I woke up Saturday morning to discover 16 bananas on my kitchen counter. I knew I did not buy 16 bananas. Farmer H is their regular consumer. I give him 5-7 a week, because they go bad. AND I have to rip them apart from the bunch, or they go bad faster. We tried that banana hook thingy, but after breaking the third one, I gave up. So imagine the image of 16 single yellow-green bananas laid out, spooning, on the burgundy kitchen counter. Okay, not all 16, because some were on the kitchen table due to overcrowding. That's a lot of bananas.
Farmer H has been on vacation this week. He got back from the auction
late Friday night. I have no idea what he buys until it appears, or he
brags about his bargains. I asked him why he bought so many bananas,
when I had just brought home five on Friday. Hmm. He didn't know. It
seemed like a good price. AND, he bought five ears of corn for a dollar.
Never mind that roastin' ears are 22 cents apiece at The Devil's
Playground, and we still have two from Save A Lot in Frig.
Last night, Farmer H, #1, and I had a bowl of sliced strawberries and bananas. I had a banana for my lunch dessert. Farmer H had his morning nanner as usual. That means 11 bananas of auction on the counter, 11 bananas of auction. Not quite as promising as 99 bottles of beer on the wall. We're a virtual Bubba Gump Banana Emporium. Banana fruit salad, frozen bananas, chocolate dipped bananas, banana splits, bananas Foster, banana bread, banana pudding, bananas on Cheerios, banana cream pie, banana muffins, banana smoothies, peanut butter and banana sandwiches, banana pancakes...naw. Don't go copying down that menu. I'm not going to raid the Hillmomba mint to buy fixin's to go with a couple of dollars worth of auction bananas.
I fear that we are dangerously close to crossing the Auction Meat line.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Saturday, July 6, 2013
"Let Me Step Into Your Office With This Spider," Said Her Guy
Say hello to my little friend.
Okay, he's no more than a passing acquaintance. And he's not so little. In fact, I'm merely a name-dropper, because he's actually Farmer H's not-so-little acquaintance.
Farmer H found him on his cabin down by the creek. Not the cabin proper. The barn he built to go with the cabin. He's a tiny-town-building fool. Have steel-crate scrap-lumber, will build. That's Farmer H's motto. At least this time, he did not scoop up this critter in a baggie and send the #1 son into the house with it. He says the board is 4 inches wide, which would make his not-so-little friend about 4 inches from front legs to back. It's probably another Dolomedes fishing spider, like that last one he hauled home.
I'm not fond of his sharing tactics. At least I heard his heavy tread on the basement steps before he appeared in the dark doorway behind me. "Do you like spiders?"
Yeah. "No. You'd better not have one in a baggie. Get away from me!"
Farmer H pulled out his phone. "See here? It's a big one. I left it there."
If it had been offered for a dollar at the auction, he would have bought it.
Okay, he's no more than a passing acquaintance. And he's not so little. In fact, I'm merely a name-dropper, because he's actually Farmer H's not-so-little acquaintance.
Farmer H found him on his cabin down by the creek. Not the cabin proper. The barn he built to go with the cabin. He's a tiny-town-building fool. Have steel-crate scrap-lumber, will build. That's Farmer H's motto. At least this time, he did not scoop up this critter in a baggie and send the #1 son into the house with it. He says the board is 4 inches wide, which would make his not-so-little friend about 4 inches from front legs to back. It's probably another Dolomedes fishing spider, like that last one he hauled home.
I'm not fond of his sharing tactics. At least I heard his heavy tread on the basement steps before he appeared in the dark doorway behind me. "Do you like spiders?"
Yeah. "No. You'd better not have one in a baggie. Get away from me!"
Farmer H pulled out his phone. "See here? It's a big one. I left it there."
If it had been offered for a dollar at the auction, he would have bought it.
Friday, July 5, 2013
Maybe Someone Should Throw Him A Surprise Pity Party
Pity the poor Pony, our gangly beast of burden, who has been majorly put-upon today. All he wants is to go to bed at 10:00, arise at 7:30, lounge in his pajamas until 10:00, and while away the day playing computer games while laying on the basement couch watching ghost-hunting/ancient civilizations/funniest home videos on TV until time to bring in the eggs.
