A1A South

I was looking at Thanksgiving, the turkey, this weekend.  I felt his drumsticks.  Hmmmmm.   If he gets any bigger, he will not fit into the oven. He might not fit now.

“Hey!” I told SwampMan. “You better butcher that turkey this weekend. He’s HUGE. He will probably take ALL DAY to cook.” Not to mention that he eats and craps as much in one day as a whole pen full of chickens. Did I mention the price of chicken food? Horrendous!

“What?” asked SwampMan.

I raised my voice just in case he couldn’t hear me. “Are we going to butcher Thanksgiving this weekend?”

“You want me to KILL my turkey?”

“That is what you told me that you got him from the feed store for. We will raise our own turkey dinner, you said!”

“I can’t kill Thanksgiving! Besides, I don’t like turkey.”

The neighbors have been eyeballing Thanksgiving, too. SwampMan was going to turn him loose, and they said they would purely love for Thanksgiving to come stalking into their yard. It isn’t every day that a turkey dinner walks right up to the front door demanding food. And bless his lil’ turkey heart, Thanksgiving ain’t all that bright.

SwampMan bought some New Zealand red rabbits at @ the same time as he bought Thanksgiving to make sure our freezer was full of rabbits. I dunno their names (I think he named them Blossom and…..I dunno. Something else that does not resemble food.) He put me in charge of finding a suitable male consort. I in no way believed that the progeny of Blossom and Not Blossom were destined for the freezer, so I haven’t looked for a sperm donor. Every morning before dawn when I’m out feeding Blossom, Not Blossom, and Jenny’s Rabbit, I tell myself it could be worse. There could be 30 of them.

Grin. Of course, I’m the one that’s been running a retirement home for old chickens, sheep, cats, and horses. A few rabbits and a turkey won’t hardly make a difference.

After doing all the usual chores this evening, I came inside and unloaded the dishwasher. I was actually putting the last item away when I happened to actually look at it. It was dirty. Apparently, I hadn’t actually turned the dishwasher on when I loaded it the night before during the Presidential debate. Have you ever been so tired before that you hadn’t noticed that you were putting away dirty dishes? Me either! I quickly grabbed glasses and plates and silverware and loaded it all back into the dishwasher and turned it on.

I had grabbed a rotisserie chicken from the grocery store on the way home from work this evening, planning on pulling off the meat and making quick chicken and rice for dinner. SwampMan put an end to that REAL quick as he did not consider grocery store rotisserie chicken to be edible.

I considered my options. The rotisserie chicken did not have a butthole, so I could not serve him that over rice. I couldn’t yell because my throat was a little sore from screaming “BULLSHIT!” at the television during the debate last night. In the end, I just calmly fixed him something else. He will be taking me out for dinner tomorrow night. I guarantee it.

I served SwampMan his dinner in his Lazy Chair while he was watching YouTube on his computer. He said “You know, I continually marvel at your level of culinary expertise!”

WTF? I looked at him suspiciously. “WHAT culinary expertise? It’s hamburgers!”

“Yeah, but you have green stuff with yellow stuff on top…..”

“That would be fresh spinach sauteed in butter with cheese grated on top.”

“See what I mean? And it’s delicious, too. AND you made guacamole that is JUST amazing. You just open the refrigerator, grab things, and BAM! Some great combination that tastes wonderful appears.”

“Oh! Thanks!”

“Yeah, that stuff that you made last night was sooooooo good. What was it?”

“I had a little left over ground beef, so I browned it with onions, drained it, and mixed it with salsa and jalapenos and cheese, and made some rice with turmeric and cumin, then dumped the hamburger stuff over the top of it.”

“Did you have a recipe?”

“Nah. Just some leftover stuff.”

“See how amazing you are?”

I looked at him sceptically. The stuff was getting DEEP. I wondered whether I looked as though I might be the sort of woman that was about ready to administer those hamburgers rectally. Maybe, because he hadn’t mentioned how yummy last night’s dinner was during the debate, but he’d been busily screaming at the television, too.

Then he continued. “In fact, there’s really only one complaint that I have about dinner.”

“Which is?”

“The onions you sliced for my hamburgers. You didn’t chop them into small enough pieces.”

“I figured you were man enough to handle it!” I replied.

