Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Jagged. And Wet.

Heh, heh. I am getting even as we speak. Okay, not so much speak, as I write and you read. But still. I'm exacting revenge. Right now.

This morning I went to put on my shoes to head to school for a teacher inservice day. And I noticed that my great toe nail on my left foot was a bit long in the tooth. So I took the extra time to go back into the bathroom and prune it. Normally, I do that after a shower, when the nails are pliable. Flexible. Tender. But this morning they were hardening like arteries in a sumo wrestler.

I had really let this one nail grow out of control. Like a junior on prom night. It was not so much a toenail as a talon. That Napoleon Dynamite line could have been about Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's toenail. On her left great toe. That's the scientific name for it, you know. Not big toe. Great toe. Yes, Napoleon could have told that chicken farmer, "Your Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has large talons." Because once he'd seen that left one, he could only assume that the right one was the same.

So there I was, with my foot hiked up on the edge of the big forest-green triangle bathtub, prying away at that large talon like a blacksmith trimming the hoof of a foundered pony. And it happened. A sharp, jagged, portion of the talon shot off like a Saturn V rocket. Into the tub.

Well. Of course there was no time for me to climb in and retrieve that bit of future flotsam. Farmer H will have to discover it during his next bath. I'm a shower person all the way. Makes me no nevermind if Farmer H finds my talon shard when it bites him in the butt.

Let's just consider it retaliation for his chicken-feather sink-clogging, breather-germ-spraying, arm-uprooting pillow-pile, no-slow-leak-tire-changing ways.

I shall not be scorned.

You're The Reaon We Can't Have Nice Pies

What is with these people who don't sort out their money before stuffing it in a billfold (get it, it's called a billFOLD) or purse or pocket? Don't they know that the biggest denomination should go in the back, then the others in order, with the crispest bills in back and the limpest in front, before folding once, in half? How can people not know that? Sweet Gummi Mary!

In no way, shape, or form is it proper to leave your bills all dog-eared and asymmetric! No no no no no! That will make the king take extra time in the counting house, counting out his money! Which means the queen will have too much time to eat bread and honey. So much, in fact, that she might not fit out the parlor door. And that poor maid will be left hanging clothes for so long in the garden that the blackbirds can snip off not only her nose, but both ears, her bottom lip, and one eye. Which has a tendency to make a maid a bit surly.

So keep it up, money messers. Before long we'll all be coming down with food poisoning from eating blackbird pie made by surly, one-eyed, earless, gaping-mouthed, noseless maids.

Thanks a lot.

The Shirt Pocket Apothecary

I am a firm believer in the shirt pocket apothecary.

Just this morning, my own personal drug store was called into action. The Pony had a severe headache. One worthy of regurgitation. He ate some applesauce. He took an acetaminophen. Thirty minutes later, poor Pony was still hurtin' for certain. We were on the way to school by then. So I reached into my shirt pocket stash and pulled out an ibuprofen. The Pony ate a Hawaiian Roll in tiny sections, and choked down the pill. By the time we got to school, his pain was beginning to recede enough for him to enter the building. Thank the Gummi Mary! Because Grandma was on a trip to Ste. Genevieve with Sis, Farmer H was at work, Genius had robot practice after school, and Mrs. HM herself was, ahem, working! There was nowhere else for The Pony to go. Had I not needed to prepare two classes for tests tomorrow, I could have taken a sick day to sit with him.


I always carry some medication in my pocket, just in case. An ibuprofen because that's all that works for my aches and pains, and the headaches of the #1 son. Acetaminophen, because that's what I give The Pony. An aspirin, because those people on TV say to have one handy in case you're about to croak from a heart attack in the grocery store, and a Pepcid for after lunch.

Lucky for #1 that I had tossed in an extra ibuprofen this morning. Because he darkened my classroom door just before sixth hour, seeking relief for his headache. Sure, I could send him to the office for a FREE ibuprofen. But that's not how I roll. I'm surprised they can keep any in stock, what with it being FREE and all. We all know how fast FREE bottles of water disappear on days the town pump is awaiting repair. However, I like being the one to dish out drugs to my own children.

It's not like I can keep a bottle of each kind of pain reliever in my room. Heavens to Betsy! This is a school we're talkin' about! You can't leave stuff like that laying around behind closed doors in a locked classroom where students have no business. NO! Just no!

I don't like to carry my purse into the building. I have personal items in there, you know. Along with my financial information, and credit cards, and checks, and...well...it behooves one to be overly cautious with one's belongings in an institutional setting.

So you see, the shirt pocket apothecary is actually a scathingly brilliant idea. Now if I could only find a shirt pocket big enough for one of those defibrillator thingies...

The Mind Is The Fourth To Go

I think I'm losing my faculties.

Last night, Farmer H had to go back to work after a school fundraiser. That left the animals unfed. The Pony scattered some chicken feed when he gathered eggs, and watered the goats as usual. But Farmer H had neglected to inform The Pony that he would not be home before dark. He called and told me to ask The Pony to put some food in the goat trough.

Night came and went. I thought about the goats around 3:00 a.m. Did I tell The Pony to feed them? Perhaps. Perhaps not. I could not recall. So when I woke Farmer H, I told him he should probably drive over by the goat pen on the way to work, and dump in some food.

On the way home after school, as we came up the driveway, I told The Pony, "You know, the goats almost starved to death last night because of me."

