Here we sit all snug and smug in our Mansion, with a doorknob on every door, and a thermostat set on a regular setting instead of Emergency Heat, Pro Bowler H out of our hair in town to bowl a 154 average in his league. You'd think that after 20 years, he could do a little better than that.
The temperature is something below zero, and the wind is whipping snow off the garage roof in magnificent swirls. The chickens didn't much want to come out of their house today. They were smarter than the #1 son, who made two excursions to take pictures. No school today or tomorrow. I whipped up a pot of chili, and cooked some frozen hamburger for the pets. It was gone in 5 seconds, according to #1, the feeder.
Farmer H came home and went to feed the chickens. He heard one squawking plaintively, and found a small red rooster hanging upside down at the top of the fence. According to Farmer H, Little Roo had gotten a toenail stuck in the fence, and was flopping helplessly. That's just what we need, for a chicken to freeze to death and the dogs to eat it, renewing their fervor for fresh fowl. Ann the shepherd was dragging a frozen deer leg around the yard this morning. At least it wasn't thumping on the porch.
The Pony has lounged around all day in his pajamas. He did take all the ornaments and lights off the tree, and #1 dismantled it and boxed it up for next year. Or so he thinks. Because I am having a REAL tree again next year. I ain't the granddaughter of a Christmas tree farmer for nothin', by cracky!
I should spend this snowed-in time re-reading The Shining, but I'm over halfway through One Second After, a work of post-apocalyptic fiction. Or I might go see if I can find Bear Grylls vs Wild. I know a new season started this week, and I'm sure Bear will continue the tradition of taking off his pants every show.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
I Deserve A Medal
There is an old saying about choosing your battles wisely. I can't do that. I must have a finger in every battle. And at the Mansion, there are OH SO MANY battles, and OH SO LITTLE time. I stopped Fiddler H from fiddling with the thermostat last night.
I also informed Naysayer H that the back door was not working properly. That's the kitchen door. The one we use most often, because the front door has issues. The issues revolve around the doorknob, which won't revolve. Sometimes you can get it to work effortlessly, and other times you have to twist and rattle and fiddle with the turny-locky thingy. I think it was originally damaged by the boys several summers ago, when they had a fondness for luring each other out onto the porch, then running around and re-entering and locking the other one out. Great fun on a summer day at the Mansion! A day when driving his standard-shift Toyota around the grounds was not enough entertainment for the then-10-year-old #1 son.
When we got home from the basketball game last night, I sent #1 to the door with the key. Usually, it is The Pony's job to unlock, but he had stayed at Grandma's house through the game, and Chauffeur H was sent to collect him. #1 reported that the door would not open. I thought he was pranking me, because I had stated that he should run unlock the door, because I was headed to the bathroom as soon as I got my stuff out of the back of T-Hoe. But no. It was not a prank. The door would not open. I told him it was so simple that even The Pony could do it. Shaming didn't work. I grabbed the key, in the midst of a little jig that I sometimes burst into when the wind chill is -10 and I have been sitting at a basketball game for two hours and drive 30 minutes home without thinking first to use the facilities. The key turned like normal, but the doorknob wouldn't. #1 was dispatched to the front door to gain entrance and let me in. That plan worked.
As soon as Chauffeur H arrived home, he was informed of the incident. He turned the doorknob in question. "It works." He was hearing none of what we were saying. That we could not get in that door. That #1 had to get in another way, none too reliable, and open it from inside. Do you think Handyman H made plans to fix the door? You know him well. Of course he didn't. Because in his mind, that door worked, and we were crazy or making it up.
Tonight, Layabout H was home when we got here around 6:00. It had just begun to snow. Darn that Global Warming! We got in, because the door had already been unlocked by Layabout H. But #1 could not get the door to close. The doorknob turned, but the metal thingy would not move. Manager of Facility Maintenance H fiddled and faddled with it. The temperature was a balmy 27 degrees. After 15 minutes of faddling, MoFMH took a hammer to the door. That was after he had taken out the whole doorknob assembly. So there was a gaping hole in the door, and MoFMH was banging on something near the hole with a hammer. A cat wandered through the kitchen. MoFMH denied letting in the cat. I guess when the door is standing open, it is free admission for pets.
