Somebody's been in the cookie jar!
Not so much the cookie jar as Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's stash of Christmas money. You'd think it was safe, wouldn't you, all locked up in a locking bag and then stashed in one of the two large safes in Farmer H's basement workshop? But not so in this Mansion.
Do not think for one instant that obsessive/compulsive, anal-retentive Mrs. HM does not know how much money she has socked away. Not so much socked away as enveloped away, ten weeks at a time. Then stored in the locking bag workshop safe. Yes, rather than rushing to pay into a Christmas club account before closing, Mrs. HM has been taking her Christmas savings into her own hands for years. Each week, a portion of cash is set aside. Marked on an envelope, amount and date. Then gifts are charged, the bill comes, and that money is deposited in the checking account.
Some years, there is money left over. Some years, like when the original Frig went to live in the big red BARn over in the field, there is not. This year, we have Christmas and the taxes on my new Acadia. Plus the new Mansion roof, before the insurance company gives us the balance upon installation. But no problem. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has it covered. Or so she thought.
Farmer H got out the locked bag. Mrs. HM counted up the cash. All there. A hefty sum per envelope. Five envelopes. Mostly twenties. A few hundreds. A couple of fifties. The bills arranged for easy counting, this many up, this many down, alternating. When we got to the bank, I recounted three envelopes, turning the bills all one direction. I handed the other two back to The Pony to do the same.
"Put these bills all the same way, Pony. There are five up, five down, five up...alternating."
The Pony is a genius, you know. He had his done before mine were done. I took them inside the bank for deposit. Mrs. HM was taking no chances on a snafu in the drive-thru line.
So the girl counted the bills. Counted them again. "I am not getting that amount on your deposit slip. I am coming up $20 short. Let me put these in my counter."
Let the record show that as the clerk counted the bills, Mrs. HM did not watch. She looked aside. But she listened. She heard the girl feverishly thumbing those bills into stacks of 25. Four 25s to a bigger stack. Okay. You can add money up that way, too. But the girl came back from the machine, where she had only taken two of the stacks, and said they were correct. "Do you want to count them for yourself? Do you want to look in your envelopes?"
"No. If the machine said they were right, I guess those are right. I already checked my envelopes. I counted them five or six times, between last night, and today as I was getting the deposit ready. I had them turned different ways. It came out right for me. But I let my son count two sets. Maybe he dropped one in the car. Go ahead like it is."
Let the record show that the girl DID count that last stack, the one not put through the machine, again. Still $20 short. So she altered the deposit slip. The Pony declared that there was NO money laying on the back floor of T-Hoe.
"Well, after all that, we came up $20 short."
"Oh. I think one of my sets only had four instead of five bills."
"WHY didn't you tell me that before I went in? I would have counted it. I would have put in a twenty from my purse to make it even."
"You didn't TELL me to make sure they were all there. You just said to turn them all the same way."
That's life with The Pony. Who apparently has blinders on when it comes to the importance of accuracy when making a bank deposit. Money, like the idea of helping people, means nothing to him.
I guess I must have miscounted five or six times.
Monday, December 28, 2015
Sunday, December 27, 2015
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Has Not Yet Reached Her Expiration Date
There are times when I am pretty sure Farmer H is trying to kill me. And then there are times when I am sure Farmer H is trying to kill me. But yesterday morning, I am certain Farmer H was trying to kill me.
We were rushing around, trying to get ready to leave on our gambling excursion, taking the freshly-21-year-old #1 son with us. We got up a bit later than planned. I had a cold shower, thanks to #1 and his lengthy cleansing rituals. I took my second round of pills with me to the La-Z-Boy to have with my mini sausage biscuits. I noticed that my bifocals were loose. That means the left lens. It falls out if I don't tighten the screw every two days. Not conducive to good gambling.
Lucky for me, I have a little plastic tube that is a glasses repair kit. In fact, I have four. One at home with a yellow lid, on the table next to the La-Z-Boy. One in my dark basement lair with a red lid. And two at school in my desk drawer, one each of the yellow and red lids. The most necessary item in each kit is the mini screwdriver. But they also have spare screws, and those little oval cushy pads that go on each side of your nose. So far, I've only needed the screwdriver. Until Saturday morning.
