I was awakened at 6:00 a.m. by a heavy blow to my outer right thigh. A blow so powerful, in fact, that it could have shattered my femur, even through the padding of adipose tissue that I carry around just to cushion random sleeptime violence. I have no idea what Farmer H was plotting. Crippling me would only make his own life more difficult. So I presume it was some type of reflex action, or an involuntary muscle faux pas like that of George Costanza when he couldn't control his jabbing elbow.
When confronted with my inadvertent pummeling, Farmer H denied responsibility. He's like that, you know. How simple it would have been for him to say, "I'm sorry. I didn't know I did that." But that's not how The Farmer rolls. He's like a politician. Everything is a competition, a race. With only one winner.
Never mind that by tomorrow, I will have the bruise as evidence. Farmer H is the type to ask, "What makes you think I did it? Anybody could have broken in and fractured your femur while you slept. Did you SEE me do it? I didn't think so. It wasn't me. Good luck figuring out who lamed you." He would sooner set up a surveillance camera with night vision to record my sleep for a whole year, and then point out that for 364 nights he did NOT whack my leg, so that means that it was obviously not him on that 365th night that just did not happen to be captured on video.
And furthermore, Farmer H is the type of guy who must always have something bigger and badder happen to HIM. "Why, I remember that time I woke up with a hole blasted clean through my own femur. You could have driven an entire regiment though that hole in my leg. As a matter of fact, the doctor had to use nitroglycerin, TNT, and a boxcar of grenades to blast that hole closed. I'm lucky I don't walk with a limp, all that I've been through. You don't have a mark on you. I doubt you even got bumped by a glowing Lunesta moth."
Yeah. He's like that Kristen Wiig character on SNL.
Meanwhile, not only will I be dodging breather vapor all the livelong night, but sweating under a thick suit of bubble wrap as well. This sleeping business wears me out.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Saturday, June 2, 2012
The Perks Of Small-Town Celebritydom
Sometimes, being recognized is not all it's cracked up to be. Not my cup of tea. Not my bag. I'm just not that into it. But then an incident occurs that restores my faith in people from my past who might stalk me.
This afternoon, I popped into a newly-remodeled convenience store. The third or fourth incarnation in this location. I've discovered that they have 44 oz. Diet Coke for the same price as the gas station chicken store. And their location and parking lot navigation is more convenient. Go figure!
This was my fifth visit. I strode confidently to the soda bar, grabbed a cup, added a miniscule amount of ice, and commenced to fillin'. I lidded my elixir, snared a straw, and headed up front. Here's where it gets hairy. This place is much more roomy than the gas station chicken store. There are two cash registers, but one is blocked from view by the other one. So I'm not sure whether only one clerk is working, or two. I normally go to the first register if I see someone behind it.
Today, a clerk was removing cans of beer from the plastic rings. I suppose they sell single cans. Not that I would know. Because he looked busy, I stepped to the next register. Another clerk was perched on a stool by the window, eating something. I suppose I interrupted his in-sight lunch break. But he jumped up cheerfully to wait on me. At the same time, the beer-popper said, "She gets the refill price." My cashier rang up my sodie at eighty cents. That's a bargain, by cracky! The regular price is $1.39.
As I left, I caught a good glimpse of the beer-popper. He was a student at Newmentia nigh on four years ago. A good kid. Now a good young adult. I never had him in class, but I had his three brothers. Like a lame lion letting me live for taking a thorn from his paw, he gave me a fifty-nine cent discount on my beverage.
This teacher gig totally rocks!
This afternoon, I popped into a newly-remodeled convenience store. The third or fourth incarnation in this location. I've discovered that they have 44 oz. Diet Coke for the same price as the gas station chicken store. And their location and parking lot navigation is more convenient. Go figure!
This was my fifth visit. I strode confidently to the soda bar, grabbed a cup, added a miniscule amount of ice, and commenced to fillin'. I lidded my elixir, snared a straw, and headed up front. Here's where it gets hairy. This place is much more roomy than the gas station chicken store. There are two cash registers, but one is blocked from view by the other one. So I'm not sure whether only one clerk is working, or two. I normally go to the first register if I see someone behind it.