MoFMH declared that somebody must have tried to break in. What other reason could a doorknob that he had installed 11 years ago possibly have for going bad? He stuffed a shop towel into the gaping hole, and decreed that though the deadbolt would not work from outside with a key, it could be used to hold the door closed. Like a thief could not possible push out the shop towel and reach in and turn the bolt. The same thief that could not get in today, who might come back tomorrow.
Furthermore, in the midst of this explanation, MoFMH rationalized that Steve at work had somehow gotten locked inside his office today by a bad doorknob, and MoFMH was called to deal with the problem. To which I replied, "Is Steve still locked in?" Because this little task was taking an awful lot of time with no end in sight, and the kitchen was getting colder and colder, and DARN if that wasn't making our furnace run continuously, which is apparently something that furnace-manufacturers don't take into consideration, a furnace running continuously during the winter, so they include a setting for Emergency Heat. But I digress. MoFMH assured me that Steve was out, because they used a saw to remove the lock. Lucky for us, a hammer could do our job.
Anyhoo...MoFMH said he was going to Lowe's for a lock. The Lowe's that is 20 miles away. Not the Lowe's that he passed on the way home from work, after being told last night that the doorknob was not working.
I told him to get TWO, by cracky! TWO doorknob assembly doodads. Because the one at the front door was on its last legs, and might go bad tomorrow.
Winning these battles is mighty hard work.
I also informed Naysayer H that the back door was not working properly. That's the kitchen door. The one we use most often, because the front door has issues. The issues revolve around the doorknob, which won't revolve. Sometimes you can get it to work effortlessly, and other times you have to twist and rattle and fiddle with the turny-locky thingy. I think it was originally damaged by the boys several summers ago, when they had a fondness for luring each other out onto the porch, then running around and re-entering and locking the other one out. Great fun on a summer day at the Mansion! A day when driving his standard-shift Toyota around the grounds was not enough entertainment for the then-10-year-old #1 son.
When we got home from the basketball game last night, I sent #1 to the door with the key. Usually, it is The Pony's job to unlock, but he had stayed at Grandma's house through the game, and Chauffeur H was sent to collect him. #1 reported that the door would not open. I thought he was pranking me, because I had stated that he should run unlock the door, because I was headed to the bathroom as soon as I got my stuff out of the back of T-Hoe. But no. It was not a prank. The door would not open. I told him it was so simple that even The Pony could do it. Shaming didn't work. I grabbed the key, in the midst of a little jig that I sometimes burst into when the wind chill is -10 and I have been sitting at a basketball game for two hours and drive 30 minutes home without thinking first to use the facilities. The key turned like normal, but the doorknob wouldn't. #1 was dispatched to the front door to gain entrance and let me in. That plan worked.
As soon as Chauffeur H arrived home, he was informed of the incident. He turned the doorknob in question. "It works." He was hearing none of what we were saying. That we could not get in that door. That #1 had to get in another way, none too reliable, and open it from inside. Do you think Handyman H made plans to fix the door? You know him well. Of course he didn't. Because in his mind, that door worked, and we were crazy or making it up.
Tonight, Layabout H was home when we got here around 6:00. It had just begun to snow. Darn that Global Warming! We got in, because the door had already been unlocked by Layabout H. But #1 could not get the door to close. The doorknob turned, but the metal thingy would not move. Manager of Facility Maintenance H fiddled and faddled with it. The temperature was a balmy 27 degrees. After 15 minutes of faddling, MoFMH took a hammer to the door. That was after he had taken out the whole doorknob assembly. So there was a gaping hole in the door, and MoFMH was banging on something near the hole with a hammer. A cat wandered through the kitchen. MoFMH denied letting in the cat. I guess when the door is standing open, it is free admission for pets.
MoFMH declared that somebody must have tried to break in. What other reason could a doorknob that he had installed 11 years ago possibly have for going bad? He stuffed a shop towel into the gaping hole, and decreed that though the deadbolt would not work from outside with a key, it could be used to hold the door closed. Like a thief could not possible push out the shop towel and reach in and turn the bolt. The same thief that could not get in today, who might come back tomorrow.