Friday is our shopping day. He was okay with that. Got dressed, ran to and fro inside The Devil's Playground fetching items from my list, played his driving games while I checked out. Then the universe began tossing monkey-wrenches into his well-laid plans.
The #1 son had asked for insect repellant while we were dealing with The Devil. Some may say I spoil him, but I did purchase some Deep Woods Off. He has plans this evening at a friend's house to set off smoke bombs and sparklers for photography purposes. He also asked for a McDouble and fries, seeing as how McDonald's is in The Devil's backyard. The Pony agreed that he would also partake of McDonald's lunch rations. We were in line when #1 called to cancel his order. He wanted to meet us and get his repellant, rather than follow through with his original plans to leave the Mansion after we got back. I told him that was fine, but I was not pulling out of line, since The Pony was already counting on it. Three meeting places were arranged and rejected by #1. I denied the two that he proposed. The only consensus we could reach was for The Pony and I to drive right back onto The Devil's hotter-than-not-heaven blacktop parking lot and await the arrival of the self-centered one. Oh, and he WOULD be wanting that food, because he could, after all, eat it on his way.
So The Pony ate his lunch in a blazing hot black T-Hoe under the muggy sun on The Devil's lot. Still, he was probably in better shape that the frozen food cooling its crumbs under my two winter coats in the hatch of T-Hoe. Just when he thought he was back on the happy trail to summer fun, there was a glitch in the procurement of a certain 44 oz. Diet Coke, and he had to sit twice on parking lots awaiting my refill.
After we carried in and put away groceries, and The Pony carried my precious elixir to my dark basement lair, I discovered that Farmer H had commanded him to appear for work when he was done helping me. That meant he had to be shod, rather than prancing about in Adidas slides. I innocently asked him to connect my internet at the laptop in the front living room window, only to be told that his shoes were really dirty, and he shouldn't traipse back across the carpet. At which time I saw a pile of muddy crumbs beside the couch, and instructed him to clean up that mess when he got back.
Pity the poor Pony. He was commandeered to join Farmer H in Poolio after hauling shelving from BARn to creekside cabin. AND I asked him to bring down a rotten banana as my lunch dessert.
He is now computing and viewing from his scoliosis-inducing posture on the basement couch. Right back where he started from.
Friday is our shopping day. He was okay with that. Got dressed, ran to and fro inside The Devil's Playground fetching items from my list, played his driving games while I checked out. Then the universe began tossing monkey-wrenches into his well-laid plans.
The #1 son had asked for insect repellant while we were dealing with The Devil. Some may say I spoil him, but I did purchase some Deep Woods Off. He has plans this evening at a friend's house to set off smoke bombs and sparklers for photography purposes. He also asked for a McDouble and fries, seeing as how McDonald's is in The Devil's backyard. The Pony agreed that he would also partake of McDonald's lunch rations. We were in line when #1 called to cancel his order. He wanted to meet us and get his repellant, rather than follow through with his original plans to leave the Mansion after we got back. I told him that was fine, but I was not pulling out of line, since The Pony was already counting on it. Three meeting places were arranged and rejected by #1. I denied the two that he proposed. The only consensus we could reach was for The Pony and I to drive right back onto The Devil's hotter-than-not-heaven blacktop parking lot and await the arrival of the self-centered one. Oh, and he WOULD be wanting that food, because he could, after all, eat it on his way.
So The Pony ate his lunch in a blazing hot black T-Hoe under the muggy sun on The Devil's lot. Still, he was probably in better shape that the frozen food cooling its crumbs under my two winter coats in the hatch of T-Hoe. Just when he thought he was back on the happy trail to summer fun, there was a glitch in the procurement of a certain 44 oz. Diet Coke, and he had to sit twice on parking lots awaiting my refill.
After we carried in and put away groceries, and The Pony carried my precious elixir to my dark basement lair, I discovered that Farmer H had commanded him to appear for work when he was done helping me. That meant he had to be shod, rather than prancing about in Adidas slides. I innocently asked him to connect my internet at the laptop in the front living room window, only to be told that his shoes were really dirty, and he shouldn't traipse back across the carpet. At which time I saw a pile of muddy crumbs beside the couch, and instructed him to clean up that mess when he got back.
Pity the poor Pony. He was commandeered to join Farmer H in Poolio after hauling shelving from BARn to creekside cabin. AND I asked him to bring down a rotten banana as my lunch dessert.