“Well, I was just sayin’. I don’t want you to feel bad about being just that little bit short of perfection, though.”

“I will NOT be losing ANY sleep over it!” I advised him.

He grinned. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

Oh, yeah. He’s definitely buying dinner tomorrow night.

”

My butt is still a little kicked from the horrible projectile-vomiting virus I had over the last weekend.

After returning to work last week, in my after work hours I separated lambs, rams, and ewes, then chose a replacement ram for the ol’ man who is lookin ‘real bad and probably won’t survive the year. I did not spend a lot of time, like I usually do, worrying about size and correct conformation and size of loin and excellence of wool. Nope. I grabbed the friendliest one that came walking up to me that I didn’t have to chase and tossed him out of the slaughter pen. I thought for a bit about keeping some of the beautiful Tunis ewe lambs, then went completely nuts and kept a cross-bred Rambouillet/Tunis ewe with a gray fleece on the off chance that one day I may actually start spinning yarn again. I couldn’t do any more separating because darkness is arriving too early for the amount of things I need to do now.

Early Thursday morning, I was out separating bred ewes by flashlight so that I wouldn’t accidentally send any of my good ewes off to slaughter. Then I had to race back inside, shower, get dressed, and then race into work. Good thing that truck has a V8! Thursday night I had stop by the feed store for another bag of corn and race home, arriving just as the customer had arrived for my sheep. I helped load the sheep and promised that I’d have a load of ducks and chickens ready for next weekend (might as well since I can’t afford the feed anymore). I have a feeling that those ducks and chickens might head for the Santeria market. Then I ran around like a crazy woman getting the rest of the livestock fed. At 9 p.m., I came inside and collapsed. “What’s for dinner?” SwampMan asked. “Whatever you want to buy!” I groaned. “I’m having a banana.”

Friday morning, I woke up barely able to bend my right arm at the elbow. Felt like I pulled a ligament. Hurt like hell. Maybe I should have stretched or something before grabbing sheep and lifting ’em onto the trailer. Friday night, it hurt to carry the feed bucket, so I decided that I would be up early to feed the chickens instead of feeding ’em at night, moving their pens, and having them crap on the fresh grass before morning.

Saturday morning I slept in a little past dawn, then realized that I had promised Mom to go with her and my bro to hardware stores to pick up (and deliver) lumber to repair her outbuildings. Okay. I can catch chickens and ducks on Sunday, right? I raced around with my feed bucket, then off we went to hardware stores. And the marina. And an antique car show. And a late lunch. I dropped them back by my place to get their car, and SwampMan rode with me up to Georgia, grumping because he hadn’t had a chance to talk to me all week.

Sunday morning I was just about to cook brunch when Mom called. Her front door had never been satisfactory, so my brother decided to fix it while he was here. Long story short, she needed a new front door. Could I leave in about an hour when they got here to pick out a new front door? Yikes! I ran outside to do my morning chores (feeding the rabbits, feeding and moving Thanksgiving the turkey, tossing out corn to various groups of free-range chickens and ducks, feeding the dog, and turning the sheep out to their day pasture. I was just about to finish washing the truck again (I had only washed part of it before they arrived yesterday, so I have a half clean/half dirty truck) when they arrived. Off to town we went. I had used a whole tank of gas yesterday, so I needed to fill up again.

We got the door, trim, nails, etc. Mom was looking at an air compressor because my brother had mentioned that they really should have one. “How about this one?” she asked. “It’s less than $100!” I looked at it dubiously. It was a pancake-style air compressor and our experience with them has been less than happy. “I, uh, don’t think it would do what you want it to do!” I explained. “Unless you just want to air up bicycle tires and, since you don’t have a bicycle, I can’t think of a reason to have this.”

“Does it even have an air hose?” asked my brother. We stared at the box. It said nothing about having anything like an air hose included. We went and stared at the air hoses. Then we went and stared at another box. It was $159 and was a brand I had heard of. This one was actually rated for framing. It had an air hose and a few simple attachments. Brother went to put up the box o’ nails.

Mom looked at me and said “If I don’t have enough money in the bank, the debit card will just be declined, right?”

“Well, yeah, unless you have some outstanding checks or debits that haven’t hit yet. Some stores take longer than others. Do you think you might be short of money?” She’s had out of town guests and a lot of house repairs that have taken place this month.

