A Typical Saturday In Hillmomba

The #1 son has been away all day at the conference academic team tournament.

His team placed third overall, after going undefeated in the morning sessions. He earned an individual 2nd Place individual medal. Not too shabby. A day well-spent, in my opinion.

I made a sortie to the dead-mouse-smelling post office this morning to mail Newmentia's entries for the local junior college science fair. It's still three weeks off, but the entry deadline is Wednesday. No need cutting it to the last minute. Like the #1 son plans to do. He is ambivalent about entering this year. He has won his category almost every year since sixth grade. Even won Best of Fair his sophomore year, earning an academic scholarship. Which will never be used, what with him having no plans to cool his smartypants heels for two years at a junior college. Even though he would also get the all-tuition-free trustees' scholarship for his Newmentia valedictorianship.

The DMSPO must have hired a clean-up crew that sanitizes crime scenes, because I did not detect the aroma of deceased rodent this morning. It could also be that my snoot has not recovered from last week's cold.

The trip to the DMSPO was a real trip. It doesn't open now until 10:30. I took my mom along for the ride, and we pulled up at 10:20. A lady carrying a big box had just come out. She climbed into a white van in front of us. When she saw me putting my big manilla envelope on the dash, she hopped back out and went inside. Because, of course, it makes more sense to stand for ten minutes to be first than to be second behind me, and wait two minutes. Probably unbeknownst to her, that white van pulled away from the curb and turned the corner. THAT was a little mystery that set my tongue to wagging. Mom just giggled nervously. I'm surprised she didn't run inside to inform Box Lady, and offer her transportation.

Cars started converging all willy-nilly. Though my cell phone told me it was only 10:28, I told Mom I couldn't wait any longer. I grabbed my entries and dashed up those concrete steps at the speed of an arthritic Galapagos tortoise. The lady parked behind me in no parking space with her front bumper in danger of catching an SUV from T-Hoe's rear came running up as I was entering the inside door. "What? Am I early AGAIN?" I could tell she had hoped to overtake me in the vestibule. Too bad, so sad.

"Not by much," I answered. That was big of me. I was feeling magnanimous, having outsmarted her. No sooner had I claimed my rightful place behind Box Lady than two dudes slithered in. Then came the awkward silence. I swear, you could have heard us breathe if we had not all been holding our breaths. I wanted to scream,  "AWK.WARD!" But I was able to contain myself. I didn't want to turn and stare. The peripheral glimpse I got of the dudes led me to think they were not spring chickens. Maybe one was a reformed Not-Heaven's Angel. The other, perhaps, a veteran of the Gulf War.

I don't know what Turtle Racer was up to, but one of the dudes laughed. "Yeah. It's a booby trap they set up." Must have been the veteran. But the even awkwarder part of it for me was that he was speaking with one of those electronic voice thingies.

I felt like I was in an episode of My Name is Earl. But without Patty the Daytime Hooker.