He is now computing and viewing from his scoliosis-inducing posture on the basement couch. Right back where he started from.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Eeee So Corny!
We had corn on the cob tonight. Farmer H did not cook it on his new auction grill. He usually roasts that husky treat on the Weber, but not on Gassy G. So I had to peel off the outer leaves in order to boil our roastin' ears. That's all my mom and grandma ever called them. Roastin' ears.
Normally, I buy the cob corn packed on one of those styrofoam trays, already stripped of most of the husk. That way, you can see what you're getting. But this time, I grabbed the pointy tasseled variety from the bin. I'm always a little bit nervous peeling back the cornhusks. That probably comes from helping my grandma when I was a kid. We'd hike through the field to the big garden to pick six or eight roastin' ears for supper. The little garden was closer to the house. It only had dill and some potato hills, maybe a cucumber or two, and was right beside a tiny pond so full of perch that they often jumped out onto the bank in depression due to overcrowding. You could throw a line with a bare hook in there and catch a bucketful.
After harvesting our roastin' ears, we headed back to the carport to skin them. There was always at least one worm. Sometimes more. It was not a pleasant surprise to find one munching away on some kernels of your roastin' ear. But it WAS a surprise. Even though you were always on the lookout for a critter hiding in your future supper.
My roastin' ears this evening were worm-free. I chopped the ends off first, with a big black-handled butcher knife, and tossed the disks of kernels to the chickens pecking hopefully in the side yard. Much disappointed, I'm sure, about the lack of worms. I saved the husks for the goats. The Pony made a special delivery to their pen after I was done hacking up corn on the porch rail.
Those roastin' ears were purty as a speckled pup. In fact, they were speckled as a speckled pup. Dark yellow, light yellow and white kernels. They were as sweet as candy. Not that I ate them unboiled, of course. Some of their milky juice squirted me in the mouth while removing the cornsilk. And in the eye. And the nose. Five minutes in their 212-degree bath did not diminish their sweetness.
I apologize for stabbing them in both butt ends with two-pronged metal stabby things, attached to tiny yellow cob-corn-shaped plastic holders.
Normally, I buy the cob corn packed on one of those styrofoam trays, already stripped of most of the husk. That way, you can see what you're getting. But this time, I grabbed the pointy tasseled variety from the bin. I'm always a little bit nervous peeling back the cornhusks. That probably comes from helping my grandma when I was a kid. We'd hike through the field to the big garden to pick six or eight roastin' ears for supper. The little garden was closer to the house. It only had dill and some potato hills, maybe a cucumber or two, and was right beside a tiny pond so full of perch that they often jumped out onto the bank in depression due to overcrowding. You could throw a line with a bare hook in there and catch a bucketful.
After harvesting our roastin' ears, we headed back to the carport to skin them. There was always at least one worm. Sometimes more. It was not a pleasant surprise to find one munching away on some kernels of your roastin' ear. But it WAS a surprise. Even though you were always on the lookout for a critter hiding in your future supper.
My roastin' ears this evening were worm-free. I chopped the ends off first, with a big black-handled butcher knife, and tossed the disks of kernels to the chickens pecking hopefully in the side yard. Much disappointed, I'm sure, about the lack of worms. I saved the husks for the goats. The Pony made a special delivery to their pen after I was done hacking up corn on the porch rail.
Those roastin' ears were purty as a speckled pup. In fact, they were speckled as a speckled pup. Dark yellow, light yellow and white kernels. They were as sweet as candy. Not that I ate them unboiled, of course. Some of their milky juice squirted me in the mouth while removing the cornsilk. And in the eye. And the nose. Five minutes in their 212-degree bath did not diminish their sweetness.
I apologize for stabbing them in both butt ends with two-pronged metal stabby things, attached to tiny yellow cob-corn-shaped plastic holders.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
I Hope He Can Find Me A Hazmat Suit At The Auction
How can you tell that your family is back from their vacation? Your garbage cans are empty and your dog is preg----Wait a minute! That's not right. That's how you know a Frenchman has been in your backyard, according to Teddy DuChamp in Stand By Me the movie, or in The Body the novella, thanks to that witty Stephen King.
