Pitiful, ain’t it? It made me laugh outloud. It’s of W and Barney after an afternoon in our mud hole out back. (Swimming pool is what they called it.) When Ben saw it he said started filling in the thought bubbles. I tag-teamed…and it went something like this…

Skeeter (in the welding hat aka Barney): “Yeah, I can fix yer truck fer ya. Pull it round back there, I’ll have a look-see! That’s my brother, Ed. Good ole boy–strong as an ox. He can jest pick yer ole truck up and set it down on them blocks over there ch-yonder… You want a grape Nehi? I have one them yernins fer one…I’ll go fetch us a couple…”

*sphnicker sphnicker*

Here in Mayberry we don’t have much to do, but make fun of our offspring. Once it thaws we can head back down to the creek and git back to frog giggin’. Till then we”ll just pick banjos, pick our teeth and pick on the kids.

I really need to get out more. What are you doing till the ground thaws out enough to garden?

Simply,

Sis

I have a blogging friend who sometimes thinks in bullets.

I sometimes think in bullets too, but I think my bullets are different than hers. Remember my bad hair day when I had to get my passport picture taken?

Anyway.

This time of year I get cagey. It’s cold in Kansas and it’s easy for me to start thinking weird thoughts if I don’t have a few hundred projects. So to keep myself in check, Ben and I organized our walk-in closet. (I smashed my finger during demolition and Ben had to do most of the work without me.) Then I painted an accent wall in my living room. Pictures to follow. Someday. Now I’m sewing more curtains to hang near the new orange brick color. Even more curtains will follow when I move to update our mud room. Porch actually. I live in an old crooked farmhouse where everything is reliably a half bubble off ‘a plumb and ain’t nobody ever heared of a mud room, so it’s a porch….

…about those bullets…

I think my sewing habit is fixin’ to get to me, cause this is what my world looks like through the eye of a needle…

   *so glad this camera has a micro function and my readers can’t see all the dishes I haven’t done

   *what happened to the make your house over in one day, days

   *since when did Khaki come in more than one color

   *why does Ben’s stash of chocolate taste better than mine

   *why did I just hide the wrapper under everything in the trash when I’ll tell him what I’ve done later anyway

   *if I start now…could I be a black belt by morning

   *sphnicker sphnicker

   *is that the litter box I smell or the my new favorite perfume

   *why do I have to dust my sewing machine’s parts along with everything else in this place

   *how long has that spider’s web been there

   *do these yoga pants make me look fat

   *what is it about grandkids that make grandparents try arm-farts before they get into the shower

Praise the Lord, and pass the ammunition.

What do your bullets look like?

Simply,

Sis

But, as I tell the kids, some days you just have to man up. So after taking a bit of my own medicine. I manned up and got my passport picture taken. The gentleman that took it was just that, a gentle man. The picture his fancy camera took was over exposed and nasty. Probably again no fault of his own, with flash and automatic settings and all. I’ve taken more than my fair share of bad pictures, too.

I’m sure the fact that I was almost out of nose powder and  was sweating profusely at the thought of having to get my picture taken had nothing to do with the poor quality picture. Or that it was overcast and misty that day, making my hair frizz. That had nothing to do with it either. Or the fact that I haven’t been running lately because of the weatherI’m lazy and storing fat up for hibernation surely isn’t his fault. Besides that the camera can add at least 20 pounds, right? That surely won’t affect the picture right? But the straw that broke the camera’s camel’s  back was my ding dang dong flat iron chose that day to quit working. Why God why? I’m mean really!

So, I got out Reggie and got in a little target practice at my flat iron’s expense. Then, after all that, out of pure spite, I went and got my picture taken.

 If you were expecting another money saving post this isn’t it. I spent more on ammo making sure my flat iron was dead, than a new one costs. But all that aside, one shot one kill. I feel better. Thanks for asking.

So here’s the picture that is somewhere between hell and hell near as I can tell. He took it right when I was trying to decide if I should smile or give them my mean hunter’s face. Unfortunately, my nostrils were somewhat flared and I had a deer in the headlight look. I’m sure the FBI will take one look at it and say…’nope, definitely not, she’s not getting a license, she’s a pure-d-criminal. ‘ That, coupled with the data on the day I bailed my friend Russell out of jail, there will be no hope of gaining one.