“I’m not sure how much I have in my account right now!” she confessed.

“You don’t need an air compressor to put your door up. Save it for another day.” I went and found my brother. “Change of plans–put up the nails for the nail gun and get the manual nails. Mom doesn’t have enough money in her account for an air compressor, too.” I don’t think Mom understood my explanation that the trim she chose was $2.00 per FOOT, not per piece. My brother has always been more the artistic type than the accountant type. My Mom has never really managed her own money ever. And they’re living together. My lil’ brother, when he runs out of money, just doesn’t eat. I don’t want my Mom to not eat. When we got to the cashier, the total was over $300. Those little things add up.

I got home, they got in Mom’s car and left for Georgia. SwampMan and I transferred the door, trim, etc. over to the back of his truck and drove it up, because his truck is more fuel efficient. Plus, he’d been waiting for me so that we could eat together. We delivered the stuff and stopped on the way back home for a big ol’ greasy hamburger, our first meal of the day.

We got inside, and the message light was flashing on the phone. I was afraid we’d forgotten a vital part, or perhaps she was reconsidering that $300 door and wanted to return it. I listened to the message. “I know you’re saying ‘Oh, crap! What does she want now!’ but I just wanted to let you know that I put some money in your purse while you were out putting gas in the truck because you wouldn’t let me fill it up. I don’t want you to lose it because you didn’t know it was there!” Awwwwww, damnit. I had refused the money for the gas because (a) I was going to need gas anyway, and (b) I’m not retired, and (c) You supposed to help yo’ momma when she needs it and she ain’t supposed to have to pay for it, and (d) I’m happy to be able to be of service.

Now it’s getting dark outside, my livestock hasn’t been fed, my ironing hasn’t been done, and my floors haven’t been washed. My stomach is rebelling against that big ol’ greasy hamburer after having been starved today. I gotta think about cooking dinner. I haven’t gotten groceries yet.

And people at work will say “Did you have a nice, relaxing weekend?” tomorrow morning. Should I hit them with something heavy or just bite their jugular?

Same ol’ same ol’. Romney has the facts and figures. Obama is pulling stuff out of his ass. “Candy” keeps trying to shut Romney down without any success.

HUGE plant with a whine about equality in pay because women only make 72% of what men do. Uh, maybe when you get your ass out of Womyn’s Studies, you would make more money.

Whenever Obama speaks, I find myself shouting “Bullshit!” because it is. Obama is doing better this time. He’s lying much faster. No matter how often they are refuted, he just repeats the same ol’ tired talking points.

The clear winner to me is Romney. The people that believe Obama, well, there just ain’t no hope for ’em.

I enjoyed my day off today. I ate one meal, breakfast, yesterday and then spent the rest of the day regretting it. I drank a lot of orange juice today, then cautiously ate some dinner tonight. So far, so good. I probably ought to have eaten more than one meal that stays down before I go back to work, right?

I felt sufficiently recovered today that I went out to get my hair cut. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “How Godawful was her hair? If it was as bad as it usually is when she gets around to getting it cut, she’d rise up outta her coffin in order to make that appointment!” Well, it wasn’t quite that bad, but it was in the neighborhood. I actually waited until I wasn’t feverish and sickish for 24 hours, mostly because she doesn’t work the weekends anyway.

Afterwards, I sat on the bench outside and talked to people coming in and going out. I don’t remember the last time I just sat on a bench with no cares in the world, just idly chatting. I had no mental list of points to cover or specific information to impart. I did not have to hurry to the feed store or the grocery store or any place at all. I had done those things earlier. My porch was clean. My laundry was done. I felt almost in control as I talked to a friend about insurance prices for the self-employed.

That illusion of control ended, of course, as soon as I got home and stepped back through the door. “There’s a message on the machine from your brother. He wants you to call him.”

“What does he want?”

“I dunno. I didn’t answer the phone. Listen to the message.”

Well, the message was that he wanted me to call him.

“Hey, can you take me to the bus station in Jacksonville in a couple weeks?”

“Um, I guess…..”

“Well, I need to get back home and pick up some of my papers and reroof a house before winter.”

