You might want to make a note-to-self concerning late-night movie watching. Just in case. Just in case SNL royally sucks with JLo as host and musical guest, sucks so much that you keep nodding off to sleep in the first 15 minutes, necessitating the need for a change of channel.
But at 11:00 p.m., it is not advisable to watch a 1970s movie starring a young, hairless-chested Don Johnson and a fluffy talking dog, named aptly enough: A Boy and His Dog. It is a post-apocalyptic tale of a talking dog who steers horn-dog Donny-boy in the direction of scarcer-than-hen's-teeth females with whom to have his way. Because he has a good nose, that talking dog, who does not so much talk as telepathically communicate with his 19-year-old boy, as you can't see his canine lips moving, but you can hear his every thought. Add to that the fact that he's downright pissy for a man's best friend, and withholds information until young Don buys him some popcorn at a post-apocalyptic adult movie. Oh, but the best is still to come, when Donny follows a corn-fed little gal down below to a creepy underground small-town Fourth-of-July world complete with marching band and Mayberryesque townspeople who wear whiteface and have rosy Raggedy Ann and Andy cheeks. Since it is doubtful that you all will put in a rush order to Netflix to view this masterpiece, I am about to give away vital plot information. So LOOK AWAY if you don't want to read spoilers. OK, here they come: Donny has been tricked to lure him down below to be a procreating partner for 30 females. Well, not so much a partner in the way he wants, because he is actually more of a donor, what with the little gals being given away by their dads, signing a marriage license, and leaving with a vial of vital Donny fluids. But the best part of the whole movie is when Donny escapes with his little gal who wants a real partnership with him, and ends up feeding her to his doggy. Who has the final line of the movie: "Well, I'd certainly say she had marvelous judgment, Albert, if not particularly good taste."
As if that wasn't enough fine cinematic viewing for one night, I happened upon Requiem for a Dream, which I've seen before, and might even have the DVD stashed away somewhere. Let it suffice to say that this movie, though visually stimulating at times, has got to be the most depressing film to come along in quite some time. Not counting Schindler's List, of course.
I had some disturbing dreams which I can not recall, but vaguely remember that they ran along the lines of these movie plots.
I should have just stopped with my mid-morning viewing of The Manchurian Candidate while folding laundry.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Wackiness Ensues
What a wacky world we live in.
A foreign dude can try to blow up one of our planes full of people, but he doesn't have to talk about it because he might let slip some evidence that he tried to blow up one of our planes full of people.
In Columbia, Missouri, police are searching for perpetrators of a vicious hate crime consisting of cotton balls left on the ground outside Mizzou's Black Cultural Center.
A killer whale trainer was killed by a killer whale. And people were shocked.
The island of Hawaii evacuated people from coastal areas for 6-12 inch tsunami waves.
Deceased actress Brittany Murphy took 109 vicodin in 11 days.
Tired of messing with Michelle Obama and the fruitful Duggars, PETA mixed it up with Tiger Woods until his lawyers dissuaded them. Funny how PETA wrung the publicity out of an ad they didn't run.
The Canadian women's hockey team partied like it was 2010 with beer and champagne and cigars after winning the Olympic gold medal. And people were offended.
A foreign dude can try to blow up one of our planes full of people, but he doesn't have to talk about it because he might let slip some evidence that he tried to blow up one of our planes full of people.
In Columbia, Missouri, police are searching for perpetrators of a vicious hate crime consisting of cotton balls left on the ground outside Mizzou's Black Cultural Center.
A killer whale trainer was killed by a killer whale. And people were shocked.
The island of Hawaii evacuated people from coastal areas for 6-12 inch tsunami waves.
Deceased actress Brittany Murphy took 109 vicodin in 11 days.
Tired of messing with Michelle Obama and the fruitful Duggars, PETA mixed it up with Tiger Woods until his lawyers dissuaded them. Funny how PETA wrung the publicity out of an ad they didn't run.
The Canadian women's hockey team partied like it was 2010 with beer and champagne and cigars after winning the Olympic gold medal. And people were offended.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Folderol And Anal Leakage
It has been one of those days when the universe was conspiring against me, keeping me from a peaceful Friday of wrapping up loose ends at work and leaving the building by 3:30 to go make a payment on the Mansion. Uh huh. Nothing grandiose planned for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's weekend. No concert or casino trip or movie or dinner or trivia match or wild uninhibited party where teachers pass out and others write on them with magic markers. Nope. Nothing elaborate.