You can tell that your family is back from their vacation because there's a pile of dirty dishes beside the sink, a black trash bag full of dirty clothes on the floor in front of the washer, and a crack in the glass of your cell phone. Stand clear, cell phone. I have no interest in you today. We're dealing with the audacity of dopes.
I am not surprised that The Pony expects me to do his laundry. At the tender age of 15, being so busy avoiding driving lessons and putting away his new permit laying on the kitchen table, more than likely expecting me to blenderize his favorite food of chicken strips with a cup of ketchup and spoon the mush down his throat while he plays computer games, he is not yet ready for self-laundry.
The #1 son has a few short weekends before he's off to college. You'd think he would be leaning over my shoulder from detergent scoop to dryer sheet, observing, telling me I was doing it wrong. Girls don't make passes at boys who smell like...Never mind. He has a girlfriend already.
Farmer H is the one who got my goat. He cleverly combined The Pony's dirty clothes with his own. Even though they each had their own suitcase. No mesh laundry bag or traveling canvas hamper for Farmer H. A black Hefty tall kitchen bag will do. You know. Because it's airtight. And it absorbs the sun's rays as it lays in the back of a Pacifica in North Carolina in July. Those anaerobic bacteria must have been havin' a hoppin' shindig inside those dark, impenetrable walls.
The #1 son at least had the decency to dump his dirty clothes in the home laundry basket upon arrival. I washed them forthwith this a.m. But I could not find any clothing for The Pony. I admit, the thought briefly flitted through my mind that The Pony wore the same outfit for five days. I called downstairs to him. "Pony! Are your clothes in that black trash bag?"
"Uh huh."
"And Dad's, too?"
"Uh huh."
"Well, you're coming up and sorting them out, because I'm not digging in there."
The Pony's method was to reach a hand into the neck of the bag, much like a soft-sided game of Feely-Meely, and pull out an object of clothing. If it was his, he handed it to me to put in the washer. But if it was Farmer H's tighty-whities, or socks, or even a shirt, he dropped it back in. Seriously? I thought he understood the law of probability better than that. Like brother, like brother. Same as #1 reaching for a short fork in the dish drainer, and putting back every utensil until he finally snagged Shorty.
"I though you would just dump them out in a pile, and then put yours in the washer, and Dad's back in the bag."
"Oh. I can do that." Except he was putting Farmer H's single items in the bag every time he grabbed one, wrestling with the opening.
"How about you hand me yours, and put Dad's in a pile? Then I'll hold the bag for you while you dump in the pile."
"That'll work."
Perhaps I've mentioned that Farmer H has done his own laundry since refusing to deposit his dirties in the clothes basket shortly after our marriage ceremony. I'm not one to pick up the soiled underwear of others from the floor. He made that decision, and has lived with it for nigh on 24 years. Don't think it's such a hardship. He has a uniform service for work clothes, so he can easily go a month or more before washing his weekend casuals. And yes, he has a month's worth of underwear.
Now Farmer H was trying to trick me into indentured laundritude. But you'll notice that he STILL did not put the dirty clothes in the laundry basket. Something even an 18-year-old can be trained to do. I refused to reach into the Hefty bag. Life-with-no-parole inmates may drink institutional hooch out of there, but I'm not sticking my hand into whatever's been brewing.
I'd sooner go elbow-deep in a box of Auction Meat.
You can tell that your family is back from their vacation because there's a pile of dirty dishes beside the sink, a black trash bag full of dirty clothes on the floor in front of the washer, and a crack in the glass of your cell phone. Stand clear, cell phone. I have no interest in you today. We're dealing with the audacity of dopes.
I am not surprised that The Pony expects me to do his laundry. At the tender age of 15, being so busy avoiding driving lessons and putting away his new permit laying on the kitchen table, more than likely expecting me to blenderize his favorite food of chicken strips with a cup of ketchup and spoon the mush down his throat while he plays computer games, he is not yet ready for self-laundry.
The #1 son has a few short weekends before he's off to college. You'd think he would be leaning over my shoulder from detergent scoop to dryer sheet, observing, telling me I was doing it wrong. Girls don't make passes at boys who smell like...Never mind. He has a girlfriend already.
