place, because he had tried to put my precious T-Hoe into 4WD before backing out of the garage. I told him that he would not be able to turn the tires in 4WD. That I always waited until I was headed up the driveway. Also, that you are only supposed to switch from regular 2WD to automatic 4WD or 4W HIGH while the tires are rolling. And that doggone Farmer H tried to tell me that you are only supposed to switch it when you are stopped. GIVE ME A BREAK! It is my car. I have driven it since 2008. I read the manual that first winter.
PUH-LEASE!
So then, Farmer H proceeded to fumble around and tell me he put my precious T-Hoe in 4W AUTO. Which means the wheels will switch into four-wheel drive if the tires spin. Of course, first you are riding in a vehicle with spinning tires, THEN you have four-wheel-drive to try and save yourself.
SERIOUSLY?
I argued that we bought a car with 4WD so we would have a way in and out of our remote hilly enclave in times of snow and ice. What was the point of NOT using the 4WD? It was already paid for. It wasn't going to wear out. The conditions were exactly what we had purchased the 4WD for. All he had to do was turn a dial the size of a fifty-cent piece, located to the left of the steering wheel.
Farmer H is a saver. He is saving that 4WD for some mystical purpose. He even went so far as to tell me, "This here automatic four-wheel-drive is all you will ever need."
I explained that I always put T-Hoe in 4W HIGH when driving on snow. That one year, coming up the big hill, a tiny sports car coming down had refused to move from the middle, and ran me off the right side. There is no shoulder in Hillmomba. I drove with T-Hoe canted at a 45-degree angle, two tires in the ditch, until that tiny sports car passed. Luckily, my 4W HIGH pulled me right up the hill, and allowed me to claw my way back onto the road.
THAT is why we don't save our already-paid-for, easy-to-use 4WD when Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is piloting T-Hoe through seven-plus inches of snow. The condescending chuckle of Farmer H will not change my beliefs.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
A Milestone Is Achieved
Today marks a milestone in Hillbilly history.
The Pony shaved his chin whiskers. They've been multiplying. When there were just a few, he enjoyed stroking them like a wise man contemplating an earth-shattering decision. Then they got longer. And more numerous. So much so, in fact, that The Pony himself asked for a shaver. Sweet Gummi Mary! Don't even mention a razor! We can't have The Pony hacking himself to bits.
A few months ago, The Pony and I bought him a shaver on one of our weekly trips to The Devil's Playground. Or so we thought. Nobody made an effort to show him how to use it. And by that, I mean neither of the two be-whiskered males in the Mansion attempted to take The Pony under their bushy wings. I even heard The Pony pleading for guidance. But it was like a real-life Cat's in the Cradle lesson courtesy of Harry Chapin.
The device sat on the living room end table for eons. Finally, this morning, I commanded Farmer H to show the hirsute Pony how to groom himself. Hmpf! It seems that stupid old Hillbilly Mom bought The Pony a trimmer, not a shaver. Excuuuuuuuse me! I think a trimmer would work perfectly well on chin only. There was even a picture on the box of a dude shaving his chin. The Pony helped me pick it out. But no. We are imbeciles.
I persuaded Farmer H to drive T-Hoe to The Devil's Playground. We have seven or eight inches of unforecast snow, you know. And while we were there, I made sure that Farmer H and The Pony picked out a suitable shaver. Norelco. Same as Burl Ives, the bowler-hatted, plaid-vest-wearing Snowman rode down the snow-blanketed hill in the original Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer network broadcast.
When we got home, and merchandise was packed in and stowed away, Farmer H plugged in The Pony's new shaver to show him how it worked. I took a picture of the soon-to-be-harvested chin whiskers. Then, to the horror of The Pony, Farmer H committed and act that made me downright apoplectic. HE SHAVED HIS NECK WITH THE PONY'S BRAND NEW SHAVER!