Furthermore, in the midst of this explanation, MoFMH rationalized that Steve at work had somehow gotten locked inside his office today by a bad doorknob, and MoFMH was called to deal with the problem. To which I replied, "Is Steve still locked in?" Because this little task was taking an awful lot of time with no end in sight, and the kitchen was getting colder and colder, and DARN if that wasn't making our furnace run continuously, which is apparently something that furnace-manufacturers don't take into consideration, a furnace running continuously during the winter, so they include a setting for Emergency Heat. But I digress. MoFMH assured me that Steve was out, because they used a saw to remove the lock. Lucky for us, a hammer could do our job.
Anyhoo...MoFMH said he was going to Lowe's for a lock. The Lowe's that is 20 miles away. Not the Lowe's that he passed on the way home from work, after being told last night that the doorknob was not working.
I told him to get TWO, by cracky! TWO doorknob assembly doodads. Because the one at the front door was on its last legs, and might go bad tomorrow.
Winning these battles is mighty hard work.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Help Me, Dick Halloran!
Lunatic H is driving me crazy. Here it is, 9 degrees right now, and he's fiddling with the thermostat. "With it being so cold, I don't want the furnace running all the time." OK. When is a good time for the furnace to run, Lunatic H. Einstein? Oh...I don't know...maybe...IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FREAKIN' GLOBAL WARMING SUMMER?
Lunatic H wants to set the thermostat on 'Emergency Heat'. To me, that is what you do in an emergency. But then, I am what he considers a 'crazy b*tch'. Pottymouth H thinks he needs to reset that thermostat tonight. I think not. The last thing I need is for the furnace to quit working for the next week or so. Because I guarandarntee you that nobody is coming out to fix it within that time. And never mind that Lunatic H does that kind of work for a living. Somehow, it just doesn't apply to home life.
I am really apprehensive, because I caught Lunatic H muttering with the little thermostat door thingy flipped open, "Now let's see. How is it you set this? I need to get a light so I can see better." It's right on the living room wall. What's not to see? Oh. Maybe it is because of Lunatic H's wise placement of our lighting fixtures. Light that is nothing but a nuisance, as it can't be used to read by because it is too dim, what with Lunatic H's frugal 25-watt bulbs, or the recessed lighting that beams down like a spotlight (that's what is says on the package of bulbs: spotlight) directly into your eyes, making it impossible to read unless you sit like a Quaker on a straightbacked chair directly under the light. No offense to Quakers. I'm sure they make lovely chairs and have good posture.
I don't see this cold snap ending well for the Mansion and its residents. The Shining, anyone?
Lunatic H wants to set the thermostat on 'Emergency Heat'. To me, that is what you do in an emergency. But then, I am what he considers a 'crazy b*tch'. Pottymouth H thinks he needs to reset that thermostat tonight. I think not. The last thing I need is for the furnace to quit working for the next week or so. Because I guarandarntee you that nobody is coming out to fix it within that time. And never mind that Lunatic H does that kind of work for a living. Somehow, it just doesn't apply to home life.
I am really apprehensive, because I caught Lunatic H muttering with the little thermostat door thingy flipped open, "Now let's see. How is it you set this? I need to get a light so I can see better." It's right on the living room wall. What's not to see? Oh. Maybe it is because of Lunatic H's wise placement of our lighting fixtures. Light that is nothing but a nuisance, as it can't be used to read by because it is too dim, what with Lunatic H's frugal 25-watt bulbs, or the recessed lighting that beams down like a spotlight (that's what is says on the package of bulbs: spotlight) directly into your eyes, making it impossible to read unless you sit like a Quaker on a straightbacked chair directly under the light. No offense to Quakers. I'm sure they make lovely chairs and have good posture.
I don't see this cold snap ending well for the Mansion and its residents. The Shining, anyone?
Monday, January 4, 2010
It Could Happen To Anyone
We had a party-crasher at the Mansion last week. Sorry for just now bringing it to your attention. A proper investigation had to be conducted.
