Crap on a stick! I just realize at 38 I’m grown up. I’ve gone from being carefree and silly all the time to mostly serious, thoughtful and (dare I say it?) almost responsible. Ugh. My evil twin, SINthia, calls it straight-up boring. Carefree rip anyway… She gets everything she wants. Which is where my current, recurrent issues are coming from. Just once I would like to throw a fit and get my way. Dave Ramsey says there is a grocery store kid inside everyone of us.

If I could feed that child within I would say this: I want new furniture. Waaahhh. Not the kind on sale, the expensive kind, with faux leather that’s soft and downy and recliners on each end and a whole room to match. *SINthia on the floor–thrashing about shrieking* I don’t want another piece-a hand-me-down, craigslist crap. Early garage sale is NOT a decorating style. They call it vintage cause it’s old…not she-she. Shabby sheek is just another way of saying ‘my husband won’t give me the freakin’ credit card or the keys to the damn-it emergency fund“.

(As my boys watch in wide-eyed wonder I would continue banging my head against the floor screaming…)

There’s a TV. I wanna TV. I ate all my peas, now give me my TV. I’m tired of that ten-year-old albatross in our living room. I’m sick to death of stomping across the living room to tell the kids for the fourth time to clean their rooms, messing up the TV because of a loose internal connection, then jumping up and down in front of it until the ding dong dang damn it thing stops buzzing and hissing like a giant cockroach…If I had a high def skinny TV I could do my workout DVDs better. Waaaah.

Sniff. Okay. Sniff. I’m done.

Please tell me this sounds familiar. You know what’s even worse? I’ve brainwashed Ben into buying all this Dave Ramsey stuff is a good idea. He now thinks saving money is sexy. He just asked the other day if had enough money to write a check for a new (angels singing) TV and furniture?

Yes.

Where is it?

In the emergency fund.

Oh, so we can’t touch it?

Not unless it’s a true emergency. (Car explodes, natural disaster strikes, someone dies, etc..) Or if we both agree…(Eve dangling the apple…)

Get behind me, Satan, is what he was thinking. Sounds like we need to make an envelope for TV and furniture, is what he said.

*Gah*

I wanted to holler, “Run! Run! As fast as you can, before you get sucked into being a responsible grown-up. Turning 21 was fun, the rest is overrated. Please, run. I’ll martyr myself. Take SINthia with you. Don’t look back, damn it run.”

But alas, the fox had already eaten the gingerbread man and in this story Adam didn’t eat the apple. I was left with the faint smell of bedtime, a hand-me-down fairy tale and a grown up for a soul mate. Shite!

With the child within– without, I went over to our money envelopes and with a sigh, wrote TV/Furniture on one and said to anyone who would listen, “Some days it sucks being a grown up.”

What does your child within want need. A new truck? iPad? A new gun? Banjo? A vacation? What’s your poison? Here’s your chance to whine, you best take it. Thanks for listening.

Simply,

Sis

HELLo dear ones. Notice where the emphasis is on that first word would ya? That is from whence I’m writing, garden hell. An alternate title for this post could be… Bipolar gardening (but then my ding-dang-dong-damn-it evil twin, SINthia, would have to write it–God forbid). She hasn’t been around since she tried shooting that Badger and ended up with a skunk–God bless her. She didn’t even report for our anniversary. Which in all honesty, Ben would have liked. He still laughs about the homemade G string.

Anyway. Where was I? Gardening. Bipolar gardening. When I started this blog I really wanted to share what little knowledge I had about simple living and gardens and such. Now, over a year later I’m thinking the more I garden the less I know. Take for example the garden plan I wrote about here. Great idea, really! I arrived at a plan this year by taking last year’s plan minus those painful broccoli and cauliflower plants plus a few more carrots, peppers and tomatoes. But, like that G string…It looked good on paper, but in reality it was a little crowded. I guess sometimes you gotta get yer hands dirty to figure things out. As I stood back a surveyed my problem, I asked myself what was I thinking?

To which SINthia answered, “Weeds don’t grow well in the shade. Just plant the darn things so we can sun tan.”

That’s a valid answer in my worlds. So I planted every last thing I had to plant from tatters to maters, just as stinking close together as I dared. When I got into my jams I noticed it was supposed to get down to 37 degrees that night. Crap on a stick are you kidding me?