It began, as every weekday, with Mrs. HM trying to rout the #1 son out of bed without using a pointy stick. Upon arriving in the parking lot five minutes behind schedule, and poking #1 with a pointy finger to tell him to get out of T-Hoe and enter Newmentia, Loretta Lynn started singing to notify HM that Basementia Buddy wanted to chat. That meant another five minutes in the parking lot before going inside to begin the workday. While trying to prepare educational materials before the bell, in charged Charger with a science project board, and informed Mrs. HM that he and Concussor would be working on their project after school. To which Mrs. HM informed him not on her watch, because she was leaving at 3:30.
The morning brought a kid 30 minutes tardy for 1st hour, who entered wearing a hat, which is verboten in Newmentia, but drew attention away from his neon green boxers that boldly peeked out of his pants. The hat matter was soon corrected, but Mrs. HM could not stomach a foray into the sagging waistband issue.
Second hour showed up with a bright shiny sunflower-seed issue and commenced to a confiscated phone, all wrapped up with an I-went-to-take-my-driver's-test-wearing-a-shirt-with-a-rebel-flag-and-when-I-walked-in-I-saw-a-big-black-lady-behind-the-counter-and-felt-bad bow.
Third hour presented Mrs. HM with the Turkey Talker. This dude never brings work to get help with, which is the main purpose of the class. He passes the time asking if anyone has a game camera, some tires, arrows with real feathers, a good phone, and various eclectic items for sale. Today he was allowed to use the old computer in the corner to look up the starting date of turkey season, just on the off chance that would silence him. Au contraire. That meant he was 10 feet closer to Mrs. HM, making it easier to foist his running conversation about turkeys and hunting on her unwelcoming ears. Insult was added to injury with the discovery of eight days worth of ISS assignments stuffed into Mrs. HM's mailbox.
Fourth hour kicked off with a seller of Girl Scout cookies waiting at the door of Do-Not Land, a seller who is not a Girl Scout, and led to a discussion of the merits of Thin Mints and Tag-A-Longs. A discussion usurped by Charger, who demanded to know if an unbeatable force met with an immovable object, which would reign supreme, the unbeatable force of Batman, or the immovable object of The Joker. Charger did not like Mrs. HM's answer of Batman, because he was the star.
It was reading day, which meant lunch at 10:38, and a wasted 30 minutes that had to be spent reading instead of grading some of the 102 assignments that Mrs. HM corrects each day all by her lonesome once the class has progressed to the guided practice part of the lesson.
Fifth hour was missing 20% of the students, which only meant more make-up work to sort out and grade late. The discussion of Things I Have Fished Out Of Toilets was not quite so uplifting as one might expect. At least the facilitator learned that toilet water is not really cleaner than regular water if you are talking about the toilet BOWL water instead of the toilet TANK water.
Plan time was taken up with the custodian philosophizing while shaking his dust broom, which Mrs. HM's nasal cavities and recently-recovering lungs found quite disagreeable. Assignments were rounded up for home-bounders, papers graded, scores recorded, lessons planned, and bills written for later payment.
Seventh hour was a cacophony of near-full-moon, Friday-afternoon frenzy, leaving in its wake a pile of papers yet to grade before the 3:30 get-away.
In the hallway after the final bell, Charger joined up with #1 to text Concussor, who was out sick, and Arch Nemesis stopped by to inquire as to whether Concussor was suffering from anal leakage, or what.
Mrs. HM escaped back into the classroom with that diversion, and proceeded to grade papers until #1 demanded Twinkie money, only to return with no Twinkies and only a quarter to show for the dollar he had extorted. #1 declared that Arch Nemesis and Mr. H were waling on the copier, and absentmindedly told him the snack machine was broken AFTER he put three quarters into it. HM told him to dash back up there and demand that they wale on the snack machine to get her 75 cents back.
Just then Arch Nemesis and Mr. H showed up in the classroom to ridicule the Old Red Gradebook (She Ain't What She Used To Be) and otherwise harass and hinder HM until LunchBuddy popped in and had to hear about the anal leakage. The folderol continued until HM consigned #1 to Mr. H's trivia team for the evening for the price of $10.
And the 3:30 deadline came and went. Mrs. HM's job is never done.