Do you know how hard it is to tighten a screw in your bifocals when you're not wearing your bifocals? Usually, I can manage, as long as I have proper lighting, and squint just right. I normally do the tightening at my desk in my classroom, before school. But Saturday I was not in my classroom. I was in Farmer H's La-Z-Boy. That screw was giving me a devil of a time. I swore I could see that little groove. But the screwdriver would not take hold. It turned and slipped. Nothing was tightened. That lens was still clicking when I squeezed the frame around it. Not tight.
"Let me see it," said The Pony. He tried and tried. "No. It's not getting tighter."
"Bring it in here. I'll take a look." Said Farmer H from the kitchen. "Huh. The screw is gone. You need a screw." No comments there. I mean it.
"Here, Pony. There are screws in this kit." He came in to get one. And dumped the whole contents on the end table beside the La-Z-Boy.
"Don't worry. I'll pick them up. There. I think I got them all. Except that one screw I saw bounce. I can't find it. But I'll take this one to Dad."
"Huh. That won't go in. Huh. HERE'S your problem! You were trying to tighten it from the top. It goes from the bottom. Here. It's fixed. Pony, put that screw back."
Yes, all of that commotion, and all I needed to do was turn the glasses over like usual. But my routine was disrupted, because I was at home.
Farmer H claimed his La-Z-Boy as I was getting ready. I walked behind the couch and told him we should hit the road.
"Here. You might want to take your pill first."
"Pill? I took my pills. There are only two. What's that?"
"I don't know. It was laying here on the table. I figured you dropped one." Let the record show that I am always stepping on various and sundry Farmer H pills on the tile of the bathroom floor. He has every shape and every color of the rainbow. I just put them on the sink edge and let him sort them out.
This pill was long and white. I take a blue one for my thyroid when I get up. Then a round white one that looks like an aspirin, and a tiny round white one for blood pressure. Nothing white and long.
"Oh. That might be an acetaminophen. I had some in my pocket, in case The Pony or #1 gets a headache. Let me have it. I'm not going to take it. I already took my medicine."
Good thing I wasn't going to take it, despite Farmer H's urging.
It was an oval nose cushion for broken spectacles, with a peel-off sticker on the back.
We were rushing around, trying to get ready to leave on our gambling excursion, taking the freshly-21-year-old #1 son with us. We got up a bit later than planned. I had a cold shower, thanks to #1 and his lengthy cleansing rituals. I took my second round of pills with me to the La-Z-Boy to have with my mini sausage biscuits. I noticed that my bifocals were loose. That means the left lens. It falls out if I don't tighten the screw every two days. Not conducive to good gambling.
Lucky for me, I have a little plastic tube that is a glasses repair kit. In fact, I have four. One at home with a yellow lid, on the table next to the La-Z-Boy. One in my dark basement lair with a red lid. And two at school in my desk drawer, one each of the yellow and red lids. The most necessary item in each kit is the mini screwdriver. But they also have spare screws, and those little oval cushy pads that go on each side of your nose. So far, I've only needed the screwdriver. Until Saturday morning.
Do you know how hard it is to tighten a screw in your bifocals when you're not wearing your bifocals? Usually, I can manage, as long as I have proper lighting, and squint just right. I normally do the tightening at my desk in my classroom, before school. But Saturday I was not in my classroom. I was in Farmer H's La-Z-Boy. That screw was giving me a devil of a time. I swore I could see that little groove. But the screwdriver would not take hold. It turned and slipped. Nothing was tightened. That lens was still clicking when I squeezed the frame around it. Not tight.
"Let me see it," said The Pony. He tried and tried. "No. It's not getting tighter."
"Bring it in here. I'll take a look." Said Farmer H from the kitchen. "Huh. The screw is gone. You need a screw." No comments there. I mean it.
"Here, Pony. There are screws in this kit." He came in to get one. And dumped the whole contents on the end table beside the La-Z-Boy.
"Don't worry. I'll pick them up. There. I think I got them all. Except that one screw I saw bounce. I can't find it. But I'll take this one to Dad."