SINthia just laughed her evil snicker and said, “Better shut off the water…Sure would hate to see icicles hanging off your tomato cages.”

After trekking outside in my undies, and tracking mud back into the house and into bed, I thought to myself, “I thought gardening was supposed to be fun.”

“Isn’t it you that says gardening is cheaper than therapy? Now you need therapy. So much for that theory. ”

“Shut-up, SINthia.”

“Hey I’ve got a theory for ya… what if we took out an ad in the paper for communal naked organic gardening. It would be fun and educational. That would give you something interesting to write about for a change, instead of how to make dirt or how to grow great tomatoes.”

Folks, if this bipolar-diatribe continues throughout the growing season, it will be one of the longest growing seasons in Kansas history. I may have to have one of those mercy killings and bury her remains in the garden, only the black birds and the crows will know about it. Besides, she’s so full it, she’ll make great fertilizer. Now that sounds like a plan.

Simply,

Sis

SINthia

PS ~ Don’t tell Sis, but I planted my name in lettuce where the flowers are supposed to be. I’ll be long gone by the time she figures this out. Snicker Snicker. I’m telling you forget all gardening rules and just have fun. Later.

It’s a rainy and cold fall day outside. I love it. Rain makes me happy. Inside this old farm house it’s warm, there’s coffee in my tin cup and the wood stove is stoked. Days like this make me feel froggy. Ribb-it Pabb-it! As I sit and watch the rain fall my mind drifts to the huge gun show we went to this weekend.

I love gun shows. (You know I’m a sniper, right? And even taught Bo to shoot.) Ben loves gun shows too and the kids are starting to think gun shows are the coolest. Ben had a few ideas of what he needed. I was looking for a small pistol with a lot of punch to carry after I get my concealed carry license. (If they’ll even give me one after my episode bailing Russell out of jail.) W was looking for some throwing knives. And Barney, well, you just have to know Barney, he wasn’t looking for anything. He likes to save his ’spend’ money for a rain-er day. His forte at gun shows is visiting with folks and schmoozing them out of some free candy. Different strokes for different folks. Right?

Anyway.

 I found a sweet little shooter for a nice price and decided I probably couldn’t leave the show without it and a concealed carry holster. There are all sorts of holsters you can carry: right hand, left hand, cross draw, inside the pant outside the pant, ankle, shoulder…Well, you get the picture. If you have a body part big enough, you can strap a gun to it.

Since I’m such a petite little thing. *cough cough*  I thought I would try on an inside the pant holster. So I went to a booth with acres of holsters and fake guns to fill them and commenced to looking. It was then I had a realization. The same realization I have every time I try on a swimming suit or underclothes. Did the people the people before me wear underwear? Was is a thong? If so. How many days have they had them on? I started to panic, as I am somewhat of a germaphobe.

While I was panicking…Barney was sticking holsters in every crevice and pocket to practice his quick draw. With a “Hey Mom, watch this…Hands on da hind…Draw, Hippee!…Bap-bap-bap!…Stop or I’ll shoot…Freeze dirt bag!!!”

He watches too much Cops, I thought as I started to get dizzy. Feeling a little sick, I started digging through my purse for some hand sanitizer. That’s when another dilemma presented itself. When I finally find the hand sanitizer, is it appropriate to douse the holsters with it before trying them on? I missed that tidbit in the gun show etiquette class Ben presented us with before going in.

“Can I show you something, Ma’am?”

Oh good Lawd, here we go… 

“Uh, yeah. I’m looking for a inside the pant holster with a strong clip.”

“It doesn’t get much stronger than this one. ” He said holding out a holster as he grabbed somewhere below his belt. “It will hold it right in there for you…”

I threw up a little in my mouth.

“Uh, okay. *Glup* Can I try it on?”

That’s when he paused, looked me up and down, at Barney the Deputy, around like we were making a illegal deal and said with a shrug and a whisper…”Uh, yeah…I’ll let ya.”

I was insulted. I wanted to shout, “I’M CLEAN! I WEAR UN-DER-WEAR! FRESH ONES–EVERDAY!”

Instead. I picked up the holster and fake pistol stuffed it into my pants before he changed his mind and commenced to doing squats right there in the middle of the aisle.

Barney was gut laughing joining in squats beside me saying, “This is fun!”