It began, as every weekday, with Mrs. HM trying to rout the #1 son out of bed without using a pointy stick. Upon arriving in the parking lot five minutes behind schedule, and poking #1 with a pointy finger to tell him to get out of T-Hoe and enter Newmentia, Loretta Lynn started singing to notify HM that Basementia Buddy wanted to chat. That meant another five minutes in the parking lot before going inside to begin the workday. While trying to prepare educational materials before the bell, in charged Charger with a science project board, and informed Mrs. HM that he and Concussor would be working on their project after school. To which Mrs. HM informed him not on her watch, because she was leaving at 3:30.
The morning brought a kid 30 minutes tardy for 1st hour, who entered wearing a hat, which is verboten in Newmentia, but drew attention away from his neon green boxers that boldly peeked out of his pants. The hat matter was soon corrected, but Mrs. HM could not stomach a foray into the sagging waistband issue.
Second hour showed up with a bright shiny sunflower-seed issue and commenced to a confiscated phone, all wrapped up with an I-went-to-take-my-driver's-test-wearing-a-shirt-with-a-rebel-flag-and-when-I-walked-in-I-saw-a-big-black-lady-behind-the-counter-and-felt-bad bow.
Third hour presented Mrs. HM with the Turkey Talker. This dude never brings work to get help with, which is the main purpose of the class. He passes the time asking if anyone has a game camera, some tires, arrows with real feathers, a good phone, and various eclectic items for sale. Today he was allowed to use the old computer in the corner to look up the starting date of turkey season, just on the off chance that would silence him. Au contraire. That meant he was 10 feet closer to Mrs. HM, making it easier to foist his running conversation about turkeys and hunting on her unwelcoming ears. Insult was added to injury with the discovery of eight days worth of ISS assignments stuffed into Mrs. HM's mailbox.
Fourth hour kicked off with a seller of Girl Scout cookies waiting at the door of Do-Not Land, a seller who is not a Girl Scout, and led to a discussion of the merits of Thin Mints and Tag-A-Longs. A discussion usurped by Charger, who demanded to know if an unbeatable force met with an immovable object, which would reign supreme, the unbeatable force of Batman, or the immovable object of The Joker. Charger did not like Mrs. HM's answer of Batman, because he was the star.
It was reading day, which meant lunch at 10:38, and a wasted 30 minutes that had to be spent reading instead of grading some of the 102 assignments that Mrs. HM corrects each day all by her lonesome once the class has progressed to the guided practice part of the lesson.
Fifth hour was missing 20% of the students, which only meant more make-up work to sort out and grade late. The discussion of Things I Have Fished Out Of Toilets was not quite so uplifting as one might expect. At least the facilitator learned that toilet water is not really cleaner than regular water if you are talking about the toilet BOWL water instead of the toilet TANK water.
Plan time was taken up with the custodian philosophizing while shaking his dust broom, which Mrs. HM's nasal cavities and recently-recovering lungs found quite disagreeable. Assignments were rounded up for home-bounders, papers graded, scores recorded, lessons planned, and bills written for later payment.
Seventh hour was a cacophony of near-full-moon, Friday-afternoon frenzy, leaving in its wake a pile of papers yet to grade before the 3:30 get-away.
In the hallway after the final bell, Charger joined up with #1 to text Concussor, who was out sick, and Arch Nemesis stopped by to inquire as to whether Concussor was suffering from anal leakage, or what.
Mrs. HM escaped back into the classroom with that diversion, and proceeded to grade papers until #1 demanded Twinkie money, only to return with no Twinkies and only a quarter to show for the dollar he had extorted. #1 declared that Arch Nemesis and Mr. H were waling on the copier, and absentmindedly told him the snack machine was broken AFTER he put three quarters into it. HM told him to dash back up there and demand that they wale on the snack machine to get her 75 cents back.
Just then Arch Nemesis and Mr. H showed up in the classroom to ridicule the Old Red Gradebook (She Ain't What She Used To Be) and otherwise harass and hinder HM until LunchBuddy popped in and had to hear about the anal leakage. The folderol continued until HM consigned #1 to Mr. H's trivia team for the evening for the price of $10.
And the 3:30 deadline came and went. Mrs. HM's job is never done.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
A Cautionary Tale, Laughs Aside
The other night as I was putting off bedtime because that means it is soon going to be morning, and in the morning I have to struggle to get the #1 son out of bed and get to work on time, where the students will torment me by playing the Catch Me With My Cell Phone, I Dare You game, I was flipping through America's Top 150 and Showtime, and stopped at a little comedy show called Big Les: Problem Child. It was stand-up from comedian Leslie Jones.