Thank God there is ways to fix pictures now days. My question is…which should I submit?

Sis the cage fighter…

“I coulda fought better, Howard…”

Sis the pirate…

“Arrrr you going to give me a license?”

Sis the flower child.

“Share the love and communism and not concealed carry licenses.”

My evil twin, she devil, SINthia…

Meow!

Okay, I’ve lost every shred of dignity I had and proved I have no future career in Photo Shop editing. To put the final nail in my coffin, please vote on which one I should submit with my paperwork.

Thank you for playing.

Sis

You were great at helping name Bo’s gun. So humor me by giving these photos of carrots a caption, while I finish freezing these over achieving tubers and take advantage of this nice fall weather.

I’ll go first…

Sis~ Three toed Pete. (The poker game.)

Ben ~ It’s like the book… Trails in the Sand by Peter Dragon

Sis ~ Answering the age old question: Where does carrot juice come from?

Sis ~ The Molanator.

Sis ~ Elephant Man.

I know you’ll do better. Thanks for wasting some of your weekend with us!

Simply,

Sis

I regret I didn’t have a camera the day this story took place. (It would have been trampled, anyway.) However, this picture is an earlier one of the boy, the infamous Red Ryder BB gun, and the smallest snake he has ever killed to date. (In shell, not on the hoof, then dug out for picture.) Nice!

To heck with snips and snails…let’s go head long into the snake pit with this six year old veteran snake hunter…

Ya’ll know I love to fish. I mean I love to fish. I must come by it honestly, while I was on my yearly mother’s day fishing trip, my brother, Knothead, was taking my mom fishing for walleye in Nebraska. They caught their limit. Did I mention it was raining? She had a ball. 

In a lake, on a dam, in a river near a clam, I love to fish Sam I am.

Nothing. Few things keep me from fishing. If the weather is nice, I’m going fishing. If my ‘to do’ list is long, I’m gone fishing. If it hare-lips the queen, I’m getting my hook wet. So when Ben came in yesterday and asked if I wanted to go fishing, I was already loaded and honking before he got the words out of his mouth. Who needs clean underwear anyway? Right?

W missed this trip, but Barney was there with BB Gun in hand. He likes to shoot then fish then shoot then fish. Turns out I’m glad he had his Red Ryder….

I was fishing the dam where the grass is tall and the snakes lay in wait.  Barney was hot on my heels as my eyes watched for snakes. It was then, I took the Lord’s name in vain. Real LOUD. “OHMYGOOOOOD, THERE’S A SNAAAAAKE.” (Oh Lord, I do apologize.)

Now, people, I can identify most snakes in this area. I could tell right away this one was a  harmless Northern Water Snake about three foot long and probably 6-8 inches around. Just because I can identify them, doesn’t mean they’re welcome to go fishing with me. Aunt Kate used to call me a fishing whore, cause I would fish with anyone. But, even I have my limits.

Barney, who lives for adventure, stepped around me and stood between me and the snake with his BB gun pointed at the snake’s head (about 4 feet away from us.) He was giggling and said, “It’s okay Mom. I’ve got ‘em, Mom. I’VE GOT ‘EM.” Then he pulled the trigger, shot the snake right in the Eye. In the dad-gum eye.  (Name that movie.)

Just for future reference…Red Ryder BB guns just piss most snakes off. This snake was no different. In fact, he charged us.

I hollered, ran backwards, and hollered “OH GOD, SHOOT ‘EM AGAIN.” (Again. I apologize.) Then I think I may have peed a little bit as I watched Barney (still in front of me) shoot the snake again. The second shot turned him back toward the pond where he took off swimming into deep water.

Barney commenced to emptying his BB gun into the snake until the snake was so tired of swimming and tired of being shot at, he decided to charge back to the shore, and brave whatever else this six year old had for him. By that time Barney was nearly out of BBs and Ben had contained some of his laughter, but the tear streaks were still on his checks when he pulled the trigger on his my six shooter, Elvis, to finish the snake off.