"Huh. That won't go in. Huh. HERE'S your problem! You were trying to tighten it from the top. It goes from the bottom. Here. It's fixed. Pony, put that screw back."
Yes, all of that commotion, and all I needed to do was turn the glasses over like usual. But my routine was disrupted, because I was at home.
Farmer H claimed his La-Z-Boy as I was getting ready. I walked behind the couch and told him we should hit the road.
"Here. You might want to take your pill first."
"Pill? I took my pills. There are only two. What's that?"
"I don't know. It was laying here on the table. I figured you dropped one." Let the record show that I am always stepping on various and sundry Farmer H pills on the tile of the bathroom floor. He has every shape and every color of the rainbow. I just put them on the sink edge and let him sort them out.
This pill was long and white. I take a blue one for my thyroid when I get up. Then a round white one that looks like an aspirin, and a tiny round white one for blood pressure. Nothing white and long.
"Oh. That might be an acetaminophen. I had some in my pocket, in case The Pony or #1 gets a headache. Let me have it. I'm not going to take it. I already took my medicine."
Good thing I wasn't going to take it, despite Farmer H's urging.
It was an oval nose cushion for broken spectacles, with a peel-off sticker on the back.
Saturday, December 26, 2015
This Much Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Knows For Sure
Some observations from Mrs. Hillbilly Mom on the day after Christmas, 2015:
Old ladies like to poop in casino restrooms.
Old ladies like to grunt when they poop in casino restrooms.
Old ladies emit an unpleasant odor when they grunt and poop in casino restrooms.
Old men in casinos are hard of hearing.
Old men in casinos who are hard of hearing like to talk LOUDLY to other old men in casinos who are hard of hearing.
Old men in casinos who are hard of hearing like to stand beside Mrs. Hillbilly Mom on her stool at her slot machine when they talk LOUDLY to other old men in casinos who are hard of hearing.
Farmer H and Mrs. Hillbilly Mom do not yet qualify as an old man or an old lady.
Old ladies like to poop in casino restrooms.
Old ladies like to grunt when they poop in casino restrooms.
Old ladies emit an unpleasant odor when they grunt and poop in casino restrooms.
Old men in casinos are hard of hearing.
Old men in casinos who are hard of hearing like to talk LOUDLY to other old men in casinos who are hard of hearing.
Old men in casinos who are hard of hearing like to stand beside Mrs. Hillbilly Mom on her stool at her slot machine when they talk LOUDLY to other old men in casinos who are hard of hearing.
Farmer H and Mrs. Hillbilly Mom do not yet qualify as an old man or an old lady.
Friday, December 25, 2015
It Was Almost As If Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Served Soup That Remained Below The Level Of The Bowl Rim
Another Christmas come and gone. And Mrs. Hillbilly Mom served up quite possibly the worst Christmas dinner ever.
It was only the four of us this year. The Mrs., the Farmer, the #1 son, and The Pony. Still, a proper menu was prepared. In Mrs. HM's head, and on a note card, and on a typed-up itinerary for the four days leading to Christmas. Things were running on schedule. Sure, Mrs. HM was pooped. But her dishes were queued up, ready to hit the table, and only a half-hour late.
The ham, a spiral, was succulent. The deviled eggs were properly devilish. The potato salad just right. Sister Schubert's rolls hot from the oven, with butter slathered on top before hitting the table. Stove Top Stuffing for The Pony, hot in the pan. Sliced cheeses on a tray. A magnificent 7-layer salad, even a non-mayonnaised version for #1 to add his own dressing. A chocolate pudding pie. Store-bought blueberry bread and brownies.
BUT THE VINCHTABLES WERE ROCK-HARD!
That's right. The baby carrots, potatoes, and onion wedges that cooked with the ham were as firm as the day they were harvested. What's up with THAT? Those vinchtables baked in the oven from 7:30 until 11:00. Actually, until 11:30, because they were shoved back in the oven like would-be-hapless Hansel and Gretel once the ham came out to breathe. That's FOUR hours, people! FOUR hours for baby carrots, potatoes, and onion wedges to roast in the oven. At 325 degrees! Sweet Gummi Mary! You can bake a whole potato in one-fourth that time!
