So we’re winding down another action-packed weekend here at The Ranch. My afternoon plans include catching up on “Grimm”, and there’s a strong likelihood of a nap, and we’ll cap it off with a frozen lasagna and a wrestling match with a Labrador to administer some tick repellant, ear drops and a sedative. (He’s got an ear infection, which has led to much ear-flapping, which has led to some serious swelling in his ear. And Labs are prone to ear hematomas which make their ears look weird, and Cody doesn’t like that at all. So we sedate to keep him from flapping too much until the ear infection is on the run…We’re not trying to make our dog into a junkie at the tender age of 8.) (And if the sedation doesn’t work on him, we’re not above just sedating ourselves and letting the dog sort himself out.)
Perez Hilton will be needing to create a special category on his blog just to deal with my social life.
I may open up a bottle of this, after the Labrador-wangling, to restore my will to live. Trust me, you need this in your life.
I digress. Friday dawned WAY too early, and we started our neighborhood garage sale. You’ve already read about that. What you don’t know is that we held firm to our convictions about that bag of dice, and finally sold that sucker on Saturday for the asking price. Which an hour before the end of the sale was $0.25. So, we SHOWED HER.
And then there was the guy who sneezed all over our table of kitchen detritus, making that table quickly priced at “make us an offer, see how fast we accept”. He didn’t even buy our bread maker. Which I’m positive worked adequately the last time we plugged it in, in 1998.
Saturday evening, we drove into Tyler to get groceries, herbs (Mama’s rosemary hedge kind of bit the dust over the winter, so she is replanting.) and dinner. While at dinner, I discovered a pair of youths who have evidently not heard my message. Since I’m terribly certain that my blog is very popular with the Tyler high school-set, I’ll address them in an open letter here:
1. Boy-youth: Son, we need to discuss the dinner attire. Hats? ARE FOR OUTDOORS. TAKE IT OFF. I DON’T CARE. Athletic outfits? Are for athletics. I’m trying to eat. I need not smell your funk during my meal. They make locker rooms for a reason, and YOU NEED TO USE YOURS. While I am on the subject of my meal, I don’t eat in hospital cafeterias unless absolutely necessary. So all the post-game bandaging and therapeutic wraps and rubs and whatnot NEED TO STAY OUT OF THE DINING ROOM. Order pizza, sit in the locker room and bask in the glory that is your youth, be impressed with the throngs of Girl-youths that are starry-eyed at your perceived coolness, and stay away from my reasonably-priced salad and ribeye. And if for some unseen emergency, some life-or-death reason beyond my imagination, you must dine at said mid-market beef emporium while in some kind of acute treatment state, DO NOT REMOVE THE TREATMENTS AND WRAPS WHILE AT THE BARKING DINNER TABLE. IT’S GROSS AND DISGUSTING AND IF I WERE NOT CONCERNED ABOUT A POSSIBLE FELONY CONVICTION I WOULD HAVE TAKEN YOU OUT BY FORCE. Uncool, and unnecessary. I know it’s unnecessary because the ONLY CONCEIVABLE REASON you have for making this show is to alert your adoring public that you are, in fact, the pitcher. The Big Kahuna of the team. I already knew that because you did leave your athletic uniform on for the meal, and it already had said position embroidered artfully in several places.
And trust me, you’ll never be as cool as the Quarterback. You may have the better tan, but inside, you know…
2. Girl-youth. You need to read Friday’s post. Additionally, and this is something I never thought I would actually have to articulate, but when you prop your legs up like that on the bench at the dinner table when you are wearing shorts that double as underpants it looks like you are at the lady-doctor’s office. One day, you will have a daughter, or be old enough to have one, and this will be your worst fear. That she will not know the difference between dinner and a doctor’s appointment. Don’t make your mama’s worst fear come true anymore, sweets. (And, see above. Adore the QB instead-he’s much cooler.)
And that was the weekend here at The Ranch.
(See? Old Woman.)
(Non-complaining post tomorrow.)