Warring With Hunneypunkin (Or, Magicking Weeds Into Bacon)

Hunneypunkin wants to spray weeds.  The problem is, he doesn't.  (Did I already tell this story?  I don't remember.)  Now I understand that all spring long, when the weeds are sweet and adorable just like all babies, it's either windy or raining or both and you can't spray the weeds in the wain and rinnd.  By the time the spring windses and rainses are gone, the weeds have all turned into big people.  Then, since there are no more rainsies and windsies, Hunneypunkin sprays weeds.  Guess what we have then?  An acre of big, ugly deadness.  Yuck!
I don't like weed spray because it stinks and I'm sure it's poisonous for plants and people and animals and water and ozone and other neat stuff.  I also don't like weeds because they mess with my favoriter plants.  So my solution is for Hunneypunkin to pull, shovel, pick, or hoe the weeds.  The problem is, he doesn't.  Plan B would be for Jeremy Renner to do it, but he lives too far away.  Besides, then there would be a big pile of dead weeds and they'd have to be burned or hauled off to the landfill or sneaked into the neighbor's yard, and that's just too much work.  Plus then if the neighbors return the favor, you're back at square one.
Hunneypunkin and I have had a habit of spiritedly debating the Spray-Versus-Pull Weed War at least three times every spring and twice during summer.  We've made it a tradition, kind of like Christmas only without the snow, candies, gifts, carols, stockings, good cheer, or eggnog.
This year, however, we came up with a different option: pigs.  We tossed a few oinkers in a pen out back.  I worked up the ambition to pull weeds myownself, and don't you know those hogs are pretty happy about eating their green leafies.  It's a pretty decent solution.  Hunneypunkin doesn't have to spray, dig, pull, pick, OR burn, I can feel all green and environmental, my yard looks pretty nice, I get a little exercise, and when the winter comes and the weeds are no more, we'll have bacon.  You KNOW how I feel about bacon.

Random and Limited

I love to be able to congratulate myself on a job well done, but some days all I can manage is a sigh of patheticness over a job halfheartedly started.  But hey, I just returned from a rehabilatory visit to the Pacific Ocean, so what do I care?
I woke up this morning with no muscle ache, joint pain, or skull throb.  Then I tried to evict a half acre of weeds all by myownself .  Yard work isn't good for you.  Bacon.  BACON is what's good for you.  I've never gotten subscapular spasms or lumbar aches from bacon.
The world would be a better place if everyone ate Second Breakfast.
Long live Jeremy Renner.

Disclaimer

ChevroletMama is not my legal name.
I do not believe in leprechauns; the dryer and fridge noises were really just mechanical problems that we have not fixed as yet.
Pixie*, Angel Doll*, Lefty*, and The Precious* were actually born just like most people are and we assume they are mortals like the rest of us but we're not going to test that.
I don't know anyone named Dromiquine.
I do take Christmas Day off.
My sisters-in-law Lovesme and Hatesme are fictitious; in real life I have and love seven, not two, unique and beautiful sisters-in-law.
One of my favorite mottoes truly is "I do what I can."  (Another is "I'm smarter than I look."  Future blog entry right there.)
Spell-check is the only reason I knew there was an "e" in the plural for "motto".
It's true that I have hidden Cheetos from the rest of my family and scrambled to hide them when someone walked into the room, but I have never actually wrapped my snacks in a bra.
"Broken or fixed" is a real game.
The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys is an imaginary book.
Jeremy Renner is presumably 98.6° like everyone else.
*Names have been changed because I thought it was fun.

Broken or Fixed

It didn't bug me when my little ones took all afternoon to eat lunch because if they were confined to the table, so were their messes.  I could clean something and it would stay tidy for a whole hour.  Hunneypunkin, however, was annoyed that lunch was still being had when he got home from work for supper, and demanded to know why lunch took so long every day.
So I spied to learn what nonsense was afoot at lunchtime, and that's how I learned to play "Broken or fixed".  When no one was looking, Lefty would tear his sandwich in half, press the halves together, then hold it up and ask, "Is my sandwich broken or fixed?"  The Precious and the sisters would cast their votes as to whether the bread was torn or whole, and Lefty would pull the two halves apart to show who was right.
Then Angel Doll would hold up a baby carrot with both hands and ask, "Broken or fixed," wait for responses, and then let go of the carrot with one hand to prove that the carrot was whole.
Pixie would repeat the act with a cheese stick, scolding anyone who cheated by trying to lean in for a closer look, and The Precious would take a turn with his sandwich.
The game could get rather complex, what with trying to break apart a carrot without anyone else seeing, or pretending to tear a cheese stick in half without actually doing it, or wrapping one's entire body around the plate to hide the breaking--or not--of the food.
The "Broken or fixed" game was forgotten as the People reached double-digit birthdays.  Adolescent appetites replaced the childhood necessity of playing with one's food.  Recently, however, someone remembered the game, and for a short time it was revived.  The only thing more entertaining than watching Jeremy Renner interviews on Youtube, is watching my teenagers playing "Broken or fixed" with their lunches.