Is that what you call it? Fun? It reminded me of being in a Victoria Secrets dressing room trying on underclothes while the neon sign flashes *STRIP*, the stripper music plays and the lady outside says…’remember to keep yer panties on…’ Worst day ever was more like it. Fun is not the word I would use to describe sticking something foreign in your pants, contorting yourself into erotic positions in front of thousands of people while your six year old gut laughs and shoots bad guys.

To make matters worse, my self respect, self image and any hopes of dickering well lay scattered around me like the bleeding hoodlums Barney had just shot in his imagination. Today there would be no haggling about money. No dickering. No ‘is that yer friendliest price?’ I had been robbed of my dignity while trying to protect myself.

I paid the asking price and was walking back over to Ben while trying to figure out how long it takes before you know you have some sort of venereal-holster disease.

“Did you get it?’

“Yep.”

“Cool, can I see it? Sexy! You gonna wear it to bed?”

Normally that would be funny, but I threw up in my mouth. Again!

The next day Ben’s friend came over.

“Can I shoot yer new gun Sis? I brought some ammo!”

“Sure, Chucky, go right ahead.”

“Is it okay if I try it on?”

What was I supposed to say? Remember to keep your panties on? I was feeling dirty, like I was some kind of a pistol pimp. I would have to change his name from Dr. Reginald to just plain old Reggie.

“That would be fine, if you would just shoot me first.” I said, looking around for a sword to fall on.

Simply,

Sis

SINthia

PS ~ Shoot low, Sheriff, they’re riding shetlands. Yeah Baby! The evil twin is back. (If you haven’t had a taste of my bi-polarness, you can check it out here.) Sis is such a pistol packing panty-waist. That’s why I try to drag her to all the gun shows I can. Lord knows she doesn’t go to Victoria Secrets anymore. The next gun show I drag her to will be like this one…

As you know, I have this persona. This thing. This evil in my life. A spawn of hell. My evil twin SINthia. She is everything wrong in my life. She says IT out loud. She is THAT mom, THAT lady, THAT….whatever people in town gossip about. She loves it! She lives without regrets and never gets embarrassed. Oh to live in that kind of freedom. Wouldn’t it be freeing? Too bad the real me can’t live there all the time.

Please tell me by now you’ve met her, laughed at her, found something vaguely familiar, thought about her over a glass of wine and then forgiven me her. If not…you can read about her personal life here. How she masquerades as the red baron here, how she sprung her friend Russell from jail here, how she insists on hillbilly kung fu fighting while shopping here and finally if you want to read her latest escapades on how she aspires to be a recon sniper just…stand by.

We have a badger problem. Not a small one, but a big one. HUGE. In case you don’t know, badger’s dig. That is what they do. The one that has currently dug into our yard like it was Mount Suribachi on the Japanese island of Iwo Jima. We’re talking a fortress people.

We just got done paying some folks big bucks to dig up our yard. If I would have known we could have gotten a digger for free…maybe I would be telling a tale of badger training instead of recon sniper training. But, I’m not.

SINthia has always dreamed being a solider. Ever since she didn’t get into the military because of…something…I don’t know what it was. I think maybe it had to do with those charges of transportation of a loaded firearm down in Oklahoma. Or at least THAT was her story. Anyway, she is a freak about soldiers especially snipers. 

She had a habit of maxing out her allowance and the occasional credit card to keep up with this strange fetish. Since we cut up the credit cards, our life has been better, but we are still left with all this military paraphernalia. Excuse me, government issued gear. (She insists on calling it that.) Regardless, she did put it to good use on her latest recon mission. Here’s what she took: standard issue olive drab jungle boots, battle fatigues (complete with ghille suit, boonie hat and camo face paint.) A heavy barreled Remington 700 bolt-action rifle (caliber .308), 4×12 tactical scope (with night vision), flash light, compass, range finder, night vision binoculars, two-way radio, extra ammo, and oh I almost forgot… extra perfume cause badgers stink and she didn’t want anyone thinking that was HER that smelled like that and some substitutions on the camo face paint. Everyone knows ‘mocha java’ gives your lips more of a pout than ‘tree bark bown’ and ‘loam green’ doesn’t say sexy like ‘lusty sage’ does.

In her Alice pack (that’s back pack for you civilians) she opted for a whole barrage of hormone replacement pills, a large bottle of wine and a piece of jerky in case the mission latest longer than expected, reinforcements didn’t show up, or the chopper didn’t make it to the extraction point on time.