I declared that my dinner companions did not have to eat the vinchtables. But they did. Bravely. "They have a good taste, really. It's just that they're...um...not cooked."
Of course I blame Farmer H, who picked up the potatoes for me, since I had used all the russets in the potato salad the day before. AND he brought home Yukon Golds. I swear. It's like they are chunks of frozen tundra. I said I was going to throw them out. No time to recook. Besides. After four hours, how much more time do they need? We had to wrap things up and head to my sister the ex-mayor's wife's house. Yes. I was going to toss them off the back porch for the chickens to peck. The vinchtables, of course. Not Sis and the ex-mayor.
"I would take them back to college with me on Monday." Yep. The #1 son rates above the chickens in the pecking order here at the Mansion. So he's got himself some rock-hard vinchtables.
Come to think of it...he never said he and his housemates were going to EAT them...
It was only the four of us this year. The Mrs., the Farmer, the #1 son, and The Pony. Still, a proper menu was prepared. In Mrs. HM's head, and on a note card, and on a typed-up itinerary for the four days leading to Christmas. Things were running on schedule. Sure, Mrs. HM was pooped. But her dishes were queued up, ready to hit the table, and only a half-hour late.
The ham, a spiral, was succulent. The deviled eggs were properly devilish. The potato salad just right. Sister Schubert's rolls hot from the oven, with butter slathered on top before hitting the table. Stove Top Stuffing for The Pony, hot in the pan. Sliced cheeses on a tray. A magnificent 7-layer salad, even a non-mayonnaised version for #1 to add his own dressing. A chocolate pudding pie. Store-bought blueberry bread and brownies.
BUT THE VINCHTABLES WERE ROCK-HARD!
That's right. The baby carrots, potatoes, and onion wedges that cooked with the ham were as firm as the day they were harvested. What's up with THAT? Those vinchtables baked in the oven from 7:30 until 11:00. Actually, until 11:30, because they were shoved back in the oven like would-be-hapless Hansel and Gretel once the ham came out to breathe. That's FOUR hours, people! FOUR hours for baby carrots, potatoes, and onion wedges to roast in the oven. At 325 degrees! Sweet Gummi Mary! You can bake a whole potato in one-fourth that time!
I declared that my dinner companions did not have to eat the vinchtables. But they did. Bravely. "They have a good taste, really. It's just that they're...um...not cooked."
Of course I blame Farmer H, who picked up the potatoes for me, since I had used all the russets in the potato salad the day before. AND he brought home Yukon Golds. I swear. It's like they are chunks of frozen tundra. I said I was going to throw them out. No time to recook. Besides. After four hours, how much more time do they need? We had to wrap things up and head to my sister the ex-mayor's wife's house. Yes. I was going to toss them off the back porch for the chickens to peck. The vinchtables, of course. Not Sis and the ex-mayor.
"I would take them back to college with me on Monday." Yep. The #1 son rates above the chickens in the pecking order here at the Mansion. So he's got himself some rock-hard vinchtables.
Come to think of it...he never said he and his housemates were going to EAT them...
Thursday, December 24, 2015
A Little Song, A Little Dance, Another One Of HM's Rants
Okay. There's no song. Unless somewhere, the world's smallest violin is playing for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, who has been preparing for the holiday nonstop for about a week now, and woke up at 3:00 a.m. on her back, mouth gaping open, contaminants from Farmer H's breather no doubt having rained down on her through the night, with the worst sore throat ever, and a pain in her right ear. The one that faces the breather.
There's also no dance. Unless you count the wiggle performed by Mrs. HM in order to get the blood flowing through her stiffened knees upon standing, after sitting for hours peeling eggs for deviling and for 7-layer-salading.
But the rant is here, people! The rant is here.
On Tuesday, after his driving test, The Pony and I went to Big Lots to pick up some prizes for the games to be played at my sister the ex-mayor's wife's party this evening. We needed two grand prizes and eleven participation prizes.
