Having The Pony back home from college has its benefits, and its drawbacks. Without a plus-and-minus tally in a spreadsheet that I don't know how to make, I'm hard-pressed to decide if The Pony's contribution to the household is a boon or a bust. At least he inherited his father's penchant for providing me with never-ending blog posts. I guess that's worth his room and board.
If we were going on The Pony's performance alone, his "salary" of $20 a week might be in danger of docking. His reimbursements to the Mansion for property damage alone would soon negate his salary. Or he might have a file full of job targets, and be on double-secret probation.
Friday night, I asked The Pony to carry down a six-pack of my bottled Diet Coke, so I could put it in the mini-fridge under the stairs. As you may recall, I certainly don't want The Pony completing the last part of the task, what with his dropping of those plastic ring thingies where I tread upon them.
Saturday, The Pony (probably mistakenly, thinking I'd already left) popped into the kitchen as I was putting my glasses and phone in my purse before going to town.
"I see you forgot to transport my Diet Coke to the basement. I went to put some in the fridge last night, and it wasn't there!"
The Pony lightly smacked his forehead with his palm, and went over by the table to pick up a six-pack. Sweet Gummi Mary! He walked past the cutting block, swinging that soda along his hip, from shoulder height to shoulder height! I could see it already foaming up in each of the six bottles!
"Hey! Don't shake it up! It will go flat."
"Oh, hush. This isn't hurting it."
But he stopped swinging. Even so, five hours later when I opened one, it foamed up like a draft beer served by an inexperienced bartender. Or The Pony.
But wait! That's not all! And I'm not talking about The Pony hooking his TOES through the handle of my yellow bubba cup to mock me, after I told him he could use my left-over lunch ice in his water cup.
Later that evening, when The Pony was dehydrating the earth by running his nightly big-triangle-tub-bath, and I was still sitting on the short couch after Farmer H had gone to the auction...
I SAW THE KETCHUP BOTTLE SITTING UNDER MY MARRED COFFEE TABLE!
About an hour into his bath, I sent him a text. Yes, he takes his phone with him. And his laptop, too. Our master bathroom becomes his office after supper.
"Your evil ploy failed... I found the ketchup under the coffee table."
"Oh.
Oops. Ketchup is fine left out! I almost never put it in the fridge in
Norman, since I used it fast enough it didn't matter!"
"I think ketchup sits out at restaurants. But not under the table. AND, my Diet Coke was quite fizzy when I opened it."
"Probably the pack that fell when I carried them all in by myself."
"More likely the one you were swinging like an 8th dwarf's lunch pail, 'Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to the basement I go!'"
"Yes,
but it's also the pack that fell by the stairs when I carried it in,
since one of the others fell out of the pack thing as I got down there." [As if the swinging had nothing to do with loosening the plastic ring holder thingy.]
Every day with The Pony is a new adventure. I'm usually left holding the short end of the stick.
4 comments:
I'm thinking you may have to rig up a rope and pulley arrangement with a basket so you can lower you diet coke to the basement yourself. Then it won't spray like a blowhole when you open it. Of course then The Pony will have to think up a new trick, just for blogging purposes.
River,
I'm thinking the same thing this very moment, since I sent The Pony a text around 8:30 while he was soaking in his nightly bath, saying to bring down some Diet Coke, and he DID NOT! I'm pretty sure he's already thinking up a new trick.
I think The Pony could earn his keep by doing tricks with his feet and toes for those people who come to the mansion for a tour. He could take their money, give them their change and their tickets... with his feet. He could dispense bags of chips and cans of soda at the snack shop... with his feet. (He could even offer to make their drinks more bubbly--for a price, of course.)
Sioux,
That would be the perfect job for The Pony. And he's available, since the roofing company left him behind in their hiring search. The only more suitable job for him might be in churning butter with his feet. Like grape-stomping, only butter. And he could lick his toes clean after a shift, as a fringe benefit!
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