Today, a clerk was removing cans of beer from the plastic rings. I suppose they sell single cans. Not that I would know. Because he looked busy, I stepped to the next register. Another clerk was perched on a stool by the window, eating something. I suppose I interrupted his in-sight lunch break. But he jumped up cheerfully to wait on me. At the same time, the beer-popper said, "She gets the refill price." My cashier rang up my sodie at eighty cents. That's a bargain, by cracky! The regular price is $1.39.
As I left, I caught a good glimpse of the beer-popper. He was a student at Newmentia nigh on four years ago. A good kid. Now a good young adult. I never had him in class, but I had his three brothers. Like a lame lion letting me live for taking a thorn from his paw, he gave me a fifty-nine cent discount on my beverage.
This teacher gig totally rocks!
Friday, June 1, 2012
Not Altogether Unexpected
It is with a heavy heart that I report the death of the old goat.
It's not like I was attached to the critter. But The Pony takes it hard when any of our furred or feathered friends bite the dust. So I am sad for The Pony most of all. His dad called from the pen to break the news to him. The #1 son, on the other hand, hollered down to me several hours later, "Hey! I hear that Longhorn died!"
Longhorn was on his last legs when we got him two years ago. Literally. There was something wrong with his back legs. He was all wobbly. But not bad enough to strap his hindquarters on a cart. He was part of a package deal that Farmer H made at the auction. Even back then, he was old. I did not expect him to live long. My lilacs and rose bushes must have some medicinal properties. Because Longhorn was the first one to go after them when let out of the pen.
I was leery of Longhorn from the beginning. He was a nondescript dun color, with LONG HORNS. Get it? You can't think we're clever at naming these critters. I worried about The Pony going into the pen to feed and water the goats, or look for the babies. One of those horns could have easily pierced The Pony's frail chest. Because an animal will always be an animal, no matter how tame you think they are. But Longhorn never went rogue. He was a gentleman until the end.
When the mommas had their babies, Longhorn acted like a nanny. Get it? Nanny? Goat? That's a little farm humor for you. But seriously. That old wether was quite a nurturer. Better, in fact, than a couple of the new mommas, who walked off from their babies for food, and kind of forgot where they were. But old Longhorn stood over them and stomped his feet at Tank the beagle sniffing around.
Farmer H has been kind of sad. He's the one who discovered Longhorn Thursday evening. I'm glad it wasn't The Pony. He's tender-hearted. Farmer H said today that maybe he did something that led to Longhorn's demise. Like letting us feed him bread once a week. I don't think so. Surely he would not have lasted two years if that was the case.
A buddy of Farmer H brought his dozer down and helped ensconce Longhorn in his final resting place. I'm not sure where it is, nor is The Pony. When I find it, we might lay a rose on there for Longhorn. And a lilac branch. They will be eaten soon enough by the rest of his ilk.
The circle of life continues. Our newest baby goat was born on Monday. We're Even Steven in the goat department.
It's not like I was attached to the critter. But The Pony takes it hard when any of our furred or feathered friends bite the dust. So I am sad for The Pony most of all. His dad called from the pen to break the news to him. The #1 son, on the other hand, hollered down to me several hours later, "Hey! I hear that Longhorn died!"
Longhorn was on his last legs when we got him two years ago. Literally. There was something wrong with his back legs. He was all wobbly. But not bad enough to strap his hindquarters on a cart. He was part of a package deal that Farmer H made at the auction. Even back then, he was old. I did not expect him to live long. My lilacs and rose bushes must have some medicinal properties. Because Longhorn was the first one to go after them when let out of the pen.
I was leery of Longhorn from the beginning. He was a nondescript dun color, with LONG HORNS. Get it? You can't think we're clever at naming these critters. I worried about The Pony going into the pen to feed and water the goats, or look for the babies. One of those horns could have easily pierced The Pony's frail chest. Because an animal will always be an animal, no matter how tame you think they are. But Longhorn never went rogue. He was a gentleman until the end.
