Three Strikes Program

Hunneypunkin's dog thinks he's a house pet.  I think he's not.  And since I'm Caesar of this empire, he's not.  But he's a decent dog and I'm a decent emperor, so I agree to let him visit the great indoors on occasion. I do, however, keep him on the three strikes program.
The dog has a corner of his own in the living room, and that's the only spot he's allowed to be.  We have an old blanket that we spread on the floor in his corner to keep his doggie smell from melting into the carpet, and he does a good job of staying on his blankie (except for that one sly paw that he stretches jusssst off the edge.)  He'll sleep there for hours.  Like the children, he seems to have adapted his version of the Jurassic Park scene--"Don't move.  They won't see me if I don't move.  Then they'll let me stay."
Though he generally seems to be sleeping, he definitely notices if everyone leaves the room.  Then he'll go silently lurking through the house sniffing for people.  It's usually me that he finds...with his velvety and slightly damp muzzle against my elbow while I'm at my computer all thinking I'm alone.  Once I've recovered from a mild heart attack and threatened to send him back outside for leaving his blanket, I never fail to accidentally make eye contact with him, at which point I'm susceptible to his telepathic message, "Llllet meeee staaaay, llllet meeee staaaay," and even though Jedi mind tricks don't work on me because I'm practical and logical, I always choose to llllet himmm staaay.
The three strikes program, however, overrides even the big brown puppy-dog eyes.  It doesn't matter how sweetly the dog stretches out on his blankie, or how adoringly he stares into my face, or how telepathically he begs to stay in the house, the third time the air turns green and people start pulling their shirt collars up over their noses because the dog dropped an SBD, he's out.  Now don't go all animal rights on me, I'd even kick out Jeremy Renner if he floated three air biscuits.

Reindeer Games

I'm cheesed at the controversy over the existence of Saint Nick.
I bust my butt year round on projects from live plants to wooden gadgets to fabric creations to kitchen productions.  I make my lists, I check them twice.  No matter how tired I get, I'm still obligated to be lively and quick.
I shop carefully for the best deals, even when the weather is colder than a witch's wit, my cheeks are like roses and my nose like a cherry, running all over the map with a bundle of toys flung on my back.
I slave over whichever burners of my stove work, and my oven if it chooses to function.  (Major appliance manufacturers could consider building their products to last if they want to get off the naughty list.)  I make holiday goodies and test them till I have a little round belly.  It shakes when I laugh.  I hate that.
The cost of reindeer fodder is out of control, but I speak not a word.  I go straight to my work.  I'm up way too late filling stockings every Christmas Eve because I have to wait till all the rodents and other creatures are unconscious.
I value my anonymousness and privacy every bit as much as Jeremy Renner, but doggone it, it yanks my chain when I work so hard year round to make the world a better place and people don't acknowledge I even exist.  I get how God feels.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.  On Christmas Day I'm going to put my feet up and take my annual twenty-four hours off, and the next day, even if some people don't believe in me, I'll be back to my work again.

Saturday Night Lifelike

I'm going to have to take a nap today.  Jeremy Renner is hosting SNL which is way past my bedtime, and I feel the need to be awake, alive, and alert for that.  Might have to listen to Skillet's "Awake and Alive" CD to stave off my imminent temporary 9pm nightly zombification.

Hitting a Stud

I told Hunneypunkin I needed a shelf built.  After whipping around a tape measure and pondering the proposed construction site he said, "You'll have to hit a stud."  So I smacked him.  I thought something miracley would happen, like when Moses brought forth water from the rock for the thirsting deserted nomadic Israelis...but he just looked at me weird.  And that's not miracley at all, that's just plain normal.
God must have moved the moon into some rare kind of configuration with Saturn, the Pluto formerly known as a planet, and Uranus--that's funny because I just spelled anus--because only that kind of gravitational pull can suck Hunneypunkin into agreement with one of my evil schemes of home improvement at the same time as we possess the reserves of both cash AND time to complete it in fewer than eighteen months.
Makita, Craftsman, Black & Decker showed up to assist while Pixie, Angel Doll, Lefty and The Precious re-enacted their version of the Jurassic Park scene: "Don't move!  They can't see us if we don't move.  Then we won't have to help."
By some twist of fate I managed to locate some leftover paint so I could make my new shelf match the rest of the room, and someone actually knew where the paint tray and roller were.
Within a couple of hours my lovely project was not only complete, but cleaned up after as well.  It was unbelievably honeyful and perfect as if Jeremy Renner had starred alongside a sweet labrador retriever in a delightful Hallmark made-for-TV holiday movie about the redemption of a long-lost individual with a romantic subplot and a fireplace, wearing a comfy yet stylish wool sweater.
So perhaps hitting a stud can cause a miracle after all.
No animals were harmed in the building of this shelf.

