Thought I'd fling some facts from my care and feeding manual on this last Friday of 2007.
1. I don't do snakes. No way, no how. You see, long, long time ago back in 1968, we lived on an acre lot where my dad built a most beautious house complete with walk out basement and a sundeck that you could get to outside the kitchen door. The house set on a hill or more like, built into a hill and I would go on the sundeck and survey my kingdom of beautiful yard, flowers, trees, garden, creek, etc. Well, one day when I was in the family room portion of our basement, the phone rang. The phone was black and was sitting on the cedar-bar-my-dad-had-built-from hand. As I reached to answer the phone a SNAKE's head popped up. Seems like Mr. Snake got lonely in that creek in the bottom yard of our house and decided to catch him a cold one at Dad's bar. I just didn't scream, I SCREAMED!!!!! Dad had been in his workshop on the other side of the basement sawing something and came running with saw in hand. He saw that snake, raised his saw and chopped that snake's head off! But....and there's always a but, in doing so, he put a big hackmark in his hand crafted cedar bar. So instead of saving his only daughter from the vile snake, he grounded her for a month because there was a hack in his cedar bar that was my fault. Parental reasoning...gotta make you twist your knickers in a knot at times.
So you would think there would be a rule of one snake story per person here in this world....nada. A week later when Mean Father was at work, I started to go out on the deck to water his blasted petunias and as I opened the door, there lay a big ole black snake that had to be 8 foot long laying on the top rail of our sundeck staring at me. In my 14 year old mind(and in my now 53 year old mind it still sounds logical!) I was trapped like a rat in my house because if I went out the front door, the snake could get me, if I went out the basement door, he could jump on me from above. Nope, I was held hostage by a snake for 12 hours. No petunias were watered, no treat from Mister Softee's ice cream truck, no getting the mail to see if the cereal boxtops I had mailed in granted me a fabulous prize. Then Mean Father rolled in about 8 p.m. "Did you water the petunias?" "No." "Did I ask you to?" "Yes." "Then why did you not obey me?" "Cause the snake would have eaten me. It was on the deck rail guarding all the doors!" "Let's go have a look at this killer snake." And would you believe the snake had split and hung me out to dry? I just knew he was laughing at me when I had to then go out in the dark and water those darned petunias...
2. Onions should be banned from this earth. I hate-hate-HATE onions! (Let me clarify--onion powder is ok but I do NOT crunch on onions for anybody including the Pope-God help me if he ever changes the communion wafer to a slice of onion!)And there's a story that goes with this(you saw this coming, huh?) Back in grade school, the highlight of the day was noon recess. You could swing, climb the jungle gym, play catch with a softball against the brick wall--it was awesome! But before you were allowed out, you had to become a member of The Clean Lunch Tray Club. Every iota short of the milk carton, straw and napkin had to be devoured before you could go out to recess. I could live with that on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. But Wednesday? Shudder---it was Meatloaf day. Not just any meatloaf--every slice had HUMONGOUS HUNKS THE SIZE OF A QUARTER OF ONION AND GREEN PEPPER! It was a staredown every Wednesday but I just couldn't eat it. Crying or "getting sick" didn't help my plight. So I became a recluse in the cafeteria on Wednesdays. One day I ate around the green pepper and onion and claimed I was going to send them to the kids in the 3rd world countries. Didn't fly. Claiming a religious exemption that Christians had to abstain from onion and green pepper on Wednesdays during the school year didn't go over either. Sigh.
3. Raw Cheese. As in any cheese not melted. It tastes like rubber. It feels disgusting in your mouth. And it doesn't cross these lips. And the only story I can think of is the time my Aunt Marie came to our house when I was 5 and thought she was a gourmet cook and made spaghetti and meatballs and salad with HUNKS of raw cheese in it. My mother, wanting to show that she had a most obedient child, made me eat the salad and the cheese with whisperings in my ear of, 'You wouldn't want to hurt Aunt Marie's feelings by not eating her salad, would you?" You bet your sweet bippy I would! Well, whatever it takes to dodge chewing the rubber.
Stay tuned for more Friday Flings!
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