When the mommas had their babies, Longhorn acted like a nanny. Get it? Nanny? Goat? That's a little farm humor for you. But seriously. That old wether was quite a nurturer. Better, in fact, than a couple of the new mommas, who walked off from their babies for food, and kind of forgot where they were. But old Longhorn stood over them and stomped his feet at Tank the beagle sniffing around.
Farmer H has been kind of sad. He's the one who discovered Longhorn Thursday evening. I'm glad it wasn't The Pony. He's tender-hearted. Farmer H said today that maybe he did something that led to Longhorn's demise. Like letting us feed him bread once a week. I don't think so. Surely he would not have lasted two years if that was the case.
A buddy of Farmer H brought his dozer down and helped ensconce Longhorn in his final resting place. I'm not sure where it is, nor is The Pony. When I find it, we might lay a rose on there for Longhorn. And a lilac branch. They will be eaten soon enough by the rest of his ilk.
The circle of life continues. Our newest baby goat was born on Monday. We're Even Steven in the goat department.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Trouble In Not-Paradise
I am fixin' to have a go-round with one of The Devil's Handmaidens.
Hear that? I'm letting you in on the ground floor. Anybody want to produce this match and promote it for pay-per-view? Or even for pay-fer-view, as Farmer H calls it? This could be a rip-roarin', hair-yankin', ear-bitin'-off shindig! Sorry, though, to all of my male fans. I don't anticipate getting violent enough for any clothes to fall off, or an accidental kiss.
It's between me and Methuselah's long-lost great-great-grandma. She of the coal-black hair in a 1950s 'do. The one I usually seek out to bag my sundries, because she is efficient and logical in her combinations. But this morning, she rubbed me the wrong way.
I had popped into The Devil's Playground on the way to taking The Pony to summer school. The purpose of the pop-in was to garner some sweet treats for my mom. Today is her birthday. Seventy-nine, thanks for asking. I found a tiny Turtle Cake. And a slice of Carrot Cake. But I was torn between it and a slice of Red Velvet. My mom used to make both kinds. But it's not very rewarding to make one for yourself. And nobody else likes them. So I got all three. Your mom only turns seventy-nine once, you know.
So I carted up to the check-out, after tossing in some frozen chicken-fried rice and sweet-and-sour chicken. Because Mom loves that stuff, and we're not taking her out until we can all be together. Oh, and I gave her cards from me and the boys, and a National Enquirer and a Globe. That's what you give an ol' gal who has everything. But we're digressing. I'll try to keep you on track.
I'll be ding dang donged if that Devil's Handmaiden did not make a smart crack about the cake. "Huh. I'd never pay $2.88 for a slice of cake. That costs the same as half a whole cake!"
I pointed out that it was my mom's birthday, and I was getting her a selection instead of a whole cake.
"Still, you could have got her a whole cake. She could have frozen what she didn't eat."
I pointed out that she might freeze some of her slices as well. But I wanted a variety for her.
"That's too much money for a slice of cake."
Hmpf! Devil's Handmaidens should be seen and not heard. Who made them the food critics of Hillmomba? The arbiters of what people should and should not buy? I suppose I'm lucky she did not call me a fat hog or a P-I-G pig, and declare that she would not sell me three kinds of cake.
Yes, Devil's Handmaidens should be seen and not heard. Unless they are screamin' in pain from a proper beat-down administered by Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
Hear that? I'm letting you in on the ground floor. Anybody want to produce this match and promote it for pay-per-view? Or even for pay-fer-view, as Farmer H calls it? This could be a rip-roarin', hair-yankin', ear-bitin'-off shindig! Sorry, though, to all of my male fans. I don't anticipate getting violent enough for any clothes to fall off, or an accidental kiss.
It's between me and Methuselah's long-lost great-great-grandma. She of the coal-black hair in a 1950s 'do. The one I usually seek out to bag my sundries, because she is efficient and logical in her combinations. But this morning, she rubbed me the wrong way.