‘And the good Lord done called the poor thing home.’

Mason turned to me and said, “Dang, I thought he was gonna get us, when he charged. Aren’t ya glad I’m here to brotect you, Mom?”

What I want to know is…

What kind of mother lets her six year old son step in between her and a charging snake as long as he is?

All I can say is…

It had to be SINthia.

She sucks as a mom.

Simply,

Sandhill Sis

I hate to shop. I hate to shop, because that’s exactly when SINthia, my evil twin, decides she needs to be seen and heard. (If you haven’t been corrupted by SINthia yet…run..or click here to met her.)

I go SINthia goes grocery shopping once every two weeks with a list a mile long that I have made from a planned menu. If she has a plan and cash she usually spends less money. Usually. She supposed to make three stops, the meat market, Aldis then Wal-mart. Typically she makes those three throws in a couple thrift shops, a garage sale or two and gets home when the milk is about to curdle from the heat. All she thinks about is herself.

If you’ll remember, it was a shopping trip that made her come out last time when Russell got thrown in jail and she came screaming to his rescue. 

Well, just the other day, it happened again, she showed up while I was out doing my bi-weekly shopping trip for groceries.

On this particular day, I had been dodging these foreign speaking out-of-towners, who had more than once stood too close, leaned over my cart to grab some veggies etc… Folks,  crowding someone, when that someone is fairly mentally unstable and is used to a lot of space (like acres to herself) is not the best thing to do anyway. But, SINthia let it slide until the check out line.

I had to wait for three other carts to go through a head of me, then I started unloading. In life there are a few things that have unspoken rules. You don’t pee into the wind, you always pray before you eat, and never I mean NEVER unload your groceries until the person in front of you is done unloading.

Evidently these two bowing, smiling foreigners had missed this nugget in green card class. I had only unloaded the bottom part of my cart, when they set their fruit, veggies, and three bags of pork rinds on the belt, while bowing, nodding and smiling a fake courtesy smile. Grrrrrr.

“Ma’am. Ma’am. Please, take your stuff off the belt, I need to unload my cart.”

Smile-nod-bow. Smile-nod-bow. NOTHING.

So I SINthia pushed their veggies back in to the fruit, sending a cucumber rolling off the belt. Little miss nod and smile caught the flying veggie no problem and turned and whispered something foreign and low in said companion’s ear.

I filled up the small space I had created and said again,  louder this time, and with more authority, “Ma’am. Ma’am.” (Sis being ignored.) “ Hey. You, need to pick up your stuff. I need the space.”

They were ignoring me.

“You do it now, or I’ll have to do it for you.”

Smile. Nod. Bow. Whispering in foreign language behind a hand. Nothing. NOTHING. 

The look on my face was enough to send snickers and some knee slapping through the huge crowd of people waiting to check out behind us. That’s when the dam broke, in more ways than one, and the checking began.

If you have ever been to Aldis you know they keep there prices down by having patrons rent carts for 25 cents, bag their own groceries and pay in cash or with debit card. Speed and simplicity is the name of the game there. Slow, non-responding foreigners just don’t get it.

I was standing there with visions of having to hand the checkout lady one item at a time out of my cart, when SINthia absolutely twisted off.

Like some crazed kamikaze pilot, she took her whole arm and slid the veggies into the fruit SMEARING the vine ripened tomatoes on the belt, SMASHING the bananas into the canned goods, sending the cucumber flying…again, and finally crashing everything into the pork rinds. The three bags turned into pork powder just before their carefully chosen goodies started falling off the edge of the belt. My short nodding, bowing, smiling friends contorted, bending over backwards trying to catch, juggle, and otherwise save their smashed and powdered loot before it all hit the floor.

“When in Rome…you do what the Romans do.” I said louder than I wanted to.

The belt stopped, for the first time in Aldis history…

Crickets chirped. The hollers of foreign anguish were muted by the carnage covering their mouths and were drowned out by an old man who was bent over laughing and slapping his knee so hard I thought he was going to loose his false teeth and his overalls. The rest of the onlookers were sent into hysterics by the whole ugly scene and the foreigners whispered wildly while picking up their mess and giving me their best stink eye.