On the days when I was not sitting in a waiting room at the doctor or dentist, I plopped myself in front of New Delly, my faithful desktop computer who resides in my dark basement lair. Several times, I heard a slight rustling. So slight, it might not even have been considered rustling. At first, I thought there was a drip in my ceiling from Incompetent Plumber H's master bathroom garden tub. I looked over my shoulder, but could find no new stains on my drop-ceiling tiles. Yet I heard it again. I could just about pinpoint the sector where the noise originated, but every time I got up to investigate, the noise stopped. I even called in reinforcements, namely The Pony, to check it out. He was the one who found the Devil's Playground Plastic Bag Millipede several months ago. But no. No critters or dripping water were discovered.
Saturday night, after my casino run, I reclined in front of the big-screen to watch absolutely nothing of interest, and called my mom. During our conversation, I thought I saw a shadow zip across the floor horizon, headed for the tree skirt. Yes, our Christmas tree is still up. It's artificial. A bone of contention between Scrooge H and me. But back to my hallucination...
I thought I was seeing things. I had not been paying attention. I finished my call, and started flipping channels. Then the shadow ran the other way. I saw it. Black. Round. Small, like a furry plum. I could only assume that it was a mouse. Or a small tarantula. Because I did not see a tail on that critter. Or a definite shape. But it ran along the baseboard, so it must have been a mouse, because a tarantula could have shown off a bit by crawling up on the wall.
I informed Exterminator H of the problem. He came down and 'looked' for it, and said he would pick up a mousetrap. We had a tiny field mouse years ago, but it was a light brown color, with big ol' Mickey Mouse ears. This one looked like one of those fake furry thingies that you can buy at a Rendezvous from fake Mountain Men, with a little fishing line doodad that you pull, and it looks like a mouse is crawling up your shirt. Not that I have one of those.
Incompetent H baited the mousetrap, but it kept going off before it was placed along the wall. I'm hoping he wasn't trying to get a bite of cheese on the way down the steps. Last night, about 30 minutes after I went to bed, I was startled awake by a snapping sound. This morning, I told Grouch H that he needed to check his trap. I heard the door to the workshop open, then the basement door. Trapper H reported that a tiny mouse the size of his thumb had been dispatched.
The Pony mourned that we shouldn't have had to kill the mouse, but only catch it and turn it loose. Who does he think we are, my mom, who gets one of those cardboard mouse hotel thingies so she has to carry a scrabbling, hysterical rodent outside and let it go? Nope. Not us. Kill it dead, dead, DEAD is our motto.
Darn that #1 son for leaving the basement door wide open on the LAST coldest day of the year. No wonder Tank the beagle was in the house. He probably chased his little mouse buddy right in the wide-open door, then they both took a break. Like some real-life cartoon of dog-and-mouse. Or else Mousie could have just sauntered in under the two-inch gap between the door and the floor, twirling his little handlebar mustache, doffing his top hat to an imaginary Welcome Wagon committee.
The trap is currently armed, but I think the uninvited guest list was short.
On the days when I was not sitting in a waiting room at the doctor or dentist, I plopped myself in front of New Delly, my faithful desktop computer who resides in my dark basement lair. Several times, I heard a slight rustling. So slight, it might not even have been considered rustling. At first, I thought there was a drip in my ceiling from Incompetent Plumber H's master bathroom garden tub. I looked over my shoulder, but could find no new stains on my drop-ceiling tiles. Yet I heard it again. I could just about pinpoint the sector where the noise originated, but every time I got up to investigate, the noise stopped. I even called in reinforcements, namely The Pony, to check it out. He was the one who found the Devil's Playground Plastic Bag Millipede several months ago. But no. No critters or dripping water were discovered.
Saturday night, after my casino run, I reclined in front of the big-screen to watch absolutely nothing of interest, and called my mom. During our conversation, I thought I saw a shadow zip across the floor horizon, headed for the tree skirt. Yes, our Christmas tree is still up. It's artificial. A bone of contention between Scrooge H and me. But back to my hallucination...
I thought I was seeing things. I had not been paying attention. I finished my call, and started flipping channels. Then the shadow ran the other way. I saw it. Black. Round. Small, like a furry plum. I could only assume that it was a mouse. Or a small tarantula. Because I did not see a tail on that critter. Or a definite shape. But it ran along the baseboard, so it must have been a mouse, because a tarantula could have shown off a bit by crawling up on the wall.