Annual Clan Chili Feed and Fashion Show

Back when I was nice, there was a standing invitation (requirement) to attend the Annual Clan Chili Feed and Fashion Show every month.  Now, some families are close-knit, and others are just...anyway, Hunneypunkin and I attended the yearly event every month for a long time, thinking eventually we would find our place.
The trouble wasn't only that Drunckle picked arguments even more than his nose, or that Auntie Grandma baited him.  It wasn't just that Matriarch blamed the third-generations for the second-gens' bickering.  Or that Matriarch would cry and scold everyone for acting like this when today could well be Great-Great-Grampa's last meal.  I could have even handled the fourth- and fifth-gens biting my shoestrings and running with scissors and painting my diaper bag with gravy.
My sister-in-law Lovesme would try to engage me in pleasant conversation or at least telepathic empathy.  My sister-in-law Hatesme would try to occupy me with condescension or maybe critiquing my babies against hers.  Dromiquine was always there to spread or start gossip, and Cousin Antipath was always there to pants people, play with matches, and pass gas.  Hunneypunkin just stuck his head under somebody's car hood and checked their oil.  Eighty-six times.
The last time we attended the monthly Annual Clan Chili Feed and Fashion Show, it started as usual: avoiding the second-hand smoke, the hand-me-down hostility, and the direction of Great Aunt Chub who really needed a blankie when nursing her newest infant.  Matriarch complained about the food that people contributed and about the people who didn't contribute any.  The day ended as usual too, except this time it wasn't just my children huddled in the farthest corner from the fray, rocking themselves and sucking their thumbs, I was right there with them.
Finally I said to Hunneypunkin, "I'm not sure I can go anymore.  I just don't fit in, and there's never any chili.  But if we don't go, the clan is going to hate us."
Hunneypunkin said, "If you don't want to go, we won't go.  What difference would it make?  They already hate us."
I hadn't thought of that.  So we walked away like Jeremy Renner, and the only thing I miss is seeing Great-Great-Grampa's dementia disappear just long enough for him to grin at me and wink.

Gunner Has Two Mommies

The wiggly little puppies were so precious that it seemed righteous to take two of them.  They would keep each other company and perhaps be less likely to find trouble.  Right?  So then they got big real soon.
They were both female, so we planned to have them spayed at an appropriate time.  That would have worked out well, but the hippo from a nearby homestead beat us to the punch.  I almost swallowed my tonsils when I strolled out to feed the dogs one day and came face to face with a giant stuffie hanging out with our dogs for a smoke.
Oh, well, I told Hunneypunkin, it's the first litter for both of them, so they won't have very many babies.  A couple months later we found out I was right, of course.  I mean, they could have each had ten or twelve pups.  Instead they each had eight.  On the same day.  At the same time.
A couple of them were stillborn which was simultaneously sad and relieving.  They were all indescribably adorable.  So then they got big real soon.  We were able to give a few away, but ten of them we had to pay to have the humane society take.  That was trauma.  But the only other option was to sell our own children to feed the dogs.  That's illegal, plus I'm pretty attached to our own children.
The vet had advised us to take the mommadoggies on a short car trip as soon as the puppies were weaned.  Homestead Hippo, however, was again too quick for us.  I was seriously cheesed about being outsmarted by a neighbor dog.  Twice.
This time we were blessed with seventeen puppies.  On the same day.  At the same time.  But that wasn't even the best part.  The very most exciting part was that Hunneypunkin chose a puppy.  I might have freaked out just a little bit over that at first, but doggone it it's too stinkin hard to turn down a puppy.  Or Hunneypunkin when he puts on his puppydog face.
So then they got big real soon.  Hunneypunkin managed to make a deal with the humanes, for the society to sell the puppies, their profit, no charge to us.  Way better arrangement than the first round.  We outsmarted the hippo this time, whose master himself took one of the pups off our hands.
Hunneypunkin named his puppy Gunner, and Gunner grew up to be bigger than his mommies--we were never completely certain which one actually birthed him--though he never got quite as big as his father the hippo.  Gunner's a handsome fellow, a mellow, friendly, low-maint kind of pet.  If Jeremy Renner were a dog, he'd be Gunner.

What Doesn't Kill Ya

Five weeks from the stork dropping Lefty on our doorstep, The Eighteen-month-old Precious broke its femur which landed it in a cast from its toes to around its waist for a month.  At the same time, Hunneypunkin's boss broke his almost entire self which landed Hunneypunkin filling in the blanks at work every waking minute till stork night.  This left me and my basketball belly taking care of The Broken-baby Precious all by myself.  In the middle of Ice Storm '96.  I'm not making this up.
My good friend (or whatever), Dromiquine, determined--against the pediatrician's and orthopedic surgeon's diagnoses--that the fracture was a result of my failure to provide adequate nutrition to The Precious, and told our friends and family so.
One year in my twenties, I decided to bake myself a birthday cake.  It was, after all, my birthday, and the children weren't yet old enough for Hunneypunkin to order them to bake me a birthday cake and then take credit for it, so I had to take care of myownself.  I mixed up a thick and rich and chocolatey batter and preheated the oven.  The preheating oven started to smell weird.  I didn't know Hunneypunkin had sprayed oven cleaner and left it to do its wonders.  Hunneypunkin sent me to the park with the babies while he tried to air the toxic smokey fumes out of the house and cool down the oven and clean out the toasted oven cleaner grime.
My sister-in-law Hatesme found the situation quite humorous and told me she was a very lucky wife whose husband always took her out for her birthday, plus she was ever so sad for me that I didn't have a self-cleaning oven like she did.  That made me feel WAY better.
A few years ago, I was terminated from my beloved job.  Though I adored my job, losing it would have been a relief, because I was about to drop dead from three years of migraines and chronic sinus infections...except that we'd bled our savings dry while Hunneypunkin had been out of work for ages, and his unemployment had run out--the day before my termination.  Not even kidding.  Dromiquine and my sister-in-law Hatesme agreed that they were SO glad they weren't in our shoes.
If it's true that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, then after some of the incredible experiences I've survived and the inconceivable people who have taken the opportunities to kick me when they thought I was down, I oughta be tougher than Jeremy Renner.  I'm absolutely invincible.  True story.  There's absolutely no way at this point that I can possibly be vinced.  You've been there too, I know it.