I had popped into The Devil's Playground on the way to taking The Pony to summer school. The purpose of the pop-in was to garner some sweet treats for my mom. Today is her birthday. Seventy-nine, thanks for asking. I found a tiny Turtle Cake. And a slice of Carrot Cake. But I was torn between it and a slice of Red Velvet. My mom used to make both kinds. But it's not very rewarding to make one for yourself. And nobody else likes them. So I got all three. Your mom only turns seventy-nine once, you know.
So I carted up to the check-out, after tossing in some frozen chicken-fried rice and sweet-and-sour chicken. Because Mom loves that stuff, and we're not taking her out until we can all be together. Oh, and I gave her cards from me and the boys, and a National Enquirer and a Globe. That's what you give an ol' gal who has everything. But we're digressing. I'll try to keep you on track.
I'll be ding dang donged if that Devil's Handmaiden did not make a smart crack about the cake. "Huh. I'd never pay $2.88 for a slice of cake. That costs the same as half a whole cake!"
I pointed out that it was my mom's birthday, and I was getting her a selection instead of a whole cake.
"Still, you could have got her a whole cake. She could have frozen what she didn't eat."
I pointed out that she might freeze some of her slices as well. But I wanted a variety for her.
"That's too much money for a slice of cake."
Hmpf! Devil's Handmaidens should be seen and not heard. Who made them the food critics of Hillmomba? The arbiters of what people should and should not buy? I suppose I'm lucky she did not call me a fat hog or a P-I-G pig, and declare that she would not sell me three kinds of cake.
Yes, Devil's Handmaidens should be seen and not heard. Unless they are screamin' in pain from a proper beat-down administered by Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
My Dog Is A Real Knock-Out
I don't for one minute regret rescuing our sweet, rambunctious dog Juno. She would have starved to death on my mom's porch if the #1 son and I had not intervened. She has repaid us tenfold with her sunny disposition and unconditional love. I forgive her for her transgressions. The chickens she chased. The cats she tried to chew on. The eggs she eats before The Pony gathers them. The poop on the brick sidewalk when she was sore from her special operation. For the most part, her pluses outweigh her minuses.
We have a special bond. She waits for me on the side porch, the breezeway area that connects the Mansion with the garage. From this raised platform, she leans her head on my chest, her nose against my neck. Waiting for me to hug her. It started when she was a tiny pup. I picked her up and held her close. She remembers. I don't care what dog experts say about dogs not having a sense of time, or a memory of routine. She knows that when I come through the garage door, I will join in our daily lovefest.
Sometimes, Juno gets carried away. Like that time she jammed her wet doggy nose inside my mouth in a frenzy of affection. So I'm wary now. She can only hold herself motionless for short periods. I can sense when she gets antsy, and the hug is over.
Today, I foresaw the old nose-in-the-mouth trick again. And I don't mean my nose in her mouth. Unfortunately, our lovefest had happened sooner than I was prepared. I was barely out of the garage. When Juno pulled her nose away from my neck, and jabbed at my mouth area with her snout, I was ready. I yanked my head back and to the left. No doggy snot for my tasting pleasure today.
I rammed my temple into the corner of a shelf against the garage wall. I'm lucky I didn't knock myself out. Both boys were at summer school. I would have laid on the sidewalk from noon until three. But I'm sure my loyal Juno would have kept me company. Probably by laying on my chest.
She's a good dog.
We have a special bond. She waits for me on the side porch, the breezeway area that connects the Mansion with the garage. From this raised platform, she leans her head on my chest, her nose against my neck. Waiting for me to hug her. It started when she was a tiny pup. I picked her up and held her close. She remembers. I don't care what dog experts say about dogs not having a sense of time, or a memory of routine. She knows that when I come through the garage door, I will join in our daily lovefest.
Sometimes, Juno gets carried away. Like that time she jammed her wet doggy nose inside my mouth in a frenzy of affection. So I'm wary now. She can only hold herself motionless for short periods. I can sense when she gets antsy, and the hug is over.