I informed Exterminator H of the problem. He came down and 'looked' for it, and said he would pick up a mousetrap. We had a tiny field mouse years ago, but it was a light brown color, with big ol' Mickey Mouse ears. This one looked like one of those fake furry thingies that you can buy at a Rendezvous from fake Mountain Men, with a little fishing line doodad that you pull, and it looks like a mouse is crawling up your shirt. Not that I have one of those.
Incompetent H baited the mousetrap, but it kept going off before it was placed along the wall. I'm hoping he wasn't trying to get a bite of cheese on the way down the steps. Last night, about 30 minutes after I went to bed, I was startled awake by a snapping sound. This morning, I told Grouch H that he needed to check his trap. I heard the door to the workshop open, then the basement door. Trapper H reported that a tiny mouse the size of his thumb had been dispatched.
The Pony mourned that we shouldn't have had to kill the mouse, but only catch it and turn it loose. Who does he think we are, my mom, who gets one of those cardboard mouse hotel thingies so she has to carry a scrabbling, hysterical rodent outside and let it go? Nope. Not us. Kill it dead, dead, DEAD is our motto.
Darn that #1 son for leaving the basement door wide open on the LAST coldest day of the year. No wonder Tank the beagle was in the house. He probably chased his little mouse buddy right in the wide-open door, then they both took a break. Like some real-life cartoon of dog-and-mouse. Or else Mousie could have just sauntered in under the two-inch gap between the door and the floor, twirling his little handlebar mustache, doffing his top hat to an imaginary Welcome Wagon committee.
The trap is currently armed, but I think the uninvited guest list was short.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Gloom And Doom On The Horizon
Tomorrow, it is off to school for the Hillbilly family. I hate the week after Christmas vacation. It is a real let-down. All I have to look forward to is getting new students. Since I teach freshmen, that means my 'new' students are the ones who couldn't pass this class in the last four years, so they need it NOW, right NOW, and HAVE TO PASS it for credit to graduate. You would think that would mean a serious approach to their studies, wouldn't you? But most of them come from the philosophy of a D- is as good as an A. If you're getting more than 60%, you're putting in too much effort. Yeah. One of them actually told me that a couple of years ago. And the last thing you really want inserted into your freshmen classes, the classes you have whipped into shape over the previous two quarters, is a senior who couldn't pass the freshman class on schedule. Because they're idols now, you know, people to be looked up to and to impress with your rebel attitude.
We'll see how it goes.
The Pony starts his P.E. rotation. He's already been through Art and Choir. He's not an athlete, that boy, but he used to please the curmudgeony P.E. teacher at Newmentia. One time he saw her on the sidewalk, and asked it he could get out of the LSUV and hug her. I know. #1 and I shuddered at the thought. Now he will have the head basketball coach for his 6th grade P.E. teacher. I think he'll be OK for this year. No hugging, though.
At least we are on the downhill slide toward summer. This school year has been fairly pleasant so far, but with my thyroid hanging over my head, I have kind of lost my enthusiasm. Once I am through with Science Fair, and the End Of Course test for my juniors, I can relax a bit more. I do happen to have about 15 weeks of sick leave stored up. That's 75 days, people. School days.
Again...we'll see how it goes.
We'll see how it goes.
The Pony starts his P.E. rotation. He's already been through Art and Choir. He's not an athlete, that boy, but he used to please the curmudgeony P.E. teacher at Newmentia. One time he saw her on the sidewalk, and asked it he could get out of the LSUV and hug her. I know. #1 and I shuddered at the thought. Now he will have the head basketball coach for his 6th grade P.E. teacher. I think he'll be OK for this year. No hugging, though.
At least we are on the downhill slide toward summer. This school year has been fairly pleasant so far, but with my thyroid hanging over my head, I have kind of lost my enthusiasm. Once I am through with Science Fair, and the End Of Course test for my juniors, I can relax a bit more. I do happen to have about 15 weeks of sick leave stored up. That's 75 days, people. School days.