The checker was nervous and wondering if NOW would be a good time to poke the little red button. SINthia was pissed. The rest of the folks looked like they were at a comedy club with a two drink minimum. People were laughing, some holding their crotch, while others leaned on their carts and some on each other in complete hysterics.

“WHY DON’T YOU SAVE THAT LOOK FOR SOMEONE WHO’S IMPRESSED BY IT…..I DON’T KNOW WHY YOU ARE WHISPERING…I CAN’T UNDERSTAND A DAMN THING YOU’RE SAYING, ANYWAY….”

The checker was at a loss and couldn’t think of anything else to say but, “How are you doing today?”

I didn’t answer.

As I was loading my car the two women shuffled quickly to their car as I sang, “Everybody was Kung Fu fighting” at the top of my lungs. 

While I was driving away the old man was making his way to his car, still gut laughing and a waving with one hand as he wiped the tears from his eyes with the other. Glad I could make his day.

Thank God the kids weren’t with me. How do you explain Kung Fu fighting is a bad choice at school, but it’s just fine at Aldis?

HiiiiiYa!

Sandhill Sis

SINthia

PS. Woooo doggies. We did have them high-stepping for their cars after schooling them in American shopping etiquette. After all was said and done, I drove Sis straight to Karate School (while her adrenalin was still flowing good) and signed her pansy ass up for some classes in case those pork rind loving gals ever return to Aldis.  Then I took her cell phone, called my bookie and told him my money was on Sis, at the next match, two weeks from Friday. Let me know if you would like to get in on this deal.

Aunt Sissy, Ben’s sister, my children’s only aunt, the sister I never had growing up and darn good friend, pointed something out to me….

A theme.

A theme in my bLOG lately.

Dump cake, followed by a post about our failing septic system, and now I must share the best outhouses I’ve ever been in.

Am I desperate or just twisted?

Yes!

Anyway, a few weeks ago, we went to the huge music festival in North Carolina called Merlefest, where we had back stage passes. With the back stage passes came the use of air conditioned outhouses complete with plumbing, soap and water and the best part… no John Wayne toilet paper.

After using the bathroom I went and got the camera from Ben and was walking back to the outhouses to take a picture when I over heard this, from my dear traveling companions…

“Where’s she going?’ (T)

“The bathroom.” (Ben)

“Didn’t she just go?” (T)

“I think she feels a bLOG coming on…” (Ben)

*Sphnicker Sphnicker Sphnicker*

Aunt Sissy is right.

I think I have a problem.

Now I’m flushing.

Blushing, I meant blushing.

From the trenches,

Sandhill Sis

It all started a normal day, for Kansas: watching wheat grow in 60 mph winds. Normal that is, until our power went out.  Barney and I decided a day shopping for shoes would be better than sitting around the house waiting for the lights to come back on. So we left, driving 30 miles to a town with any size and a Kohl’s store.

I hate shopping for shoes. Hate it. I hate shopping for the most part anyway, unless it involves a thrift shop, pawn shop, auction house or something like that, where you can find some unexpected and insane DEALS. Cause, Friend, let me tell you, I love a good deal.

Almost two hours later, we were back in the car. Under the car next to me and there was a little black and white tiger striped kitten sitting staring back at me. I thought to myself, Self, that little guy looks like my Russell at home and drove off.

Russell is just a plain ole run of the mill farm kitten, out of a sick old stray we picked up roaming the streets in town. He isn’t anything special to look at, but has a cute personality and we loved him. When we got home we found Russell was MIA.

The thought of Russell braving 60 mph head winds plus 70 mph stowed away under the car and now being all alone in the big city made me sad.  The more I thought of that, the sadder I got. I’m not a crier by nature, kittens come and go on the farm and I understand that, survival of the fittest and all. But, that night I told Ben how ‘I taught I taw a puddy tat’ that looked like Russell in the city.

“Oh by now, some old lady has picked him up and he’s drinking warm milk out of a bowl in her kitchen, he’s probably forgotten about us.”