Of course The Pony, a carer naught, (not in the least!) of other people's feelings...wandered off to look on his own. And found THIS:
For himself. Surely you weren't thinking he would give away such a fine specimen of chocolatehood! I think he hollered that he'd found a 10-pound Snickers bar. Alas. Getting Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's hopes up. Let the record show that this Snickers bar is only one pound. BUT LOOK AT IT! The Pony included a Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball Pen for scale. He is, after all, his mother's son.
Lest you think Mrs. HM bought this treat for The Pony, as a reward for all the holiday help he has been to her during the wrapping and the shopping and the cooking...and The Pony and his Snickers lived happily every after...You'd only be half right. Indeed, the highway robbery ransom of $10 (only $9.49 on Amazon, or $18.00, depending on the seller, and we won't even go there concerning the "new and USED price") was paid by Mrs. HM. It's the happily ever after part where the problem arises.
The #1 son is home from college, you know. He and a friend were watching a marathon of Shameless last night. And in one of their forays into Frig II for sustenance...Giant Snickers was discovered. Let the record show that he DID ask. And that minimal strong-arming was detected.
The Pony allowed #1 and friend to saw off 1/3 of that Giant Snickers.
I think he saw the writing on the wall when he noticed that two bottles of his IBC root beer stash had already been emptied.
It's shameless, I tell you.
There's also no dance. Unless you count the wiggle performed by Mrs. HM in order to get the blood flowing through her stiffened knees upon standing, after sitting for hours peeling eggs for deviling and for 7-layer-salading.
But the rant is here, people! The rant is here.
On Tuesday, after his driving test, The Pony and I went to Big Lots to pick up some prizes for the games to be played at my sister the ex-mayor's wife's party this evening. We needed two grand prizes and eleven participation prizes.
Of course The Pony, a carer naught, (not in the least!) of other people's feelings...wandered off to look on his own. And found THIS:
Lest you think Mrs. HM bought this treat for The Pony, as a reward for all the holiday help he has been to her during the wrapping and the shopping and the cooking...and The Pony and his Snickers lived happily every after...You'd only be half right. Indeed, the highway robbery ransom of $10 (only $9.49 on Amazon, or $18.00, depending on the seller, and we won't even go there concerning the "new and USED price") was paid by Mrs. HM. It's the happily ever after part where the problem arises.
The #1 son is home from college, you know. He and a friend were watching a marathon of Shameless last night. And in one of their forays into Frig II for sustenance...Giant Snickers was discovered. Let the record show that he DID ask. And that minimal strong-arming was detected.
The Pony allowed #1 and friend to saw off 1/3 of that Giant Snickers.
I think he saw the writing on the wall when he noticed that two bottles of his IBC root beer stash had already been emptied.
It's shameless, I tell you.
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
False In Advertising
Once The Pony and I went inside the predetermined restaurant meeting place, we found my favorite gambling aunt and her grandson waiting for us. Let's just call that place Bison Untamed Bird-Appendages.
FGA waved us to their table. Apparently they had been cooling their heels and chowing down on dill pickle chips and potato slices. FGA asked if I had seen her new puppy.
"No."
"Oh, she's in the car. You can see her when we go out."
"You can't leave a dog in the car!"
"She's perfectly happy there. She LOVES to go places with me. I got her at the pound. Her owner had to go back to jail. So there was nobody to take care of her. She's half chihuahua and half terrier. Her name is Puppy. The people at the pound asked what I was going to changer her name to. 'I'm not. She's had that name for five years. You can't change it now. She's PUPPY!'" Let the record show that the temperature was in the low 40s, and Puppy was fine when we went outside to leave.
We set to ordering our food. FGA had flatbread pizza, G-Son had a wing combo, The Pony chose a cheeseburger, which barely won out over mini corn dogs, and I had ultimate nachos. This is where the song in the key of lunch comes to a screeching halt. There was nothing ultimate about my nachos.
Let the record show that my menu item was described as such:
Chili, pico de gallo, shredded lettuce, fresh jalapenos, queso and salsa all atop a mound of fresh corn tortilla chips. Add chicken for an additional charge.
Let the record further show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom declined the added chicken.
My nachos first arrived looking like chips with a couple of smidgens of salsa on top. There was a mini plastic ramekin of salsa on the side. I pawed around at the chips. Saw a few strands of lettuce. Some whitish melted cheese on the top couple of chips. And that was pretty much it.
