Hey, where did that ol' global warming go? It was 48 degrees here in Hillmomba this afternoon. Our little billy goats were shivering, the dogs were shivering, and Chicky was sitting up on a bar Farmer H stuck through the chicken pen, clucking his fool head off. I took my evening walk around the Mansion porch while wearing a jacket and gloves. Thank the Gummi Mary, we made Farmer H turn on the heat two days ago, when we arrived home to a 68-degree Mansion. That's just too cold for HM.
My mom says she hasn't turned on her heat yet. That she kind of enjoys a cool house. Uh huh. That's not what she said in the summer when her thermostat was set on 89, and she said she was quite comfortable, as she dabbed at her face with a crumpled paper towel. I'm onto her tricks. That pantry full of expired food must wreak havoc with her temperature-regulating mechanism.
The Pony is on the living room couch, wrapped up in a blanket and a beach towel. He feels the cold like a thin man...like Pangle in Cold Mountain. Oh. The Pony IS a thin man. A thin 11-year-old man. But I refuse to make him a coat that is half for a man and half for a horse.
I think it might get down into the 30s tonight. This week, we had a couple of mornings in the 30s, and T-Hoe told me ICE ICE ICE when I looked at the mirror. But I didn't see any ice. T-Hoe is fast becoming The Car Who Cried Ice. And when I stop believing him, I am sure to slide off the road into a ditch.
I've never really been fond of T-Hoe.
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2 comments:
Sounds to me like T-Hoe is just itching for some Vanilla Ice to be pumped out of his speakers. He probably wants it loud enough for Diva's dead mouse to hear it from his new home in Mouse Hell.
Is not cold! Just a little nippy. A mere promise of what is to come.
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