“I would rather put him down myself, that to think of him abandon in that town all alone.” With that, a few tears, and a prayer for an unknown old lady, I drifted off to sleep. I rose in the morning on a mission. To find Russell.

When I got to Kohl’s I discovered one of the employees had taken him home to a cat who demanded he be taken to jail the pound. After a brief exchange she said I could find, Max, there. Russell, his name is Russell.

I walked into the pound and found Russell among the other cats waiting for a home. He was big eyed and happy to see me.

“That’s him. Can I just grab him and go?”

“Nope, we got paperwork to do. Name? Address? Phone?”

“Paperwork? You’re kidding me.”

*deadpan look*

“There’s a twenty dollar charge for picking him up, and eight dollars a day to board him, and…”

“But you didn’t pick him up. That lady dropped him off, in fact, he hasn’t even been here 24 hours, more like three. I’m not paying $28 for that. I don’t have that kind of cash on me.”

‘”You can put it on your credit card.”

“I don’t own a credit card.”

“Or your debit card.”

“I PAY CASH!!!  Twenty-eight dollars, is that the best you can do?”

“Yes, ma’am, $28 is our policy. It’s eight dollars a day until five days, that would be $60 total. Then, we would have to put him down if not claimed. (Sniff)”

“Oh for the love of….save it, would ya? I live 30 miles away from here on a farm. Do you think I hauled him to town on purpose to dump him? I would rather shoot a cat in the back of the head, than to dump one in the city and have to think about him trying to survive all the idiots.”

*Blank Stares*

“..I mean, get a clue, do you think I planned for him to stow away yesterday, only to drag back down here today to pay tweeeenty-eight dollars to pick him up? Do the math lady. I’m trying to be a responsible pet owner, here. Trying not to burden you with a stray and you’re charging me for it. That’s ridiculous, I just won’t pay it. Think of how much my kitty would have cost you if I hadn’t shown up to be responsible.”

And with that I turned to go….

Without saying a word Miss Smuggy pants reached and grabbed a citation, and said with a barely audible voice, “Then I’ll have to write you a citation, for animal abandonment.”

And that my friends, was the straw that broke the camels back. I twisted off.

“And if I don’t pay it?”

“Bench warrant.”

Reeeeeeeeeley! Will you send the kitty cops after me? With their taser guns and choking sticks….And when they find me and pick me up…you reckon they’ll stuff me in one of them cat carriers? Be sure and note on my warrant… I’m not current on my shots, I tend to hawk up a hairball once in a while, I refuse to give myself a bath, and won’t use a litter box. But don’t worry, I already have one of them i-dent-i-fa-ca-tion tattoos…and when Ben finds out what an ass I made out of myself and refuses to come and claim me… you can put me and Russell down together and bury us both in the pet cemetery out back then send Ben my wedding band, Russell’s cat collar, and a bill for $120! That sounds like a great plan.

“Animal abandonment? You’re crazy. (Nothing like the pot calling the kettle black…) What do you think I’m here for? I came here to pick up my poor little kitty that rode under my car for 30 miles, spent the night at some strangers house and got dumped off here for some bureaucratic run around. It’s not like he’s a felon and did a quick B and E (breaking and entering) for three hots and a cot…”

Did I mention, I was mad.

When I’m mad I do math in my head really fast. [Court cost $75 plus $25 fine plus another trip to town with the chance of this happening again...or $28?]

It was then I realized they had me. Yes, my friends, they me by the tail and they knew it. I was screwed. 

The day before I came to town looking for a great deal, and didn’t find one. Today was a new day, over a barrel or not,  if it hare-lipped-the-queen I wasn’t leaving until I got a DEAL.

“Is twenty eight dollars the best you can do?”

“Well that’s our policy.”

“I don’t give a ratts, what your POLICY is. I asked, is that the best you can do?”

“I don’t know, you’ll have to talk to Don.”

“Great, where’s Doooon?”

Don turned around and said, “Oh my God, WHAAAT? WHAT NOW? ”

Don had been standing with his back to me the whole time listening to all this. He already knew, what now. But, I ran through the WHOLE, what now, story just one more time, in case Doooon missed something the first time.

“Yes, twenty-eight dollars is the best I can do.”