I know, right? HOW DARE HE? Can a Pony have nothing to call his own? Who wants old man graybeard clippings in his new shaver? Not ME, that's for sure. And, I suspect, not The Pony. Though he hides his emotions better than I. He nodded. With a sickly expression. Then whisked his new shaver off to the bathroom to denude his chin in private. When he returned, that chin was soft as a baby's butt. He even let Farmer H cop a feel. Funny how the #1 son declined the offer.
The Pony left his pencil-thin mustache in place.
The Pony shaved his chin whiskers. They've been multiplying. When there were just a few, he enjoyed stroking them like a wise man contemplating an earth-shattering decision. Then they got longer. And more numerous. So much so, in fact, that The Pony himself asked for a shaver. Sweet Gummi Mary! Don't even mention a razor! We can't have The Pony hacking himself to bits.
A few months ago, The Pony and I bought him a shaver on one of our weekly trips to The Devil's Playground. Or so we thought. Nobody made an effort to show him how to use it. And by that, I mean neither of the two be-whiskered males in the Mansion attempted to take The Pony under their bushy wings. I even heard The Pony pleading for guidance. But it was like a real-life Cat's in the Cradle lesson courtesy of Harry Chapin.
The device sat on the living room end table for eons. Finally, this morning, I commanded Farmer H to show the hirsute Pony how to groom himself. Hmpf! It seems that stupid old Hillbilly Mom bought The Pony a trimmer, not a shaver. Excuuuuuuuse me! I think a trimmer would work perfectly well on chin only. There was even a picture on the box of a dude shaving his chin. The Pony helped me pick it out. But no. We are imbeciles.
I persuaded Farmer H to drive T-Hoe to The Devil's Playground. We have seven or eight inches of unforecast snow, you know. And while we were there, I made sure that Farmer H and The Pony picked out a suitable shaver. Norelco. Same as Burl Ives, the bowler-hatted, plaid-vest-wearing Snowman rode down the snow-blanketed hill in the original Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer network broadcast.
When we got home, and merchandise was packed in and stowed away, Farmer H plugged in The Pony's new shaver to show him how it worked. I took a picture of the soon-to-be-harvested chin whiskers. Then, to the horror of The Pony, Farmer H committed and act that made me downright apoplectic. HE SHAVED HIS NECK WITH THE PONY'S BRAND NEW SHAVER!
I know, right? HOW DARE HE? Can a Pony have nothing to call his own? Who wants old man graybeard clippings in his new shaver? Not ME, that's for sure. And, I suspect, not The Pony. Though he hides his emotions better than I. He nodded. With a sickly expression. Then whisked his new shaver off to the bathroom to denude his chin in private. When he returned, that chin was soft as a baby's butt. He even let Farmer H cop a feel. Funny how the #1 son declined the offer.
The Pony left his pencil-thin mustache in place.
Friday, December 28, 2012
I Got 99 E-Mails But A Pic Ain't One
We are in the midst of a blizzard that was not exactly forecast to the best of my knowledge. I could be in error, what with being holed up in my basement lair until 11:30 last evening due to the guests that wouldn't leave.
This morning, I could swear I heard the weatherpeople on the local channels state that some black ice or freezing drizzle might appear for the morning rush. And that there was a slight chance of flurries overnight. But what to my wondering eyes should appear at 5:00 p.m. but a rip-roarin', down-home, Hillmomban blizzard!
According to the #1 son, it started around 2:30. He took off to a basketball tournament to take yearbook pictures of what turned out to be an upset victory for #9 seeded Newmentia, who demolished the #1 seed to move on to the semi-finals.
I stepped out on the porch to try and snap a picture for posterity. That last batch of snow, the ALLEGED six to nine inches, came in the wee morning hours. That's because it was trying to hide its inadequacies, being a mere two inches of actual measurement. Just my luck that our resident photographer was absent. My old-fashioned, almost-a-Jitterbug, phone camera would have to suffice. I tried a tall picture and a wide picture. Wouldn't you know it? I handed the phone to The Pony so he could email them to myself. Now the tall one is in my inbox, but the wide one is fashionable late. How fitting that I am sitting at 99 emails. That's only because I cleaned out my inbox last night. What else was I going to do? I was trapped at my computer for HOURS! In fact, last night, I had over 600 emails. I'm a hoarder. And also a procrastinator. Now it stands at 271, but 99 are unread. And one wide photo is missing. It'll get here. Sometimes they take a while.