Farmer H is the one who got my goat. He cleverly combined The Pony's dirty clothes with his own. Even though they each had their own suitcase. No mesh laundry bag or traveling canvas hamper for Farmer H. A black Hefty tall kitchen bag will do. You know. Because it's airtight. And it absorbs the sun's rays as it lays in the back of a Pacifica in North Carolina in July. Those anaerobic bacteria must have been havin' a hoppin' shindig inside those dark, impenetrable walls.
The #1 son at least had the decency to dump his dirty clothes in the home laundry basket upon arrival. I washed them forthwith this a.m. But I could not find any clothing for The Pony. I admit, the thought briefly flitted through my mind that The Pony wore the same outfit for five days. I called downstairs to him. "Pony! Are your clothes in that black trash bag?"
"Uh huh."
"And Dad's, too?"
"Uh huh."
"Well, you're coming up and sorting them out, because I'm not digging in there."
The Pony's method was to reach a hand into the neck of the bag, much like a soft-sided game of Feely-Meely, and pull out an object of clothing. If it was his, he handed it to me to put in the washer. But if it was Farmer H's tighty-whities, or socks, or even a shirt, he dropped it back in. Seriously? I thought he understood the law of probability better than that. Like brother, like brother. Same as #1 reaching for a short fork in the dish drainer, and putting back every utensil until he finally snagged Shorty.
"I though you would just dump them out in a pile, and then put yours in the washer, and Dad's back in the bag."
"Oh. I can do that." Except he was putting Farmer H's single items in the bag every time he grabbed one, wrestling with the opening.
"How about you hand me yours, and put Dad's in a pile? Then I'll hold the bag for you while you dump in the pile."
"That'll work."
Perhaps I've mentioned that Farmer H has done his own laundry since refusing to deposit his dirties in the clothes basket shortly after our marriage ceremony. I'm not one to pick up the soiled underwear of others from the floor. He made that decision, and has lived with it for nigh on 24 years. Don't think it's such a hardship. He has a uniform service for work clothes, so he can easily go a month or more before washing his weekend casuals. And yes, he has a month's worth of underwear.
Now Farmer H was trying to trick me into indentured laundritude. But you'll notice that he STILL did not put the dirty clothes in the laundry basket. Something even an 18-year-old can be trained to do. I refused to reach into the Hefty bag. Life-with-no-parole inmates may drink institutional hooch out of there, but I'm not sticking my hand into whatever's been brewing.
I'd sooner go elbow-deep in a box of Auction Meat.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
There, But For Escaping A 2-Minute Red Light, Don't Go I
I got a late start to town today. Blame it on D'Hummi, who needed to relieve himself out the basement door. Since he is not ambulatory, I removed his full bladder and carried it myself, whacking door frames, errant treadmill bars, and the foosball table, sprinkling D'Hummi's effluence like a clumsy, less-hygienic Johnny Appleseed.
Back in the day, when we moved from Hillmomba proper to our Hillbilly Mansion, times were simpler. The route to civilization was marred only by stop signs for cars trying to infiltrate our little burg from the highway exit ramps. Fie on progress! Now we have a multitude of stoplights, and wacky crooked traffic lanes. I've adapted, but I'm not happy.
Thank the Gummi Mary for her conference call with Even Steven. I narrowly avoided being trapped on the wrong side of the overpass during my mission to score a 44 oz. Diet Coke. Oh, I could have still forged a route home with a simple U-turn, left turn, and roundabout. But law enforcement kind of frowns on the U-ey. Haha! Good luck catching me, copper, because your headquarters is on the wrong side of the underpass. You'd have to hit the interstate, careen down and up the sides of the muddy median, reverse direction, and get stuck in the stuck traffic waiting on the exit ramp.
Yeah. I made the light and pulled in for my 44 oz. Diet Coke without incident. When I came out, this sight gave me a fine how-do-you do at the underpass. Made me no nevermind. I was on my way out of town by then. No need to get hung up in that snarl of gas-burners. Looks like somebody cut the turn too sharp while hauling a lengthy concrete beam.
One of the perils of downtown Hillmomba.
Back in the day, when we moved from Hillmomba proper to our Hillbilly Mansion, times were simpler. The route to civilization was marred only by stop signs for cars trying to infiltrate our little burg from the highway exit ramps. Fie on progress! Now we have a multitude of stoplights, and wacky crooked traffic lanes. I've adapted, but I'm not happy.
