This Means War

This means WAR, I tell you!

The #1 son has two friends at the Mansion. They will be spending the night in the BARn, playing the Wii, watching DVDs, texting, and consuming mass quantities of chips and soda. Right now they are having a paintball battle. I don't know how that's going to work with three boys. Is it every man for himself, a three-way war? Or is it two against one? Or do they hunt one down like an animal? I don't know paintball etiquette. I refused to let the boy have a paintball gun for a long time. Then HH told him he could get one. I don't like the idea. Not one iota.

My #1 son is 13. But he's a big baby. He can't take pain. He can't even swallow an acetaminophen unless I cut it in half with a knife. When he got a flu shot, he whined that he lost feeling in his leg. From a shot in the arm! No good can come of this paintball business. Mark my words. I've seen the knotted bruises on kids at school. They are proud of their war wounds. My boy will be whining about the pain. Oh, not in front of his cronies, but in my presence after they go home.

I don't particularly want my little wooded haven to be disfigured with Pollack art, either. Pollack, people. As in Jackson Pollack, the artist. I'm not being politically incorrect. Let one of those paint bombs splatter on HH's precious MiniMansion, and we'll see how soon he hosts another one of these shindigs. To set the record straight, HH calls it The Cabin. The boys and I call it The Shanty. MyOldLoverFromTheStreetLastNight says it looks like part of the village in Silver Dollar City, and she wants HH to build one for her. I haven't mentioned it to HH yet. His head is big enough.

On the ME front...I have called a temporary truce with my nemesis, the Post Office clerk. I really felt like smacking her Wednesday, but I held back. That, and I don't think I could have hefted myself over the counter to get at her. Perhaps I have mentioned that our bridge is torn out, and being re-bridged. The mailman picks and chooses what days he is wants to deliver. I already filed a complaint about him last year. But that's besides the point. He straightened up and flew right. Until NOW.

Last week, when we saw the extent of construction, and the berm of rocks and mud in front of our row of mailboxes, we stopped at the Post Office while we were in town. The #1 son came out with our mail. He said, "The lady said they will hold our mail and we can pick it up after 10:30, because of the bridge." The next day, we stopped by at 1:30. The lady told him that we didn't have mail. Funny thing, that evening HH rode the Scout down to the creek and checked the box. We had mail. We got it from Tuesday-Friday. On Saturday, we didn't get mail. The bridge workers were not even there on Saturday. And we always get something, even if it's junk mail. On Monday, we got a buttload of mail. Tuesday it was delivered as normal.

Wednesday, my mom came out, and saw the mailman at the top of the hill. He glared at her, and turned around in the circle drive of that house, and did not go down the hill to our boxes. There was construction as normal that day. The #1 son checked the mailbox at 11:00. Nothing. I checked it again at 3:30. That's because every time we don't get a package delivered, the orange card says we can pick it up at the Post Office after 3:00. I assume that's when the driver returns from his route. So The Pony and I went to town for mail. Don't think I'm obsessing. A couple years ago, someone stole our mail out of the box. It included two electric bills, two phone bills, and my letter from school telling me when to return to work. Needless to say, the thief did not pay my bills. And thank the Gummi Mary, my buddy Mabel told me when to report to work.

The counter clerk checked in the back for my mail. "Oh, the mailman took it to deliver." I told her he was out there, but didn't go down the hill. She snottily said, "Well, he loops back because of the construction. You just didn't get anything today." I beg to differ. It is about 100 feet down that hill to the boxes. If he 'looped back', he would go 5 miles out of his way, and end up on the other side of the creek. The creek that currently has no bridge. Or he could add another 3 miles onto that 5, and drive through our private gravel road, which I believe the Post Office probably discourages, what with No Trespassing signs being posted at both entrances. So I think that government wench was just shining me on, the sooner to be rid of me. I can not change my spots. I muttered, "Funny that we just didn't get any mail two days out of the last four. And the other 10 families didn't get anything either." With that, The Pony and I made our exit out the handicap doors that do not work, out of that dead-mouse-stinking heckhole that is our local Post Office.

Hillbilly Mom does not work or play well with federal employees.