Today, I foresaw the old nose-in-the-mouth trick again. And I don't mean my nose in her mouth. Unfortunately, our lovefest had happened sooner than I was prepared. I was barely out of the garage. When Juno pulled her nose away from my neck, and jabbed at my mouth area with her snout, I was ready. I yanked my head back and to the left. No doggy snot for my tasting pleasure today.
I rammed my temple into the corner of a shelf against the garage wall. I'm lucky I didn't knock myself out. Both boys were at summer school. I would have laid on the sidewalk from noon until three. But I'm sure my loyal Juno would have kept me company. Probably by laying on my chest.
She's a good dog.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Life, And Its Opposite
The Mansion is bursting with life.
More specifically, the grounds of Hillmomba just outside the Mansion are bursting with life. Don't want any creepy crawlies inside the Mansion proper. I despise the creepy crawlies. Especially those millipedes that worm their way in every couple of years. And the field mice that appear every few years when we get our first cold snap. And the flies that flutter in wait, darting in as soon as one of the menfolk open the door.
But outside the Mansion, that addition of critters is usually positive. We had a new baby goat born yesterday. As opposed to and OLD baby goat, I presume. But that's how people talk, new baby style. I don't have a picture yet. Didn't you hear? She was just born YESTERDAY!
The goat momma was missing from the herd when Farmer H went to release his horde to nibble my yard plants. He could not find her, so sent for reinforcements: The Pony. The Pony found her in a nanosecond. Maybe it was a nannysecond. She's a small white goat. This is her first baby. According to The Pony, she is a good mother. Farmer H moved them to the BARn lean-to rather than let them reside in a brush pile on the trail to his cabin. They had moved again by this evening. But The Pony is intent on capturing them on his phone camera as soon as possible. The new baby is a black-and-white girly-goat. I have not yet seen her with my own eyes.
I do, however, see the new baby chicks who are approaching chicken adolescences. The first four are already going through a fowl puberty of sorts. All gangly and unattractive, bold and adventurous. The second set of twelve are moving around with more confidence, though still sticking close to their hatch-mom, a black banty hen with ankle-feathers. Another black hen is sitting, her offspring due any day now.
But because Even Steven lurks, some critters had to expire. Nature's balancing act, you know. Thank the Gummi Mary, we did not cede like for like. I did not feel at all guilty on my killing spree. My faithful accomplice, The Pony, and I made short work of a gaggle of wasps the size of my index finger. Evil things, they were. Dive-bombing The Pony when I wasn't around. And he only trying to reach the safety of the Mansion. So we took the Black Flag Wasp and Hornet Spray that shoots 20 feet, and shot those slim villains dead. Though perhaps we took too much joy in watching them writhe until still.
I'm not going to Folsom Prison. I don't know anything about that man in Reno.
More specifically, the grounds of Hillmomba just outside the Mansion are bursting with life. Don't want any creepy crawlies inside the Mansion proper. I despise the creepy crawlies. Especially those millipedes that worm their way in every couple of years. And the field mice that appear every few years when we get our first cold snap. And the flies that flutter in wait, darting in as soon as one of the menfolk open the door.
But outside the Mansion, that addition of critters is usually positive. We had a new baby goat born yesterday. As opposed to and OLD baby goat, I presume. But that's how people talk, new baby style. I don't have a picture yet. Didn't you hear? She was just born YESTERDAY!
The goat momma was missing from the herd when Farmer H went to release his horde to nibble my yard plants. He could not find her, so sent for reinforcements: The Pony. The Pony found her in a nanosecond. Maybe it was a nannysecond. She's a small white goat. This is her first baby. According to The Pony, she is a good mother. Farmer H moved them to the BARn lean-to rather than let them reside in a brush pile on the trail to his cabin. They had moved again by this evening. But The Pony is intent on capturing them on his phone camera as soon as possible. The new baby is a black-and-white girly-goat. I have not yet seen her with my own eyes.
I do, however, see the new baby chicks who are approaching chicken adolescences. The first four are already going through a fowl puberty of sorts. All gangly and unattractive, bold and adventurous. The second set of twelve are moving around with more confidence, though still sticking close to their hatch-mom, a black banty hen with ankle-feathers. Another black hen is sitting, her offspring due any day now.