“Sure, whatever you need!” Yikes! A tank of gas and a day off work without pay. Not to mention that if I was going to the bus station in Jacksonville, I needed to purchase more ammo. The bus station is not in a part of town that will make the Chamber of Commerce poster, unless they want to have posters of crime scene tape and chalked body outlines. I tried to talk him out of departing from Jax, but his daughter had already purchased the ticket. Do they even have parking there, or do you just kick people out the door as you drive by?

“Thanks, sis!”

Then I looked at the calendar. That was only a couple days after I was planning on taking a half day so that I could get the grandkids while daughter and husband went out of town on their anniversary. Ooops. Well, I was planning on leaving after the election regardless, but I had hoped to be on good terms with everybody. As short staffed as the schools are, taking unpaid time off does not endear you to the people that have to cover for you. They say terribly rude things about you and the horse you rode in on which is just uncalled for.

I repeat to myself the mantra that shows just how unimportant I am in the grand scheme of things: “I am just a tiny lil’ ol’ ingrown hair on the vast buttocks of the Department of Education. They could care less about my petty problems and will replace me with somebody cheaper at the first opportunity.” *sigh*

I’ve been coughed on, hugged by sick children (GET AWAY FROM ME!), and had vomit come close to spattering my shoes this week. I’ve been exposed to the flu, strep throat, and a nasty norovirus going around. Some children and teachers were out for a week with various incarnations of this crap. One of the school workers was hospitalized with double pneumonia. I had a flu shot a little over a week ago. I haven’t had time to build up any immunity.

I had been really looking forward to this weekend. I had big plans, as usual. I was going to separate some lambs out for sale to raise some money. I was going to work on some concrete planter designs. I was going to scrub the house and shampoo the carpet and wash the duck poop off the front porch, and…..then I drove home alternating the A/C and the heat in the truck depending on whether I was shivering or baking.

“Maybe it’s just hot flashes! And allergies!” I lied to myself, trying to breathe through a clogged nose. “I’ll be just fine by morning.”

“Dang, you don’t look so good. Are you getting sick?” asked SwampMan when I walked through the door.

“Maybe.” I replied.

“Well, DON’T! You’ll probably feel better after dinner. Let’s go pick up something.”

So, we went and picked up some BBQ which is sitting in a big heavy lump in my stomach. I think I shall see this meal again. Soon.

In the meantime, daughter called. “Hey, we’ll be there tomorrow!”

My brain was not working. What? “For how long?”

“Is there a time limit or something?”

“No, of course not. What do you mean? Are you moving in?”

“Don’t you remember? SwampSonInLaw is going to be away on drill all weekend, and we were going to come over and work on Halloween costumes.”

“That was this weekend?”

“The party is next weekend, and you’re keeping the kids the weekend
after for our anniversary!”

Oh, right. How did I forget? My sinuses feel like they’re stuffed with cotton. My eyeballs are threatening to pop out. “I’ll call you in the morning and let you know whether I have a fever, because I’m coming down with something.”

Oh, dear. My Mom and brother are supposed to come over Sunday, too, so that we can go shopping for lumber. I need to be vacuuming and mopping and dusting and getting everything presentable for visitors but, after unloading a ton of feed from the back of the truck, I’m not feeling like doing anything but huddling underneath a blanket in my Lazy Chair. The chickens were not fed. I’m SURE I’ll jump up at the crack of dawn, feeling fine, and run outside to feed them then. Right?

I watched the “debate” last night. Actually, I watched Congressman Ryan spout facts and figures, and watched Joe Biden do his imitation of a shit-eatin’ possum. SwampDaughter called this evening and asked if I’d watched the debate last night. “Yeah, what’d you think?” I asked, curious, because she’s in the target market.

“I couldn’t watch it. He kept changing numbers, like he was making them up and couldn’t decide on the right one. Plus Biden was like some eeevil demented monkey person, and I couldn’t hear anything through his screeching. I had to switch it off.”

Yeah, she has children in the house. Shit like that could could give ’em nightmares. Hell, it gives ME nightmares thinking that this is what we have as a vice president.

My good opinion, of course, isn’t what Biden was looking for. My daughter is a registered Independent. So is my husband. Ditto son. Let’s just say that they were less than impressed. “Wow!” said SwampMan. “I never really paid much attention to Joe Biden before. WHAT an idiot.”

“He does realize that the truth about Benghazi is out in the press, doesn’t he? And that it was being monitored in real time?”