Speak of the devil...here it is now. I'll be right back.
Please accept my apology for the quality. I know you can't see the snowflakes pouring down. But that's not a meteor striking our dusk-to-dawn light. It's a halo caused by fat snowflakes. As you can see, the tree limbs are bearing the brunt of this stealthy storm. I'm hoping no brittle limbs collapse on an electrical wire. You can see the faint hoofprints of The Pony from his trip to gather The Egg. We've only been getting one a day. Farmer H blames the glossy-coated curs for snacking on his hen-fruit before the evening harvest. I say he needs more than circumstantial evidence.
The chicken pen and goat pen are behind those low-hanging limbs. That's a faint trail to the BARn. It's normally big enough to drive a car through. And my poor rose bush is starting to slump beside the porch. I'm glad that #1 is spending the night with a friend, and that he has already checked in to say he is under their roof.
Farmer H just called from town. So unforecast was a storm of this magnitude that he was caught unawares. He drove his regular Pacifica to work today. Rather than his 4WD Ford 250 that he just had repaired for navigating such road conditions. The one he drove Wednesday and Thursday. He thinks he can make it back to the Mansion, with the exception of the last gravel hill. If need be, I can drive down to that area and pick him up in T-Hoe to save him a half-mile hike.
Because I'm generous like that.
This morning, I could swear I heard the weatherpeople on the local channels state that some black ice or freezing drizzle might appear for the morning rush. And that there was a slight chance of flurries overnight. But what to my wondering eyes should appear at 5:00 p.m. but a rip-roarin', down-home, Hillmomban blizzard!
According to the #1 son, it started around 2:30. He took off to a basketball tournament to take yearbook pictures of what turned out to be an upset victory for #9 seeded Newmentia, who demolished the #1 seed to move on to the semi-finals.
I stepped out on the porch to try and snap a picture for posterity. That last batch of snow, the ALLEGED six to nine inches, came in the wee morning hours. That's because it was trying to hide its inadequacies, being a mere two inches of actual measurement. Just my luck that our resident photographer was absent. My old-fashioned, almost-a-Jitterbug, phone camera would have to suffice. I tried a tall picture and a wide picture. Wouldn't you know it? I handed the phone to The Pony so he could email them to myself. Now the tall one is in my inbox, but the wide one is fashionable late. How fitting that I am sitting at 99 emails. That's only because I cleaned out my inbox last night. What else was I going to do? I was trapped at my computer for HOURS! In fact, last night, I had over 600 emails. I'm a hoarder. And also a procrastinator. Now it stands at 271, but 99 are unread. And one wide photo is missing. It'll get here. Sometimes they take a while.
Speak of the devil...here it is now. I'll be right back.
The chicken pen and goat pen are behind those low-hanging limbs. That's a faint trail to the BARn. It's normally big enough to drive a car through. And my poor rose bush is starting to slump beside the porch. I'm glad that #1 is spending the night with a friend, and that he has already checked in to say he is under their roof.
Farmer H just called from town. So unforecast was a storm of this magnitude that he was caught unawares. He drove his regular Pacifica to work today. Rather than his 4WD Ford 250 that he just had repaired for navigating such road conditions. The one he drove Wednesday and Thursday. He thinks he can make it back to the Mansion, with the exception of the last gravel hill. If need be, I can drive down to that area and pick him up in T-Hoe to save him a half-mile hike.
Because I'm generous like that.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
The Mansion Is Under Seige
The #1 son is having friends in tonight.