Again...we'll see how it goes.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
No Caviar Dreams For Hillbilly Mom
I regret to report that there was no big win for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom at the casino today. No need to send me your condolences. Nobody can be sadder than ME! Still, I returned with a tidy sum, in case I feel the urge to ride the Old People Gambling Bus again. I started the morning on the $1 machines, which I never play, just because I had some old birthday and Christmas money saved up. Money which the givers had instructed me to take to the casino! Which is as good as free money, actually, and you're doing with it what they requested. Hopping from one machine to another, giving them 3 to 5 plays, soon put me $60 ahead. If only I had stopped there...
Next, I proceeded to the quarter machines, playing some of those freaky five-credit criss-crossy doodads, which I rarely play. No dice. Not a good investment. I tried some regular quarter machines, but chose poorly by playing the progressive games. Not a good move.
For the hour before lunch, I plopped down and played some machine poker, on an 8/6 machine because it was quarters, and the 9/6 machine I had my eye on took dollars. I happily whiled away the hour, making back a little of my money. If only I had stopped there...
After a lunch of a ham-and-cheese panini, which was not as good as the photo on the menu, I charted a course for the Island side of the casino, leaving a trail of losings in the Mardi Gras. Here I machine-hopped again, pretty much breaking even before developing a slow leak of funds that persisted until time to cash in my bus coupon for $5. I had to wait in line at the All Guests cashier, who was having some trouble with an elderly gentleman who required a supervisor for unknown reasons. I was afraid I was going to be in line so long that I would miss my bus home. Thankfully, the geezer was pacified, the dude ahead of me was speedy, and the male cashier gave me $10 for my trouble. It could be because of my tremendous injection of funds into his casino, or for my wait. He made a low-talker comment about how he was going to go ahead and give me $10, so I'm thinkin' he did me a favor.
With only a few minutes left until passenger round-up time for the Old People Express, I gravitated to the nearest kiosk of quarter progressive machines to the exit. By hopping from one machine to the next, I turned my $10 into $50 with three machines and five minutes. I hurriedly cashed out and hoofed it over to the entryway to ignore those old people who rode up on my bus. I called my aunt, who was reading on a park bench over by the Mardi Gras, and saved her from being one hag left behind.
The ride back was fairly uneventful. Though I will caution any budding vampires to avoid this trip like the plague, as shafts of afternoon sunlight were bright enough to kill the undead. If the hothouse temperatures didn't kill them first. Those old people must have iron-poor blood. I'm guessing the thermostat was set on 92 degrees. And some of them even kept their coats on! Even my mom, (she of the brick home Summer Inside The Volcano Theme Park: "I'm comfortable in here" house to envy a Swedish sauna) would have shed her shoes, cut off her jeans, and dabbed her neck with a Bounty Select-A-Size.
As we were filing down the aisle at our designated stop at The Devil's Playground, one of the old crones said, complimentarily, "We had a really good driver." And the one behind her said, without missing a beat, "And a really good heater."
Next, I proceeded to the quarter machines, playing some of those freaky five-credit criss-crossy doodads, which I rarely play. No dice. Not a good investment. I tried some regular quarter machines, but chose poorly by playing the progressive games. Not a good move.
For the hour before lunch, I plopped down and played some machine poker, on an 8/6 machine because it was quarters, and the 9/6 machine I had my eye on took dollars. I happily whiled away the hour, making back a little of my money. If only I had stopped there...
After a lunch of a ham-and-cheese panini, which was not as good as the photo on the menu, I charted a course for the Island side of the casino, leaving a trail of losings in the Mardi Gras. Here I machine-hopped again, pretty much breaking even before developing a slow leak of funds that persisted until time to cash in my bus coupon for $5. I had to wait in line at the All Guests cashier, who was having some trouble with an elderly gentleman who required a supervisor for unknown reasons. I was afraid I was going to be in line so long that I would miss my bus home. Thankfully, the geezer was pacified, the dude ahead of me was speedy, and the male cashier gave me $10 for my trouble. It could be because of my tremendous injection of funds into his casino, or for my wait. He made a low-talker comment about how he was going to go ahead and give me $10, so I'm thinkin' he did me a favor.