“Apparently everybody but Joe and the President knew.”

“And we’re supposed to believe that.”

“Unh hunh.”

“So either nobody thought they were important enough to inform, or they’re the dumbest bastards in the history of the world for thinking that we’re going to buy this load of manure.”

“Hey, I’m still marveling at Biden insisting that they don’t have a bomb, they merely have fissile material. Apparently everybody can go out and find fissile material just lying about but the casing and delivery system, now, that’s something too complicated for Muslims to figure out!” I was just floored when Biden smirkingly talked about fissile material. I don’ think that means what he thinks it means.

“Sounds racist to me!”

“Well, maybe he’s basing his deep knowledge about Muslim intelligence on the boss.”

Anybody that could support these bozos has got to have an IQ hovering somewhere around houseplant. If you’re a Democrat supporting Obama, here’s your sign. Thank you for self identifying.

I met SwampMan at our local Mexican restaurant this afternoon after work. “How was your day?” he inquired.

“Mmmmmmmmmmph.”

“What does that mean? Same as usual?”

“Mmmmmhmmmmmmm.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“MmmmmMmmmmmmmm.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin.”

After I got some sugar in my system from the sweet tea, I perked up enough to be able to order food. My food for the day had consisted of a yogurt for breakfast, cottage cheese for lunch (the only thing on the lunch menu that didn’t include wheat), and I was probably suffering from low blood sugar.

“I dunno what’s wrong with me. I feel exhausted. I think it is because I have people crowding around me for 8 hours, and I just need to destress.” Plus, of course, I’ve used up lots of words like “Don’t! Stop! You’re going to faceplant right on the hard floor if you keep doing that, and you’re going to look real bad with no teeth!” and “Yes, I realize that you have a lot of books about Hwaii at home that I have never read, but I can assure you that if you’re writing an essay about the exotic native animals of Hawaii, you cannot include alligators. Trust me on this.”

SwampMan conversationally informed me that a new teacher had quit at his school today.

“Uh, let me guess about the cause. Could it be because of the students?”

“I don’t know all the particulars, but I believe that that would be an accurate assessment.”

“Mmmmmmmph.”

We discussed one of the violence-prone boys that I was endeavoring to keep the other children safe from. “Kid has an aggressive lovelorn girl pursuing him, and I was giving him some advice on fending off unwanted affection.”

“What do you mean, aggressive lovelorn girl?”

I told him. “Good grief! And she’s what, 12 or 13?”

“Unh hunh.”

“So, what was your advice?”

“No punching, hitting, kicking, and/or threatening to kill, maim, or assault her in any way.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah. I’m worried that I didn’t mention strangling or stabbing.” I’m absolutely serious. Some kids for whatever reason have no internal compass of right or wrong and need to rely on people to guide them toward the correct course or path. Brain damage, birth defect, genetic problem…I don’t know why. It just is. The downside to relying on somebody outside themselves for their moral compass is that they will never have somebody by their side 24/7 telling them right from wrong.

We discussed briefly more problems I was having. “I swear to Gawd that in one class this morning, I was thinking to myself that I could be in a workshop with power tools working out new designs for planters!” I told him. SwampMan did NOT want to hear about that!

I’ve been fighting off a cold/flu all week long. Many kids have missed multiple days of school with it. I clutch my vitamin bottle with the same sort of religious fervor an earlier incarnation of me would have lavished upon an amulet to keep the evil Cold and Flu God at bay. It’ll probably have about the same results, too. I wonder if there’s an amulet for keeping sick middle schoolers away. Sigh. It probably wouldn’t work, either. Oh, yeah, I’ve been waaaaaaaay exposed. “Miz Swampie, I feel really hot!” “Uh, maybe you should take your jacket off….” “Urp. Bleeeeck. Hoooooork. Gag. Spit.” I move aside and surreptitiously wipe pretty much all my exposed skin with hand sanitizer, contemplating what germs have been propelled from the intenstinal tract to the floor and air.

“Hey, how are our popcorn stocks for the Biden/Ryan debates?” SwampMan asked, deftly changing the subject in a sneaky “Look, squirrel!” fashion in case I was still thinking about things like resignations and power tools. “How are our popcorn stocks?”

“Oh, snap. We used up all the popcorn during the Romney/Obama debate. Remind me tomorrow to get more!”