The Pony was indignant. "How could they starve to death when I went over and gave them some scoops of food?"

Well. I guess that mystery is solved. Scooby and the gang can turn the Mystery Machine right around and have a snack. I was sure I forgot to tell The Pony. He disagrees.

I would say that the mind is the first to go. But I think the mind takes a back seat to glossy black hair, knee joint cartilage, and firm womanly curves.

One Man's Roadkill Is Another Man's Evening Meal

Too bad Farmer H and the #1 son had a previous engagement tonight. I coulda cooked up a rip-snorting pot o' vittles for our supper. It would have been wasted on just me and The Pony. This is one time that opportunity knocked and was left standing on the porch while I peered at him through the peephole, pretending I wasn't home, trying to control my breathing so he couldn't hear.

Nature's rich bounty beckoned to me all the way to school this morning. Not two miles from the Mansion was a squashed possum. No need to tenderize that varmint. His meat was already falling off his bones. While I bemoaned the loss of such a prime ingredient for the stewpot, a turtle snuck up on me. Not so much snuck up, as laid on the road in his cracked armor daring me to pop a tire by driving over his shattered shell. I envisioned a tasty batch of turtle brittle. But alas, no time to stop. Freshmen wait for no woman. Hi ho, hi hent, it's off to school I went. Halfway there, the third course made its appearance. An armadillo, complete with shell. You don't see those things every day. He was kind of ensconced in his own boilin' bag. I could imagine burying him in the coals of my fire pit out back by the cement pond, and roasting him in his own juices. No need to even waste foil wrapping him. Too bad, so sad. I had to pass him by. Time constraints, you know.

With a little ingenuity, I'm sure The Pony could have rigged up a slingshot of sorts with his car charger and some half-full water bottles. He could have bagged me some four and twenty blackbirds from those pecking at my main ingredients. Then we might have had a pie.

Those critters really need to attend a road-crossing seminar presented by a chicken.

A Cross Section Of The Hive

Dagnabbit! Another weekend has come and gone. How does the weekend fly by at ten times the speed of weekdays? I call shenanigans! There's a conspiracy afoot.

Poor Farmer H had to work Saturday. And he will next Saturday, too. Sure, it was only a half day. Seven to eleven-thirty. But still...the Farmer doesn't have summers off like the boys and me. He gets four weeks of vacation scattered throughout the year, to take a day here and there, or lump it together a week at a time.

Of course, my weekends are filled with work. Just not paid work. The Pony and I have started doing the Devil's shopping on Friday evenings, on the way home from school. I'm exhausted. But it saves me half a weekend day of getting up and getting there and putting stuff away.

The #1 son acts like all the world's a weekend. He comes and goes weeknights like he doesn't have to get up and apply his nose to the grindstone in his senior year honors classes. On the actual weekend, he might dismantle electronic gadgets for parts, play the piano for fun, fiddle with a photography project, spend the night at a friend's house, visit his grandma to utilize her high-speed internet for various downloads, and run the sound for the church service. As weather permits, he mows lawns or cuts firewood.

The Pony goes with the flow. He's pulled in many directions over the course of a weekend. He is my right-hand horse. My go-to guy. Shopping, gathering laundry, bagging up the cardboard for burning, holding the dustpan, tending the goats, fetching the eggs...plus special projects concocted by Farmer H. He bowls in a Saturday morning league, as does #1. His free time is spent lounging on the basement couch, reading, writing, and primarily gaming on his laptop. Don't you worry about The Pony and his heavy workload. He is compensated with fast food and books and sleepovers at his grandma's house.

We're like a hive of bees. Not that we're busy. Or hard workers. We all have our roles in keeping the Mansion running.

Turn, Turn, Turn

We have a four-day week coming up. The students, that is. We teachers will be resting on our ample rumps Friday, soaking up Common Core Standards like so many badly-coiffed, frumpily-dressed Bounty paper towels soaking up water from the counter of Rosie's Diner. I think it's going to be a long day. If only Rhoda Morgenstern's mom was the official presenter, she could hawk all the paper towels her little heart desired. If she was still alive, of course. I'm not summoning her from the great beyond to liven up our teacher in-service day. That would just be wrong. Kind of like trying to contact JFK with an Ouija Board at an eighth-grade slumber party.

The school year is flying by. We're already at progress report time, halfway through 1st quarter. Next Saturday is the Autumn Equinox. I feel sorry for people who live where there are no differences between seasons. I need to lay in a supply of chili and soup fixins. You know. So I can make Farmer H his tower of vegetable beef soup.

This is my favorite time of year. The slant of the sunlight. The smell of crispy leaves crushed under car tires and feet. Poor Pony. He saw a large cardboard box full of gourds at The Devil's Playground. They were knotty and gnarly and warty, orange, yellow, green, striped, mottled. "That's a funny pumpkin," he said. I had to explain that they were gourds. Not pumpkins. Apparently, gourds are not well-represented in the video game world.

Can Dave Murray's long-range winter forecast be far-off? Heh, heh. I meant far off as in time. But we all know that Dave is usually FAR OFF in terms of predicted precipitation. I don't see how he can face the camera every day. And he's quite generous in grading himself once the season has passed. You folks without access to St. Louis FOX 2 News don't know what you're missing. But you're actually not missing much.

Time to start perusing the channels for It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.