This show has been on my mind lately, because it makes me laugh out loud. Ms. Jones ponders why white folks can't leave the wild animals alone. They hike into the mountains and get eaten by a mountain lion, and as they're dying, they are thinking, "Where'd that come from?" HELLO! It's a MOUNTAIN lion. It ain't no kitchen lion. It ain't no bathroom lion. And all that mountain lion can think about is why his lunch was wearing a backpack. Then there's the lady who was eaten by a snake she raised from a baby. And every time she went to feed that snake, and baby-talk to it about how cute it was, that snake was thinking, "Ssssssssoon. Ssssssssoon. Ssssssssoon, b^tch!" She raised her own killer. And we won't even talk about their fascination with monkeys. Monkey's who can't wait to throw sh*t at them. It's freakin' hilarious. But if you don't like profanity, don't listen to Leslie Jones.
So while I was reminiscing on this show, that darn Tilikum had to go and murder his trainer. Which makes it not so much unfunny as politically incorrect to laugh about such a matter. That darn Tilikum is such a fun-sucker, sucking the fun out of my memories of Big Les. But really. Even a comedian knows that you shouldn't take a wild animal and think you can train the wildness out of it. Tilikum wasn't thinking about how nice the trainer treated him, and how people gave him food and shelter in exchange for a few performances a day. Tilikum, now the killer of not one, not two, but THREE people, was not even thinking, "I hate you, b*tch, for making me perform like a trained seal when I am a majestic killer whale." Nope. Tilikum was thinking only one thing: PREY!
Because, you see, in the words of comedian Leslie Jones, Tilikum is not a man's best friend whale, or a petting zoo whale, or a special therapy whale. Tilikum is a freakin' KILLER whale!!! A freakin' KILLER whale who had already killed TWO other people.
It's not like he snuck out at night to cruise around and kill people. Stay away from the tank, people. Stay away from the tank.
This show has been on my mind lately, because it makes me laugh out loud. Ms. Jones ponders why white folks can't leave the wild animals alone. They hike into the mountains and get eaten by a mountain lion, and as they're dying, they are thinking, "Where'd that come from?" HELLO! It's a MOUNTAIN lion. It ain't no kitchen lion. It ain't no bathroom lion. And all that mountain lion can think about is why his lunch was wearing a backpack. Then there's the lady who was eaten by a snake she raised from a baby. And every time she went to feed that snake, and baby-talk to it about how cute it was, that snake was thinking, "Ssssssssoon. Ssssssssoon. Ssssssssoon, b^tch!" She raised her own killer. And we won't even talk about their fascination with monkeys. Monkey's who can't wait to throw sh*t at them. It's freakin' hilarious. But if you don't like profanity, don't listen to Leslie Jones.
So while I was reminiscing on this show, that darn Tilikum had to go and murder his trainer. Which makes it not so much unfunny as politically incorrect to laugh about such a matter. That darn Tilikum is such a fun-sucker, sucking the fun out of my memories of Big Les. But really. Even a comedian knows that you shouldn't take a wild animal and think you can train the wildness out of it. Tilikum wasn't thinking about how nice the trainer treated him, and how people gave him food and shelter in exchange for a few performances a day. Tilikum, now the killer of not one, not two, but THREE people, was not even thinking, "I hate you, b*tch, for making me perform like a trained seal when I am a majestic killer whale." Nope. Tilikum was thinking only one thing: PREY!
Because, you see, in the words of comedian Leslie Jones, Tilikum is not a man's best friend whale, or a petting zoo whale, or a special therapy whale. Tilikum is a freakin' KILLER whale!!! A freakin' KILLER whale who had already killed TWO other people.
It's not like he snuck out at night to cruise around and kill people. Stay away from the tank, people. Stay away from the tank.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Fie On You, Alexander Graham Bell!
Good gravy! These students are driving me crazy! No, don't ask. I'm not going to repeat it with the emphasis on a different word each time, like those pretzels that were making Kramer thirsty in the fictional Woody Allen movie in Jerry's neighborhood.