Actually the friends have been here since shortly after 2:30 this afternoon. And another just arrived. At 9:00 p.m. I am being held captive in my basement lair, so as not to embarrass the Crown Prince of Hillmomba. The spare heir is holed up in his bedroom. Not that it's a hardship. He has a TV with 150 channels of DISH Network, a laptop, internet, a Kindle, a Kindle Fire, all his books, and too many assorted weapons to count. Farmer H escaped to the bowling alley, but I expect him home any minute. Where they will stash him remains to be seen.
Hark! What heavy tread through yonder ceiling tromps? Farmer H has returned. We shall see if he flushes the covey of nerds from their living room nest. They have alternated between there and the basement big-screen, though they have been playing games all the live-long day and night. There had been talk of watching a movie or two. A dalliance that would end at 8:00. That's not happening. Oops! I just heard Farmer H settle into his La-Z-Boy. We'll see what develops. Ha! Less that sixty seconds from Farmer H to basement. That's got to be a record.
I do not begrudge #1 his gathering. He is overdue to wear the hosting hat. But his bossiness was grating on my nerves yesterday. A day in which he left the Mansion at 9:30 a.m., and did not return for twelve hours. Then demanded to know why The Pony and I had not been cleaning up for his impending visitors. Even though we had been gone from 10:00 to 4:00 on a quest for Convenient Care and glasses repair and package pickup. Not to mention the fact that it was HIS shindig, and HIS junk as well that needed cleaning.
He's not really holding me captive. He asked me to come out and meet his friends, two of whom I am already familiar with. Oh, I know his friends from OUR school. But these are from surrounding districts, and two colleges. A bigger nerdfest you could not imagine. At least I know where he is. And who he's with. I suppose I should not be concerned that they were screaming about black tar heroin. It was part of a game, I was told.
Surely these youngsters have a curfew...
Actually the friends have been here since shortly after 2:30 this afternoon. And another just arrived. At 9:00 p.m. I am being held captive in my basement lair, so as not to embarrass the Crown Prince of Hillmomba. The spare heir is holed up in his bedroom. Not that it's a hardship. He has a TV with 150 channels of DISH Network, a laptop, internet, a Kindle, a Kindle Fire, all his books, and too many assorted weapons to count. Farmer H escaped to the bowling alley, but I expect him home any minute. Where they will stash him remains to be seen.
Hark! What heavy tread through yonder ceiling tromps? Farmer H has returned. We shall see if he flushes the covey of nerds from their living room nest. They have alternated between there and the basement big-screen, though they have been playing games all the live-long day and night. There had been talk of watching a movie or two. A dalliance that would end at 8:00. That's not happening. Oops! I just heard Farmer H settle into his La-Z-Boy. We'll see what develops. Ha! Less that sixty seconds from Farmer H to basement. That's got to be a record.
I do not begrudge #1 his gathering. He is overdue to wear the hosting hat. But his bossiness was grating on my nerves yesterday. A day in which he left the Mansion at 9:30 a.m., and did not return for twelve hours. Then demanded to know why The Pony and I had not been cleaning up for his impending visitors. Even though we had been gone from 10:00 to 4:00 on a quest for Convenient Care and glasses repair and package pickup. Not to mention the fact that it was HIS shindig, and HIS junk as well that needed cleaning.
He's not really holding me captive. He asked me to come out and meet his friends, two of whom I am already familiar with. Oh, I know his friends from OUR school. But these are from surrounding districts, and two colleges. A bigger nerdfest you could not imagine. At least I know where he is. And who he's with. I suppose I should not be concerned that they were screaming about black tar heroin. It was part of a game, I was told.
Surely these youngsters have a curfew...
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Fat Of The Sheep
Hey! Only 364 days left until Christmas!
I really need to start my preparations earlier next year. Like that time I had everything bought and stored away by October 31. That was great. I don't know how I did it. I think it was when my kids were teeny-tiny, and it was easy to pull the wool over their eyes. Figuratively, of course. Because I have an allergic reaction to lanolin, and my boys might as well, and that would not be good for their peepers. It could draw the shades on the windows to their souls.