“I’m just trying to be a responsible pet owner. That’s not good enough!” With that, I turned to go.

“Okay, twenty dollars.”

Done.

Forty-five minutes and twenty dollars later, I sprang Russell from the brig.

As I was walking out with my felon, little miss Smuggy Pants quipped, “His nose is kinda runny, he needs a shot of antibiotic…”

I gave her my best stink eye and said, “Yeah, he don’t look very good. I’ll shoot him when I get home…”

(I keep antibiotic in the fridge at home, and that’s what I would shoot him with, but she didn’t need to know that.) HA!

Time stopped again. Some more. The PETA loving bunch looked like they had just given a drunk a drink, a junkie a hit, a killer a victim. But they were so glad to see me leave, they just let me go.

Russell is home again, chasing butterflies, lounging in the sun, telling tales of his time in the pen, and showing off his jailhouse tattoos.

I haven’t seen Sis. She was going to run in the school board election, but, given her cat’s record, she decided she wouldn’t stand a chance. Personally, I think she should pursue a life of a bail bondsman. That would be right up her alley. Instead of Dog the Bounty Hunter, she could be Katt…One Tough Pussy! I went down to the jailhouse this afternoon and gave out her number, I’m sure she won’t mind.

See ya!

SINthia

Music at our house is a big deal. Ben has played and sang to our kids since before they were born. So it’s only logical that they love music and feel compelled to play. We are delighted by this and try to keep all sorts of instruments around for the kids to experiment on. Dub-ya enjoyed playing the mandolin until he discovered Guitar Hero, then he made the announcement at 8 years old, he won’t be playing bluegrass.

“I like bluegrass music, Mom, but just want to play rock-n-roll.”

Rock on, dude. You should play want makes you happy, whatever the genre.

“What’s genre?”

Kind or type.

“Oh, I wish Dad could play rock and roll.”

You don’t think he can?

“No.”

Have a seat.

“Why?”

I want to show you something.

Ben put down his Banjo long enough to get out a dusty amplifier and his old Fender Telecaster. Dub-ya was quiet then said.

(Giggling) “He has an electric guitar?”

Two of them.

“Whoa. That is so cool. I’ve never seen them.”

The next thing we heard was “Smoke On The Water” Dunt, dunt, DUN. Dunt, dunt, DA-DUN!

W was looking a little pale and holding his stomach. “That was the coolest thing I ever heard. I think I’m gonna throw up.”

Ben played La Grange, Sweet Home Alabama and more. W sat shocked, staring and mentally moving his Dad up his cool list.

“Dad, can you teach me Barracuda?”

“Sure, Buddy, it’s real easy.”

“I’m gonna have a band, just like you. But, my band will be called ‘The GHOST Killers.’ We’ll have skull and cross bones tattoos and our costume will be black of course, and red for the blood, you know. Can I get a tattoo tomorrow, Mom?”

No. Maybe after your first, gig, though. (Not a chance in hell, but maybe.)

“Okay.”

I’ve got to go plan…

I love how music, brings us together.

Sis

If you don’t have a persona, feel lucky. Be glad. Commence to doing cartwheels in the street. I should have known, SINthia would be coming around, the hateful rip. It’s been a month and she can’t stand for my life to go well for that long. So of course, she came and reared hear beautiful, ugly, little head…

The phone rang. It was the family who owns our local airport calling to invite W and family, over for a birthday party and a ride in their new aerobatics plane. I hung up the phone feeling grateful for being a part of a small community where people have your back, come together when tragedy strikes and rejoice together in good days. This was a good day.

Wow, this is going to be awesome. An adrenalin junkie at heart, I’m always looking for my next buzz. That is exactly why skydiving is on my bucket list. Ben has never been hip on the idea of  me skydiving while he holds our babies and watches from the ground. At least this would be close. 

The pilot was happy, calm and chatty. He didn’t really seem to think it odd when he explained, the only reason he was strapping on a parachute and I wasn’t, was that it made him sit taller in the seat.

He strapped me in double, put my headset on and starting explaining the different buttons and levers. [This is cool. I'm a real copilot. I wonder if he'll let me drive...] Of course, my mind has always drifted at the most opportune times. My first aerobatics plane ride was no different.