Let the record ultimately show that when I used to frequent Bison Untamed Bird-Appendages many years ago, they had a wonderful menu choice of ultimate nachos. Differently-colored corn nacho chips covered with cheese and salsa and chicken and sliced jalapenos from a jar. Mmm. These yesterday? Not so much mmm. More like...hmm.
Pardon me, but if a menu lists chili as a part of the dish, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom expects her dish to contain chili. Otherwise, she would have added the chicken. For an additional charge. But all she found in her ultimate nachos was a single booger-sized piece of hamburger (Ithink hope), and two beans. TWO. Beans. Assuredly, they WERE chili beans. But two beans and a booger-sized piece of hamburger do not qualify as chili in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's restaurant menu vocabulary.
If Mrs. HM were to write a review of the ultimate nachos served by Bison Untamed Bird-Appendages, it might go a little like this:
Watch out for the Ultimate Nachos! They'll hurt your eyes. Hurt your eyes looking for the CHILI! Can't remember the last time I filled up on a steaming bowl of a booger-sized piece of hamburger and two chili beans. Oh! Wait a minute! That's because a booger-sized piece of hamburger and two chili beans does not qualify as chili! The only thing ultimate about these nachos was the disappointment.
Yeah. Something tells me that Bison Untamed Bird-Appendages isn't going to draft Mrs. Hillbilly Mom into writing restaurant reviews any time soon.
FGA waved us to their table. Apparently they had been cooling their heels and chowing down on dill pickle chips and potato slices. FGA asked if I had seen her new puppy.
"No."
"Oh, she's in the car. You can see her when we go out."
"You can't leave a dog in the car!"
"She's perfectly happy there. She LOVES to go places with me. I got her at the pound. Her owner had to go back to jail. So there was nobody to take care of her. She's half chihuahua and half terrier. Her name is Puppy. The people at the pound asked what I was going to changer her name to. 'I'm not. She's had that name for five years. You can't change it now. She's PUPPY!'" Let the record show that the temperature was in the low 40s, and Puppy was fine when we went outside to leave.
We set to ordering our food. FGA had flatbread pizza, G-Son had a wing combo, The Pony chose a cheeseburger, which barely won out over mini corn dogs, and I had ultimate nachos. This is where the song in the key of lunch comes to a screeching halt. There was nothing ultimate about my nachos.
Let the record show that my menu item was described as such:
Chili, pico de gallo, shredded lettuce, fresh jalapenos, queso and salsa all atop a mound of fresh corn tortilla chips. Add chicken for an additional charge.
Let the record further show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom declined the added chicken.
My nachos first arrived looking like chips with a couple of smidgens of salsa on top. There was a mini plastic ramekin of salsa on the side. I pawed around at the chips. Saw a few strands of lettuce. Some whitish melted cheese on the top couple of chips. And that was pretty much it.
Let the record ultimately show that when I used to frequent Bison Untamed Bird-Appendages many years ago, they had a wonderful menu choice of ultimate nachos. Differently-colored corn nacho chips covered with cheese and salsa and chicken and sliced jalapenos from a jar. Mmm. These yesterday? Not so much mmm. More like...hmm.
Pardon me, but if a menu lists chili as a part of the dish, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom expects her dish to contain chili. Otherwise, she would have added the chicken. For an additional charge. But all she found in her ultimate nachos was a single booger-sized piece of hamburger (I
If Mrs. HM were to write a review of the ultimate nachos served by Bison Untamed Bird-Appendages, it might go a little like this:
Watch out for the Ultimate Nachos! They'll hurt your eyes. Hurt your eyes looking for the CHILI! Can't remember the last time I filled up on a steaming bowl of a booger-sized piece of hamburger and two chili beans. Oh! Wait a minute! That's because a booger-sized piece of hamburger and two chili beans does not qualify as chili! The only thing ultimate about these nachos was the disappointment.
Yeah. Something tells me that Bison Untamed Bird-Appendages isn't going to draft Mrs. Hillbilly Mom into writing restaurant reviews any time soon.