Maybe they aren't allergic. I found out when I used Eucerin cream as a moisturizer. Anywhere except my hands, I break out from it. But I originally bought the Eucerin cream upon recommendation from Baby #1 Son's doctor. He said it was great for baby's butts. Kept the diaper rash away like a champ. It's no wonder. That stuff waterproofed the babybuttcheeks like Rain Dance on an automobile hood. No moisture was penetrating my boy's nether regions. No way, no how. And it was great for my hands. But stray one iota, and it's itchy wrists for me!
Now I use some kind of vanilla bean cream in a milky lime-green color that my sister gets me every Christmas. Farmer H was befuddled when he hopped into T-Hoe to drive us to the Christmas Eve party. Thought he smelled cookies. But it was only me. Much to his dismay, I am sure. Even though he can't eat cookies. Taking away the very anticipation from the smell is probably doubly disappointing.
This has been a wasted day, running around on errands, navigating the treacherous roads of Hillmomba. I hope #1 learned how to drive on icy snow this morning, and returns unscathed from the basketball tournament he went to this afternoon. He even called me to report the road conditions before my erranding. Not good. He should be fine, though, until our gravel iced pig-trail. He has instructions to call when he starts for the Mansion.
At least Farmer H is home to pull him out of a ditch.
I really need to start my preparations earlier next year. Like that time I had everything bought and stored away by October 31. That was great. I don't know how I did it. I think it was when my kids were teeny-tiny, and it was easy to pull the wool over their eyes. Figuratively, of course. Because I have an allergic reaction to lanolin, and my boys might as well, and that would not be good for their peepers. It could draw the shades on the windows to their souls.
Maybe they aren't allergic. I found out when I used Eucerin cream as a moisturizer. Anywhere except my hands, I break out from it. But I originally bought the Eucerin cream upon recommendation from Baby #1 Son's doctor. He said it was great for baby's butts. Kept the diaper rash away like a champ. It's no wonder. That stuff waterproofed the babybuttcheeks like Rain Dance on an automobile hood. No moisture was penetrating my boy's nether regions. No way, no how. And it was great for my hands. But stray one iota, and it's itchy wrists for me!
Now I use some kind of vanilla bean cream in a milky lime-green color that my sister gets me every Christmas. Farmer H was befuddled when he hopped into T-Hoe to drive us to the Christmas Eve party. Thought he smelled cookies. But it was only me. Much to his dismay, I am sure. Even though he can't eat cookies. Taking away the very anticipation from the smell is probably doubly disappointing.
This has been a wasted day, running around on errands, navigating the treacherous roads of Hillmomba. I hope #1 learned how to drive on icy snow this morning, and returns unscathed from the basketball tournament he went to this afternoon. He even called me to report the road conditions before my erranding. Not good. He should be fine, though, until our gravel iced pig-trail. He has instructions to call when he starts for the Mansion.
At least Farmer H is home to pull him out of a ditch.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
I Am No Champion, My Friends
HO HO HO!
The gamesmanship at last night's Christmas Eve shindig did not disappoint. I am sorry to report that I was NOT a winner. I was off my form, what with my sinus/tooth issue flaring up intermittently. Thank the Gummi Mary, we did not have to unwrap a gift encased in 1078 layers of different wrapping paper while wearing oven mitts, with a time limit of fifteen seconds per round. The Pony won that game last year. By using his teeth. I cried shenanigans, as his teeth were not enclosed in oven mitts. The powers that had been did not see fit to disqualify that cheating child.
This year, my sister enlisted us to participate in a rousing game of Who Am I? That's what I call it. She purloined parts from the game Headbands to use for her little contest. We played a variation of this game another year, when Sis slapped signs on our backs and we had to wander through her house, interviewing each other to determine our identities. That was the year I was near to last on discovering that I was a candle. All because my mom steered me wrong by answering YES to the question, "Do children like to play with me." Along with nodding her head vigorously. I cried shenanigans again, but apparently Sis is akin to Tom T. Hall in her affinity for old ladies, children, and not Hillbilly Mom's whine.