“…so, one more time, one is to talk the other is the throttle…”

[Did he say...throttle?]

“Testing Testing 123. Can you hear me, Sis?”

That’s a….ooops…that’s a throttle…that’s a big 10-4, good buddy, come on.  (Shoot, I’m not trucking, I’m flying)…uhhh..yeah, dude, loud and clear, over and out.

“Prop–clear?”

[thumbs-up]

“Okay we are ready for take-off, we’ll stop up here at the end of the runway to power-up.”

“Air controller guy, this is november-four-eight-echo-whiskey, ready for take off on run way one-zero…”

[This is soooo awesome. It's just like Topgun. This is the best day ever. Power up? Why does he need to power up. Maybe I'm too heavy, maybe I shouldn't have eaten all those donuts...] ZOOOOOOOM ten feet down the runway we were up in the air.

Whiskey? Did someone say whiskey? I’ll take a double. Why are we shaking? Why is the plane shaking? Fly dude, why is the plane shaking back and forth? Cuss west Kansas wind. Cuss SINitha. Cuss…

“Okay, we’re up. Sis, you doing okay?”

Well it depends upon what your definition of okay is. I’m Okay, if pee running down my leg is acceptable. I’m not okie dokie if I have to reach over and press the button to talk to you.

[Giggling] “Okay. We’ll start with a deep turn right. Then we’ll do a hammer head, where we’ll go straight up, the engine will stall, and then we’ll go straight down. And we’ll finish up with the loop to loop. Nothing major, everything we do today will keep you pressed back in your seat, so you won’t be left hanging. How does that sound?”

My hands are clammy now, and I am playing with the clip on the seat belt, like some suicidal idiot.

“Sis, you need to talk right into the microphone.”

Uh, yeah, good, okay, sounds fine.

The deep turn was fun. The hammer head was really cool. And the loop to loop was over before I knew what was happening.

“This is your captain speaking…we’ll fly over your house, over town and then land. Are you still doing alright?”

I could barely breathe, my shirt was drenched with sweat, my butt was permanently puckered,  and I could throw up any minute. But only manage to say, “I’m a little nauseous, actually, but I’m okie dokie.”

“I get nauseous, too if I haven’t flown for a while. How about you drive for awhile. I won’t let you get in trouble.”

What? Is this some kind of joke? 

“Do you see the stick between your legs?”

“Yes, I see it.” With any luck, it’s a broom stick, and that, witch, SINthia, drives one all the time.

“Good. Pull back to go up. Push forward to go down. Left for left. Right for right. It’s all yours.”

Confidently SINthia grabbed the control stick, went up fast, down faster, a quick right, a jerk left, and then she bailed out, parachuting to safety, leaving me to fly the damn thing. After about five seconds of flying, my mouth was dry, my muscles were locked up and I barely had enough sense to say, “Okay, I’m done.”

“How are you doing now?”

Nauseous.

“Yeah, sometimes I won’t eat for 3 or 4 hours after flying.”

Good diet plan.

“Air controller guy, this is november-four-eight-echo-whiskey, requesting…”

I didn’t leave the couch the rest of the day. I just laid their dreaming in feverish fits of double shots of WHISKEY, a toilet to throw up in, and shooting my alter ego off of her broom stick next time she does a fly by. I would rethink my bucket list, but am afraid if I took skydiving off of it, she would replace it with an entry in a heavy weight pole dancing contest  in Vegas. She would love that!

May Day! May Day!

Sis

SINthia (Don’t know SINthia? Click here to meet her.)

P.S. Yep it’s me again. Isn’t this fun? Sis is such a light weight. My next plan is to give her a couple of glasses of wine and talk her into a Snoopy vs The Red Baron tattoo, since she’s such a great pilot. Later!

Disclaimer: Please note. The pilot figured here is a master of his craft, a stand up guy, and a great American. This disertation is my perception of reality, however skewed. Keep in mind, my reality is reliably a half bubble off of plumb, at best. Add to that excitement, fear and a fair amount of poetic license. Welcome to my world.