My Stand on Politics

Though I have strong political opinions, I rarely discuss them.  You're not going to change my mind, I doubt I'm going to change yours, and that makes verbal exchange pointless in my estimation.  I must say, however, that this morning's election results were incredibly disappointing to me.
I wrote in "Jeremy Renner/Suzanne Wilson" for United States President/Vice President on my ballot, which I mailed promptly WITH postage, and here I sit this morning, NOT in office.
Epic fail on Phase Two of my Personal World Takeover Plan.
I admit I attempted to drown my sorrows in a sixteen ounce caramel mocha at The Grainery this morning https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Grainery/270676199452?ref=ts&fref=ts and after that miraculous little potion I do feel much better.  In fact I'm inspired to carry on.
Renner/Wilson 2016!

Wicked Sweats and Ninjas

I wanted to be Tough and Cool for Halloween but I got stuck being An Invalid instead.  I had tiny ninja warriors tossing their throwing stars around in my abdomen.  I used to think ninja warriors were neat.  Now I just hate them.
I threw up at 6 am on an empty stomach.  That is some special kind of serious painage right there.  Then at noon I had to cough.  More ninjas.
I took a shower thinking the warm steamy water would relieve the body aches but I just found myself curled up in the shower in a fetal position, clutching my tummy and crying for my mommy and trying not to drown.
I slobbed around all day in my sweats.  Literally.  The sweats alternated with chills.  This was not the kind of cool I had in mind.
After the shower I slept on my wet hair.  Later when I willpowered myself into the bathroom in case I had to "go" (and I couldn't really tell whether I needed to because I couldn't feel anything but generalized acute bodywide discomfort) and accidentally glimpsed the mirror I was fascinated by how many directions my -do can go all at once.  Def not the look I'd pose in for a photo op with Jeremy Renner.
I managed to swallow nine entire cracker crumbs plus a sip of orange juice and keep it all south so I was feeling pretty good about myself.  Then Angel Doll offered me a Reese's peanut butter cup saying, "Cures what ails ya," because she learns these home remedies from me, but I couldn't eat it.  I have never before in my life been unable to snarf a Reese's.  I also had to cancel my sixteen-ounce caramel mocha appointment with my uncle this morning.  Am I dying?
So Pixie went to the costume party in my black nail polish and my black lipstick and my spike collar collecting my candy while I was spilt on the couch at home with my wicked sweats and ninjas.  My kidneys are so sore right now.  I can actually feel my adrenal glands sitting atop the kidneys and sobbing their little hormones out.  I can feel my pulse in my arm hair.  Every time I move the ninjas dance.
This is the stupidest Halloween ever.  I despise Halloween anyway, I'm only in it for Reese's wares.  I don't know who Reese is, but I adore his work, and I'll be "borrowing" a bite now and then from Pixie's stash as soon as I banish the ninjas.

Somebody Make Some Dinner

Hunneypunkin blows through the back door dripping with rainwater after towing his stranded buddy's bellied-up truck home from a neighboring state and dumps his soggy coat, sweaty hat, and greasy gloves on top of the mail I'm looking through.  "Man, I'm tired, and it's cold out there.  But he bought me a Big Mac and gave me twenty bucks for gas!  What's for dinner?"
Out loud I say, "Glad you're back.  I don't have a plan for dinner," instead of, "I'm just home from bustin my tuchus on a forty-nine hour workweek and you blew my entire paycheck to drag your pal home from Timbuktu and all I got for lunch was a p.b. and j. with a migraine at a desk while you ate a nice hot e-coli burger with Special Sauce with a friend and now I'll be up half the night helping children with homework which your unemployed butt was supposed to be doing while I managed crabby customers but instead you were out on superhero duty again, how many times have we talked about this, and now you're asking ME what's for dinner when you were supposed to have it READY when I got HOME, and all your homeboy could spot you was a JACKSON?" because I'm self-controlled like that.
So I take a deep breath and fake a cheap smile and wade through the pets to the kitchen, determined to be all domestical.  Hunneypunkin catches a hint when the kitchen cabinets start closing with gusto and I'm shoving dirty plates around, muttering about how Jesus might feed six with two jars of homemade jam and five stale tortilla chips, because he says, "If you wanna wash some dishes, I'll figure out something for dinner."
Smart boy.  Dawn and I start cutting grease while Hunneypunkin makes up his own lyrics to popular music.  He must have some sort of Wishsong of Shannara talents because as he sings I start breathing dinnery aromas.  Next thing I know we're shoveling down a hot sup and I can't figure out how he built all this steaming savoriness when all I could find was a dented can of pears.  Hunneypunkin possesses all the resourcefulness of Jeremy Renner.  Lucky for him, because later when I'm working algebra at 10:29 pm and he's sawing logs on the couch, I won't knock him at the head with a textbook in a hypoglycemic fit.