I can not watch 25 sets of hands for six 50-minute periods and still manage to teach the young 'uns physics and biology. I can't. I just can't. If I wanted to be a correctional officer, I would take the Missouri Merit System exam and get on the register. I could, you know. I've been on plenty of registers. That's how I got my unemployment job. Or as we in the system were forced to call it, the Missouri Division of Employment Security.
Nope. Something must be done about the cell phones. I took one away today five minutes before the final bell. Just walked up and demanded it, before the little snake could slither it into his pocket. And he's one of the good kids who never say BOO, and turns in his work, and is polite and on time. But he has a habit. According to the kids, he has had three phones taken away this year.
So I took the phone, and some might have given it back when the bell rang five minutes later, because why bother with the rigmarole (yes, that's proper spelling) of sending it to the office at the end of the day. But it's the principle of the matter. That's the rule in the student handbook. The discipline code. Take it away. Send it to the office. Some teachers sigh and surrender to the losing battle. Not Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. No sirree, Bob!
The kids think they have this violation all figured out. The kid forked over the phone with no argument. Sometimes that will garner favor, and they get it back at the end of the day from the teacher. Not in my classroom. Here's the scam they're trying to run:
It's not my phone.
Well, it's A phone, and I took it.
Do I get my phone back when the bell rings?
Nope. It's going to the office.
But I didn't have it out.
You shouldn't have let your buddy use it.
Well, I wasn't using it.
That's why you're not going to the office.
Will I get it back when the bell rings?
That's up to Mr. Principal.
They must think that they can all play one big round-robin phone-swapping game, and nobody's phone will get taken away, since the person getting caught is not using his own phone. Gimme a break.
I still say we need one of those jammer thingies so the dadblasted phones won't work in the school building. And I'm not even getting into the phone-hiding prank another class pulled today.
I can not watch 25 sets of hands for six 50-minute periods and still manage to teach the young 'uns physics and biology. I can't. I just can't. If I wanted to be a correctional officer, I would take the Missouri Merit System exam and get on the register. I could, you know. I've been on plenty of registers. That's how I got my unemployment job. Or as we in the system were forced to call it, the Missouri Division of Employment Security.
Nope. Something must be done about the cell phones. I took one away today five minutes before the final bell. Just walked up and demanded it, before the little snake could slither it into his pocket. And he's one of the good kids who never say BOO, and turns in his work, and is polite and on time. But he has a habit. According to the kids, he has had three phones taken away this year.
So I took the phone, and some might have given it back when the bell rang five minutes later, because why bother with the rigmarole (yes, that's proper spelling) of sending it to the office at the end of the day. But it's the principle of the matter. That's the rule in the student handbook. The discipline code. Take it away. Send it to the office. Some teachers sigh and surrender to the losing battle. Not Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. No sirree, Bob!
The kids think they have this violation all figured out. The kid forked over the phone with no argument. Sometimes that will garner favor, and they get it back at the end of the day from the teacher. Not in my classroom. Here's the scam they're trying to run:
It's not my phone.
Well, it's A phone, and I took it.
Do I get my phone back when the bell rings?
Nope. It's going to the office.
But I didn't have it out.
You shouldn't have let your buddy use it.
Well, I wasn't using it.
That's why you're not going to the office.
Will I get it back when the bell rings?
That's up to Mr. Principal.
They must think that they can all play one big round-robin phone-swapping game, and nobody's phone will get taken away, since the person getting caught is not using his own phone. Gimme a break.
I still say we need one of those jammer thingies so the dadblasted phones won't work in the school building. And I'm not even getting into the phone-hiding prank another class pulled today.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Milestones Of Academia And Sport
There will be no nightly Mansion report on Tuesday. It is the evening of The Pony's big middle school spelling bee appearance for Basementia in the conference spelling bee. We have been mulling his ensemble, and I told him to ask his teacher about it today. No jeans. Just as I figured. We don't want The Pony looking like a hick country mouse. He's pumped. Not a bit nervous.
Father of the Year H will not be attending The Bee. He is going straight from work to the #1 son's last basketball game, which is in his neck of the woods. He will bring #1 back to the Mansion, thus saving an hour of him riding the bus back to school to be picked up. I'm not going to miss waiting to haul him home after practices.