But because Even Steven lurks, some critters had to expire. Nature's balancing act, you know. Thank the Gummi Mary, we did not cede like for like. I did not feel at all guilty on my killing spree. My faithful accomplice, The Pony, and I made short work of a gaggle of wasps the size of my index finger. Evil things, they were. Dive-bombing The Pony when I wasn't around. And he only trying to reach the safety of the Mansion. So we took the Black Flag Wasp and Hornet Spray that shoots 20 feet, and shot those slim villains dead. Though perhaps we took too much joy in watching them writhe until still.
I'm not going to Folsom Prison. I don't know anything about that man in Reno.
Monday, May 28, 2012
A Hot New Business Venture
I spent the morning roasting in The Devil's Playground.
Doesn't The Devil know that it costs more to cool those open receptacles of frozen food when the store temperature is near 80 degrees?
I actually felt faint while waiting ten minutes in line to check out. There was a little old lady on a beeper cart in front of a regular lady with a regular cart. I think they were working in tandem. But it was still two orders to put on the conveyor, and two orders to pay for.
While waiting, leaning on my cart, trying to decide whether to put my head between my knees to keep from losing consciousness, I witnessed another near beeper-cart collision in the 20-items or less aisle next to my line. A slim oldster started backing for no apparent reason, making the no-spring-chicken gal behind her scurry out of harm's way. She had no cart to absorb the shock. A tragedy was narrowly averted. Those beeper people think they own the aisles.
Meanwhile, I was losing fluids at an alarming rate, the collection of sweat on my scalp forming a regular watershed of tributaries to flow into major waterways and eventually pool at my feet. I tried fanning myself with a National Enquirer and a Globe, but they soon soaked up my hand perspiration and became as effective for evaporating sweat as a bundle of wet noodles.
I patted myself on my sweat-soaked back for not buying eggs. They would have hatched before they were scanned. Thank the Gummi Mary, it was not a week to buy biscuits, because they would have exploded from the can with nary a spoon jammed into their cardboard crevices.
With my transaction finally complete, I rejoined The Pony in the game room, where he was recklessly driving a video car. I resisted the urge to collapse in a vibrating chair for fear that I would never arise, and my flesh would grow into the fake leather fabric.
I am considering a sideline while I whip my handbasket factory into shape. I will rent space in a section of The Devil's game room, and have nurses on standby with IV fluids.
I think I could make a killing.
Doesn't The Devil know that it costs more to cool those open receptacles of frozen food when the store temperature is near 80 degrees?
I actually felt faint while waiting ten minutes in line to check out. There was a little old lady on a beeper cart in front of a regular lady with a regular cart. I think they were working in tandem. But it was still two orders to put on the conveyor, and two orders to pay for.
While waiting, leaning on my cart, trying to decide whether to put my head between my knees to keep from losing consciousness, I witnessed another near beeper-cart collision in the 20-items or less aisle next to my line. A slim oldster started backing for no apparent reason, making the no-spring-chicken gal behind her scurry out of harm's way. She had no cart to absorb the shock. A tragedy was narrowly averted. Those beeper people think they own the aisles.
Meanwhile, I was losing fluids at an alarming rate, the collection of sweat on my scalp forming a regular watershed of tributaries to flow into major waterways and eventually pool at my feet. I tried fanning myself with a National Enquirer and a Globe, but they soon soaked up my hand perspiration and became as effective for evaporating sweat as a bundle of wet noodles.
I patted myself on my sweat-soaked back for not buying eggs. They would have hatched before they were scanned. Thank the Gummi Mary, it was not a week to buy biscuits, because they would have exploded from the can with nary a spoon jammed into their cardboard crevices.
With my transaction finally complete, I rejoined The Pony in the game room, where he was recklessly driving a video car. I resisted the urge to collapse in a vibrating chair for fear that I would never arise, and my flesh would grow into the fake leather fabric.
I am considering a sideline while I whip my handbasket factory into shape. I will rent space in a section of The Devil's game room, and have nurses on standby with IV fluids.
I think I could make a killing.
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