Thank the Gummi Mary for her conference call with Even Steven. I narrowly avoided being trapped on the wrong side of the overpass during my mission to score a 44 oz. Diet Coke. Oh, I could have still forged a route home with a simple U-turn, left turn, and roundabout. But law enforcement kind of frowns on the U-ey. Haha! Good luck catching me, copper, because your headquarters is on the wrong side of the underpass. You'd have to hit the interstate, careen down and up the sides of the muddy median, reverse direction, and get stuck in the stuck traffic waiting on the exit ramp.
Yeah. I made the light and pulled in for my 44 oz. Diet Coke without incident. When I came out, this sight gave me a fine how-do-you do at the underpass. Made me no nevermind. I was on my way out of town by then. No need to get hung up in that snarl of gas-burners. Looks like somebody cut the turn too sharp while hauling a lengthy concrete beam.
One of the perils of downtown Hillmomba.
Monday, July 1, 2013
Piddle Shop Of Horrors
There is a room in the Mansion that is almost too horrific to describe. A room that occupies a full fourth of the basement, separated from my dark lair by one thin wall. Officially, it is Farmer H's workshop. In my mind, it is the Piddle Shop of Horrors. The place where Farmer H would go to piddle, if it was not so full of his hoarder treasures that no piddling can occur.
We're not talking about piddling, like a new puppy might do on the living room carpet. There's a special room for that, directly adjacent to my basement office. But without carpet. No, Farmer H's piddling takes the form of starting a project, then abandoning it when he sees something shiny.
The basement workshop was once a space to be reckoned with. It has a black-and-white checkerboard tile floor, except for the strip where Farmer H ran out, and installed red-and-white checkerboard tile. The left side, along the concrete exterior wall, is a long workbench made of sturdy 2x4s salvaged from crates used to ship rolls of industrial steel. The area below is open for red metal tool cabinets, and for storing tubs of Christmas decorations and assorted labeled treasures. Above is a section of wooden cabinets, with more storage space on top. On the right, Farmer H has a white metal cabinet, with a smooth top for a work area, for such things as soldering. There is a pegboard full of tools on the wall above it. The heating/cooling unit occupies the corner of the workshop. Then there's a tall bookcase full of books that I had boxed for donation, which Farmer H unboxed and put on shelves. Behind that is a treadmill. Then a foosball table. A water heater. The right wall, against my office, has more work space and more cabinets. The rafters are full of luggage waiting for trips, Easter baskets, Christmas wrap, and stuff I don't want to know. The far wall has small shelves displaying auction treasures like metal tins and glass Avon bottles. The metal door that exits to the pool area is barely accessible, due to a full-size TV on the floor by the water heater. I have no idea why we need a TV there. It could be better used in the BARn.
I know that TV is there, because every time I go out the basement door, I knock my right shinbone on it. Or I step on the snaky cord. On days when I am home by myself, without my Pony helper, I sometimes drive T-Hoe around to the basement door to enter with my precious 44 oz. Diet Coke. That saves me a trip (and possible TRIP) down the handrail-less interior stairs with my precious elixir and my Bubba cup of ice water.
The proper exterior basement entry procedure is to leave the main basement light on, and open the workshop interior door for illumination before embarking on the trip to town. Sometimes, I forget to leave the light on for me. I'm no Motel 6. I know my way through that straight-line maze. But even I can be spooked by Farmer H's inadvertent shop of horrors.
My daytime nightmare goes a little bit like this:
I unlock the metal basement door and step into the darkness, grasping my 44 oz. Diet Coke by the base. For a few minutes, I sweet-talk my sweet, sweet Juno to see if she wants to come in with me for this errand. She does not. Today she stepped in with all four feathered feet, whimpered, and scampered out into the light and fallen leaves. I stepped further in to close the door and keep out the nosy blue-headed turkey. Of course I barked my left shin on the TV. Then I took a step and rolled the plug-in cord under my sole. With no light on, I was a blind gal walking. Something dangled from the rafters and whipped into my shoulder. My mind screamed SNAKE, but I'm sure it was only an extension cord. I veered a bit off course, and rubbed elbows with the treadmill. There's a towel hanging over the front end. Like mummy wrapping. That set me off kilter to the right, where my thigh rammed a cardboard box flap and spun it a quarter-turn. I'm not sure what was in the box. Something that left behind an unused direction manual and some styrofoam blocks. I was only a couple of steps from the interior door. All I had to do was refrain from impaling myself on the metal pegs bereft of tools. Yes! I had successfully navigated the inside passage, and could continue left, past the piano and pool table, past the #1 son's downstairs desk, past the old Nintendo gaming TV area, past the NASCAR bathroom, into my dark lair. I deposited my caffeiney treasure, and exited the way I had come. But with light from within. Juno was holding vigil. Our reunion was a happy one.