#1 gets out of school all day tomorrow, having been handpicked by Mr. C to run the audio thingamajigs for a conference choir extravaganza being hosted by Newmentia. We will be having an assembly 6th and 7th hour to hear some singin'. I don't have to go to the first part, what with 6th hour being my plan time, during which I will be working that copy machine to the bone. To the very bone. It's a new chapter for both my courses, and the End of Course test it coming up soon, and there are Science Fair evaluation forms to be copied, and, well, Arch Nemesis is out of town on business, so I will rule the copy lair for one more day.
Since The Pony's bee will put us home later than normal, I am taking the evening off. Thank the Gummi Mary that the host school is only 10 minutes from the Mansion. We can come home and have supper and dress The Pony funny before we go back to The Bee.
I hope he's not the first one out this time. That nearly broke his heart as a 3rd grader in the elementary bee. Oh, he was a finalist for Elementia, but was first out at the conference bee. Still, he was competing against mostly 4th and 5th graders that year. He just needed some seasoning.
We'll see how tough he is on Tuesday night.
Father of the Year H will not be attending The Bee. He is going straight from work to the #1 son's last basketball game, which is in his neck of the woods. He will bring #1 back to the Mansion, thus saving an hour of him riding the bus back to school to be picked up. I'm not going to miss waiting to haul him home after practices.
#1 gets out of school all day tomorrow, having been handpicked by Mr. C to run the audio thingamajigs for a conference choir extravaganza being hosted by Newmentia. We will be having an assembly 6th and 7th hour to hear some singin'. I don't have to go to the first part, what with 6th hour being my plan time, during which I will be working that copy machine to the bone. To the very bone. It's a new chapter for both my courses, and the End of Course test it coming up soon, and there are Science Fair evaluation forms to be copied, and, well, Arch Nemesis is out of town on business, so I will rule the copy lair for one more day.
Since The Pony's bee will put us home later than normal, I am taking the evening off. Thank the Gummi Mary that the host school is only 10 minutes from the Mansion. We can come home and have supper and dress The Pony funny before we go back to The Bee.
I hope he's not the first one out this time. That nearly broke his heart as a 3rd grader in the elementary bee. Oh, he was a finalist for Elementia, but was first out at the conference bee. Still, he was competing against mostly 4th and 5th graders that year. He just needed some seasoning.
We'll see how tough he is on Tuesday night.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Not Following Through
All right. I couldn't do it. I could not leave The Pony unattended last night while I went to pick up #1 at the bowling alley. I planned to. But I couldn't. I could not bear to think about The Pony sitting in the basement of the Mansion while I was driving down the dark country road through the woods full of deer just yearning to jump out and crash through my windshield and leave The Pony all alone past his bedtime with Picker H gone to the auction, and past the maximum-security prison where 2684 inmates were busily tunneling out with sharpened spoons to run over the river and through the woods to the Mansion to lure The Pony outside as a hostage. Nope. Not me. I couldn't do it. I made him go with me.
The Pony was not happy. He was all set to stay alone. I think it was going to be a rite of passage for him. To be alone in the Mansion where things go creak in the night, where HM has seen a headless figure standing beside the big-screen TV, where lost objects mysteriously appear after they've been missing for weeks. The Pony was chatty and hyper as I lectured him on how to behave while I was away. But he planned on staying.
I called #1, who said his bracelet expired at 8:00, and that he would be out shortly after that. I killed some time. I prepared to leave. But The Pony was weighing heavily on my mind. I just couldn't cut the apron strings last night. The Mansion is too isolated. It would take Grandma 40 minutes to get there if he had to call her for an emergency. I could not, in good conscience, take a chance on something happening to prevent me from getting back home in a timely fashion.
The Pony sulked, but he came with me. I think he was secretly relieved.
The Pony was not happy. He was all set to stay alone. I think it was going to be a rite of passage for him. To be alone in the Mansion where things go creak in the night, where HM has seen a headless figure standing beside the big-screen TV, where lost objects mysteriously appear after they've been missing for weeks. The Pony was chatty and hyper as I lectured him on how to behave while I was away. But he planned on staying.
I called #1, who said his bracelet expired at 8:00, and that he would be out shortly after that. I killed some time. I prepared to leave. But The Pony was weighing heavily on my mind. I just couldn't cut the apron strings last night. The Mansion is too isolated. It would take Grandma 40 minutes to get there if he had to call her for an emergency. I could not, in good conscience, take a chance on something happening to prevent me from getting back home in a timely fashion.
The Pony sulked, but he came with me. I think he was secretly relieved.
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