Here is last night's cheater:
Oh, yes. HM knows a cheater when she sees one. Especially when one picks up one's phone under the guise of taking pictures, but the phone is pointed out across the table surface, not at people's heads. And when a Gingerbread House asks questions such as, "Do we have one? Am I edible? Is there candy on me?" Yeah, right. Totally random questions to ask each round. After the outcry of cheating, initiated by Ginger's own mother, and rousingly chorused by the other Christmas items, Ginger dumbed down her line of inquiry, and fell on her own serrated knife.
Some of the best moments came from the #1 son, aka Wise Man, who asked, "Am I alive? Do I give gifts? Do I work in a retail store?" And from Chimney, who wanted to know, "Do we have one? Do we have to put it up? Am I made of wax?" And, disturbingly, from Manger, who queried, "Do people burn me?" I finished second behind that darn Manger, who came just ahead of me in the round, by deducing my identity in four questions. I was not alive, not found inside, not possessed by many people, and I touched the ground. VOILA! Easy peasy. I was a Sleigh. Okay, so I had help when a short outburst occurred between The Pony, aka Mistletoe, and Sis. The Pony said a lot of people had me, and Sis remarked, "I don't know of one person who has one these days." I am an opportunist, Give me more that the standard YES or NO to go on, and I will make your rue the day you did not DQ The Pony.
In the left/right game, the continuing saga of the Wright family and their comings and goings, where everybody has a gift bag that is passed left and right during the story...I won this:
It's Hermey the dentist from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. And he's a dog toy that squeaks! I TOLD you that I bought the most awesome prizes this year.
Tomorrow, I start training for the 2013 Games.
The gamesmanship at last night's Christmas Eve shindig did not disappoint. I am sorry to report that I was NOT a winner. I was off my form, what with my sinus/tooth issue flaring up intermittently. Thank the Gummi Mary, we did not have to unwrap a gift encased in 1078 layers of different wrapping paper while wearing oven mitts, with a time limit of fifteen seconds per round. The Pony won that game last year. By using his teeth. I cried shenanigans, as his teeth were not enclosed in oven mitts. The powers that had been did not see fit to disqualify that cheating child.
This year, my sister enlisted us to participate in a rousing game of Who Am I? That's what I call it. She purloined parts from the game Headbands to use for her little contest. We played a variation of this game another year, when Sis slapped signs on our backs and we had to wander through her house, interviewing each other to determine our identities. That was the year I was near to last on discovering that I was a candle. All because my mom steered me wrong by answering YES to the question, "Do children like to play with me." Along with nodding her head vigorously. I cried shenanigans again, but apparently Sis is akin to Tom T. Hall in her affinity for old ladies, children, and not Hillbilly Mom's whine.
Here is last night's cheater:
Some of the best moments came from the #1 son, aka Wise Man, who asked, "Am I alive? Do I give gifts? Do I work in a retail store?" And from Chimney, who wanted to know, "Do we have one? Do we have to put it up? Am I made of wax?" And, disturbingly, from Manger, who queried, "Do people burn me?" I finished second behind that darn Manger, who came just ahead of me in the round, by deducing my identity in four questions. I was not alive, not found inside, not possessed by many people, and I touched the ground. VOILA! Easy peasy. I was a Sleigh. Okay, so I had help when a short outburst occurred between The Pony, aka Mistletoe, and Sis. The Pony said a lot of people had me, and Sis remarked, "I don't know of one person who has one these days." I am an opportunist, Give me more that the standard YES or NO to go on, and I will make your rue the day you did not DQ The Pony.
In the left/right game, the continuing saga of the Wright family and their comings and goings, where everybody has a gift bag that is passed left and right during the story...I won this:
Tomorrow, I start training for the 2013 Games.
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