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
She's Like Waldo Sometimes
The noose of the holiday is tightening around Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's neck!
In the midst of today's running around, The Pony and I joined my favorite gambling aunt and her grandson for lunch. Let the record show that we had several stops to make this morning, of indeterminate length. So we sent a text to schedule a lunch meeting at 12:30. I took a shortcut, Even Steven was behaving himself, and so we reached our predetermined destination at 12:15.
"We'll just wait here. I'm sure she'll park in a handicap spot. We should see her car."
"I thought she had a new car."
"No. It's still the same car. Not her Lincoln, though. The one she bought last year. When she went to get her oil changed in the Lincoln, and ended up driving a new car home."
"Yeah. The little one."
"She does not have a little car. She's always had a big car. But this white one is smaller than her silver Lincoln."
"I mean that it's not like this one. Not up high. Lower."
"Oh. You mean a sedan?"
"I don't know what a sedan is."
"You know. Your school buddy drives one. That took you over to Elementia for that children's book thing your class did. A car with four doors. A passenger car. A sedan."
"This one has four doors."
"But this one is an SUV."
"Well, that's what I meant by small. Not up high. Like ours."
"Oh. I thought you meant a subcompact or something."
"No. Not at all."
"Well, there's a car over there, but hers would not be a plain one. It's still some kind of Lincoln. Just not a Town Car. But we're not getting started on what a Town Car is. Maybe she's in that handicap spot there. Where we can't see. But there was nobody in it. I'm sure she would wait for us out here. We have to give her Chex Mix."
"Maybe."
"Yeah. Why would she go in? I never go in. I wait outside. Is that her? No. Look. It's time. I'm going to send her a text that we're here. 'WE ARE HERE.' But if she's driving, she won't be able to look. Just the thought of her texting while sitting in her chair at home scares me. But if she's already here, and we just can't see her, she'll text back."
"There. She responded."
"Huh. 'SO ARE WE. COME ON IN.' I can't believe she's already inside! And we sat here 15 minutes waiting on her!"
"You should have texted her sooner."
It's always a gamble, meeting up with the favorite gambling aunt.
In the midst of today's running around, The Pony and I joined my favorite gambling aunt and her grandson for lunch. Let the record show that we had several stops to make this morning, of indeterminate length. So we sent a text to schedule a lunch meeting at 12:30. I took a shortcut, Even Steven was behaving himself, and so we reached our predetermined destination at 12:15.
"We'll just wait here. I'm sure she'll park in a handicap spot. We should see her car."
"I thought she had a new car."
"No. It's still the same car. Not her Lincoln, though. The one she bought last year. When she went to get her oil changed in the Lincoln, and ended up driving a new car home."
"Yeah. The little one."
"She does not have a little car. She's always had a big car. But this white one is smaller than her silver Lincoln."
"I mean that it's not like this one. Not up high. Lower."
"Oh. You mean a sedan?"
"I don't know what a sedan is."
"You know. Your school buddy drives one. That took you over to Elementia for that children's book thing your class did. A car with four doors. A passenger car. A sedan."
"This one has four doors."
"But this one is an SUV."
"Well, that's what I meant by small. Not up high. Like ours."
"Oh. I thought you meant a subcompact or something."
"No. Not at all."
"Well, there's a car over there, but hers would not be a plain one. It's still some kind of Lincoln. Just not a Town Car. But we're not getting started on what a Town Car is. Maybe she's in that handicap spot there. Where we can't see. But there was nobody in it. I'm sure she would wait for us out here. We have to give her Chex Mix."
"Maybe."
"Yeah. Why would she go in? I never go in. I wait outside. Is that her? No. Look. It's time. I'm going to send her a text that we're here. 'WE ARE HERE.' But if she's driving, she won't be able to look. Just the thought of her texting while sitting in her chair at home scares me. But if she's already here, and we just can't see her, she'll text back."
"There. She responded."
"Huh. 'SO ARE WE. COME ON IN.' I can't believe she's already inside! And we sat here 15 minutes waiting on her!"
"You should have texted her sooner."
It's always a gamble, meeting up with the favorite gambling aunt.
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