With only a few minutes left until passenger round-up time for the Old People Express, I gravitated to the nearest kiosk of quarter progressive machines to the exit. By hopping from one machine to the next, I turned my $10 into $50 with three machines and five minutes. I hurriedly cashed out and hoofed it over to the entryway to ignore those old people who rode up on my bus. I called my aunt, who was reading on a park bench over by the Mardi Gras, and saved her from being one hag left behind.
The ride back was fairly uneventful. Though I will caution any budding vampires to avoid this trip like the plague, as shafts of afternoon sunlight were bright enough to kill the undead. If the hothouse temperatures didn't kill them first. Those old people must have iron-poor blood. I'm guessing the thermostat was set on 92 degrees. And some of them even kept their coats on! Even my mom, (she of the brick home Summer Inside The Volcano Theme Park: "I'm comfortable in here" house to envy a Swedish sauna) would have shed her shoes, cut off her jeans, and dabbed her neck with a Bounty Select-A-Size.
As we were filing down the aisle at our designated stop at The Devil's Playground, one of the old crones said, complimentarily, "We had a really good driver." And the one behind her said, without missing a beat, "And a really good heater."
Friday, January 1, 2010
Champaign Wishes
I'm kind of excited about my gambling trip tomorrow, but also a bit disappointed. My grandma was supposed to go with us, but is having some circulation issues with her legs. The last thing a 92-year-old gimpy grandma needs is a 90-minute ride on the Old People Gambling Bus. One time it was the big bus, with a bathroom. But lately it has been a shuttle bus, due to lack of ridership. Not that I would know from being on it. I haven't been to the casino in about a year and a half. But I see that Old People Gambling Bus on Wednesdays and Saturdays. And I wish I was on it.
I have a stash of expendable income stored up. I even cashed in a $40 scratch-off ticket and put that money in my stash instead of buying more tickets. I haven't been scratching much. Times are tough, you know, and my #1 son needs basketball gear for riding the bench.
Don't think I'm planning on a big win. That never happens to me. I'm Even Steven. I will win or lose a moderate amount. And over the course of the year, it will even out. The #1 son has already decided that if I win big, I will buy him a new phone. He'd better watch the sky for flying pigs. The last time I won anything (that $1000 scratcher), I bought him a new laptop. Now he thinks he can lay claim to my future windfalls. That ain't happenin'.
Land Baron H dreams big. If he ever won, which is unlikely, since he never goes, because he spends his squirrelled-away funds on livestock instead of gambling, he says he would buy a ranch in Montana. I can't imagine ever winning enough to do that. The biggest dream I have would be to buy Land Baron H a mule. Not the animal. A mule. The ATV kind. Or maybe a Gator, or a Rhino. Depends on whether he wants a Kawasaki or a John Deere or a Yamaha. They're kind of pricey, though. And he already has a Scout, the poor man's version.
But that's what I would spend my hard-earned gambling winnings on if I won. Because I really don't need anything that I don't already have. We are simple folk.
Especially Simple H.
I have a stash of expendable income stored up. I even cashed in a $40 scratch-off ticket and put that money in my stash instead of buying more tickets. I haven't been scratching much. Times are tough, you know, and my #1 son needs basketball gear for riding the bench.
Don't think I'm planning on a big win. That never happens to me. I'm Even Steven. I will win or lose a moderate amount. And over the course of the year, it will even out. The #1 son has already decided that if I win big, I will buy him a new phone. He'd better watch the sky for flying pigs. The last time I won anything (that $1000 scratcher), I bought him a new laptop. Now he thinks he can lay claim to my future windfalls. That ain't happenin'.
Land Baron H dreams big. If he ever won, which is unlikely, since he never goes, because he spends his squirrelled-away funds on livestock instead of gambling, he says he would buy a ranch in Montana. I can't imagine ever winning enough to do that. The biggest dream I have would be to buy Land Baron H a mule. Not the animal. A mule. The ATV kind. Or maybe a Gator, or a Rhino. Depends on whether he wants a Kawasaki or a John Deere or a Yamaha. They're kind of pricey, though. And he already has a Scout, the poor man's version.
But that's what I would spend my hard-earned gambling winnings on if I won. Because I really don't need anything that I don't already have. We are simple folk.
Especially Simple H.
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