Farmer H really needs to straighten up his shop. There is not even room now for #1 to break light bulbs and drop fruit in water for his artsy fartsy photographs.
We're not talking about piddling, like a new puppy might do on the living room carpet. There's a special room for that, directly adjacent to my basement office. But without carpet. No, Farmer H's piddling takes the form of starting a project, then abandoning it when he sees something shiny.
The basement workshop was once a space to be reckoned with. It has a black-and-white checkerboard tile floor, except for the strip where Farmer H ran out, and installed red-and-white checkerboard tile. The left side, along the concrete exterior wall, is a long workbench made of sturdy 2x4s salvaged from crates used to ship rolls of industrial steel. The area below is open for red metal tool cabinets, and for storing tubs of Christmas decorations and assorted labeled treasures. Above is a section of wooden cabinets, with more storage space on top. On the right, Farmer H has a white metal cabinet, with a smooth top for a work area, for such things as soldering. There is a pegboard full of tools on the wall above it. The heating/cooling unit occupies the corner of the workshop. Then there's a tall bookcase full of books that I had boxed for donation, which Farmer H unboxed and put on shelves. Behind that is a treadmill. Then a foosball table. A water heater. The right wall, against my office, has more work space and more cabinets. The rafters are full of luggage waiting for trips, Easter baskets, Christmas wrap, and stuff I don't want to know. The far wall has small shelves displaying auction treasures like metal tins and glass Avon bottles. The metal door that exits to the pool area is barely accessible, due to a full-size TV on the floor by the water heater. I have no idea why we need a TV there. It could be better used in the BARn.
I know that TV is there, because every time I go out the basement door, I knock my right shinbone on it. Or I step on the snaky cord. On days when I am home by myself, without my Pony helper, I sometimes drive T-Hoe around to the basement door to enter with my precious 44 oz. Diet Coke. That saves me a trip (and possible TRIP) down the handrail-less interior stairs with my precious elixir and my Bubba cup of ice water.
The proper exterior basement entry procedure is to leave the main basement light on, and open the workshop interior door for illumination before embarking on the trip to town. Sometimes, I forget to leave the light on for me. I'm no Motel 6. I know my way through that straight-line maze. But even I can be spooked by Farmer H's inadvertent shop of horrors.
My daytime nightmare goes a little bit like this:
I unlock the metal basement door and step into the darkness, grasping my 44 oz. Diet Coke by the base. For a few minutes, I sweet-talk my sweet, sweet Juno to see if she wants to come in with me for this errand. She does not. Today she stepped in with all four feathered feet, whimpered, and scampered out into the light and fallen leaves. I stepped further in to close the door and keep out the nosy blue-headed turkey. Of course I barked my left shin on the TV. Then I took a step and rolled the plug-in cord under my sole. With no light on, I was a blind gal walking. Something dangled from the rafters and whipped into my shoulder. My mind screamed SNAKE, but I'm sure it was only an extension cord. I veered a bit off course, and rubbed elbows with the treadmill. There's a towel hanging over the front end. Like mummy wrapping. That set me off kilter to the right, where my thigh rammed a cardboard box flap and spun it a quarter-turn. I'm not sure what was in the box. Something that left behind an unused direction manual and some styrofoam blocks. I was only a couple of steps from the interior door. All I had to do was refrain from impaling myself on the metal pegs bereft of tools. Yes! I had successfully navigated the inside passage, and could continue left, past the piano and pool table, past the #1 son's downstairs desk, past the old Nintendo gaming TV area, past the NASCAR bathroom, into my dark lair. I deposited my caffeiney treasure, and exited the way I had come. But with light from within. Juno was holding vigil. Our reunion was a happy one.
Farmer H really needs to straighten up his shop. There is not even room now for #1 to break light bulbs and drop fruit in water for his artsy fartsy photographs.
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