She waited until Ben was tucked safely in bed and was sound asleep and belly crawled out to the most currently used den. When she got there she pulled out a roll of 20 pound test fishing line and built a loop her daddy would have been proud of and buried the loop around the hole. After belly crawling back to her sniper hide, she poured her a canteen cup of wine and sets her fishing pole in an spring loaded hook setter, (or loop as it were) and waits.

Now ya’ll might be wondering what fishing for a badger have to do with sniping one? I’m really not sure, except her brother told her how funny prairie dogs cartwheels are when they are caught just below they’re armpits. And ‘derned if they aren’t hard to reel in…fightin’ better than a dat gum master angler walleye…’ So why not try it with a badger? (Did I mention my bi polar friend is pure D redneck–hillbilly?)

Meanwhile…back at the hide. SINthia is feeling a little a woozy from the wine and decides to take a few hormones. Hey, if they can take care of hot flashes, they can probably take care of numb lips too, she muses and pops a few.

A while later she wakes up dazed and confused to rustles in the darkness.

“This is it,” she thinks and checks her scope that is  focused on the hole.

Nothing.

She checks her fishing pole and notices it hasn’t sprung. Her breathing is getting faster and faster trying to calm herself and then she smells it…a musty-dirt smell, with (sniff) pheromones and a touch of…(sniff)…of (sniff)…she wasn’t sure. Where had she smelled than smell before?

Then she heard it again. This time closer. As she tried to look through her foggy night vision she could barely make out…

“Oh God… not my… I’ve shared my yard with you for the last few months…if you think I’m going to share my wine…you have another thing coming.” Then her kung fu instincts took over and she knew at this close range no sniper rifle would help. The fishing pole was useless. It all came down to hand to hand combat…

Deciding the best defense is a good offense, she grabbed the animal by the back of the neck, hurdled the lonely sniper rifle, and ran straight away toward the yard light planning to pummel it to death as soon as it came into focus. Unfortunately, she forgot about the previous loop she had built and unbenounced to her the fishing pole tripped, sucking the line tight around her army boot, leaving her only 15 yards before she was tripped by the tension.

Landing just short of her goal…and the freedom of light. As she fell she heard a squall that sent chills up her spine and reminded her of when Diamonds, the tom cat breed, bred Nasty Pearl, her calico cat, when she was young. (It’s funny what runs through your mind when your in a pickle…) It was then she remembered where she had smelled that smell before…Folks, it was no badger, it was a skunk. I say was, like it was past tense, but it was very much intense and in the present.

She fumbled for her radio…”Red leader…this is bleeding banchee aborting mission…I repeat…bleeding banchee has flown the coop…extraction needed…do you copy? Over!”

She looked up just in time to see the skunk limp off into the bushes and her bedroom light come on. Ben came running out of the house wearing nothing but briefs and cowboy boots and packing a shotgun. 

“What are you doing? What’s on your face? (gagging) Awwwe, man, what’s that smell? How did you manage to get sprayed *gagging*”

“I think I broke my…wenis…I mean my elbow. Ooooohhh, I think I need to go to the emergency room!”

“Are you drunk?”

“No. I just had a sip of wine while waiting for the badger. Then the skunk came and tried to drink the rest and I grabbed him when we were past the point of  shooting and my fishing pole didn’t work…so I knew we were down to mortal combat.”

“Fishing pole?”

(I was fading in and out of conscientiousness.)

“…it was either him or me, Honey. I wanted to make you proud…Could you help me to the truck?”

*Ben was still gagging while I crawled in the back of the truck smelling like a combination of a french whore house, wino and skunk.*

“Honey, do I have to ride back here? This is embarrassing, please…can I at least change?”

“CHANGE! CHANGE WHAT?”

“These camo pants. Don’t they make me look fat?”

And that’s the story of how SINthia, my evil twin, killed the badger.

We found the badger dead the next day.

We are not sure, but surmise, it must have died laughing.

Sis

SINthia

PS. What did I tell ya. You can’t take me anywhere and I get in trouble even if I’m at home. Four tomato baths later Ben let me sleep on the porch, which was mild compared to his reaction to the doctor bill. Turns out Blue Cross and Blue Shield doesn’t cover hospital contamination clean up. Who knew? I’ll make a note of that…

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.

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