Night Before Christmas--Art vs. the Rooster

'Twas the night before Christmas; no peace in the air.
The rooster is coming; Art waits in his lair.
The broomstick is hung, waiting there by the door,
While Art listens quietly, waiting to roar.

The clucking starts coming from under our feet,
Antonio's coming, to the rafters to sleep.
Why can't this rooster sleep over the porch?
He paints the things under him; Art's language will scorch.

Antonio the Rooster, last name Banty-deras,
Has found the best way the humans to harass.
He's painted the trash cans and Art's very own truck,
My husband says words that rhyme the sound  "Cluck."

Last season the rooster spent a night in the rafters,
He painted the washer and dryer, and for afters,
He painted the workbench, the sink and the stove,
The porch is off limits, no rafters can he rove.

Roosters don' t come encased in Depends.
Art's waiting to ensure this activity ends.
There's flapping and clucking, as the bird lands on deck.
He leaps to the rafters and settles to rest.

Art bolts from the door, brandishes the broom
While 'Tonio freaks and decends from the gloom.
He's left a deposit, but Art doesn't care.
The deposit has missed Art's shiny white hair.

The first lap's accompanied by the pounding of broom,
And the screech of the rooster as they both lap the room.
Art's shouting quite strongly as they start the next round
Till the rooster leaps shrieking from the porch to the ground.

"You idiot rooster! You'd just cover a cracker!"
While inside the house I explode in loud laughter.
"Go sleep in your tree, you're too stringy to eat!"
Art did exclaim as Antonio beat feet.

The banty kept shrieking as he sped out of sight.
Clucking and ranting from his tree in the heights.
Husband returned with a smile and the broom,
He'd saved our porch from "excremental doom."

As Antonio clamors outrage, a pain to the ear.
We wish you Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year

Technology Tirade

Phone Manners? Where’d They Go?

Phone manners sickened when computers came into vogue; multi-tasking sent them to the hospital. Computer gaming added a nail in their coffin. They died when texting became a national past-time. I long for the return of phone manners as I suffer confusion when someone with a “thingie” in their ear addresses the air. I think they’re talking to me. It’s embarrassing for me; poor manners for them.

I’m on the phone chatting with a friend and I hear “tappety-tappety-tap.” A bubble of offended feelings begins to rise. What? I’m so boring you need to do something on the computer while we talk? The tapping continues, and so do my hurt feelings. Maybe I should hang up if I’m interfering with your project? I’d like to feel what I have to say is as important as what you’re saying to me. Am I old-fashioned? Is the home training drilled into me in childhood passé?

The next offender is distracted by slashing an elf in some alternate universe when I call with a question. Can’t let the evil elf spoil your record as a warrior-mage? Pu-leeze! I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t need to know how much paprika to sprinkle over dish from YOUR recipe. Can’t you pause the game? Should I hang up? Nuh-Uh, I need the info. I hope the “Elf of Evil Legerdemain” has a pack of nasty friends who kick your mage-y butt! Pardon me for acting like a two year old, but I need your attention.


Hello??? We’re in a meeting, and a junior staffer is busily texting under the table. He must be moderately concerned with the reaction of those speaking to be so covert. Another is texting right out in the open showing the speaker how valued his/her input is. I’m squirming in my chair, embarrassed by the impression they’re making. You’re both reflecting poorly on everyone else here! I want to corner them for a lesson on they’ve missed, but then I might offend.


The flashing blue light in a stranger’s ear disturbs me. Is she a Borg? Does she address the Collective, or perhaps the Hive? What’s said makes no sense, but I’m the only person nearby. I answer, and the Borg has the nerve to glare at me. I was being polite, thinking she’d spoken to me. “ Bluetooth? I’m invading your privacy? I think not; if I can hear you it isn’t private.”

 

The technological distractions of others certainly annoy me. However, this week I found myself on the computer when the phone rang. Did I devote my entire attention to the call? No… I played a game.

Two Men and a Bulldozer

Who else but Art could borrow a bulldozer? Memorable? You bet, especially when two men get down to work with one of the kings of men's toys!

In  the picture, Matt is moving my office building/guest house to a new location. Anyone can get guys to move furniture; I want buildings moved!

Vehicle trails through the woods needed clearing. The rumble of the diesel engine could be tracked over the property as the dozer crunched over small trees and dodged the larger ones.  After several days, however, Homeplace had as many trails as it really needed. According to me.

When it threw a track, the guys had to buy some esoteric pry bar specifically designed to muscle the track back on to the bogies. As they worked, the rise and fall of cursing turned the air smokey until the track was snug in place again. The local hardware store made more money when a mysterious glass bubble shattered as Matt backed up into something. More elaborated language. More diesel fuel. More reciepts for taxes.

 Testosterone levels rose as the menfolk regarded the driveway. “Needs scraping,” Matthew said. "One day
Mom's going to high center on that puppy!" He roared down the drive and back, blade lowered. 

 “You left bumps!” Art pointed out. “Let me do it the right way!” Down the drive and back he rumbled in a cloud of dust. 

“You call that smooth?” asked Matthew. He hauled himself into the seat and growled down the drive  and back again.

“Hah!” said Art as he climbed up once more. They traded insults and turns on the dozer all afternoon.  Good thing the headlights didn’t work.  They’d have spent the evening turning the driveway into a canyon.

The dozer has returned to its rightful owner. I have a pile of reciepts and memories of two men and a bulldozer.

Gifts Worth Giving

Think of some of the favorite annoying toys you received from grandparents, aunts, and uncles. Was there a hidden message to your parents?



Toy flyers and catalogs stuff your mailbox while holiday commercials on TV blare in the air. Make this holiday season the best ever for children by buying toys, but consider the most important question of the season: What is your motivation for giving this gift?

Ah, motivation! Is this gift a pure expression of your delight in and love for the child, or is there a hidden agenda included?

One year my fourth grade class had driven me crazy the first semester, so I bought the loudest slide whistles I could find. My husband handed one to each child as they left for Christmas Break. I had “plausible deniability”.  I gave candy; he gave the whistles! Smiling, I tracked their progress home by the screeching and wailing through the neighborhood. I hope their folks enjoyed the chilling sounds of fingernails on a chalkboard sliding up and down the scale! Those gaudy plastic whistles were one of the finest inspirations I had as a teacher. Revenge cloaked in holiday colors!


Perhaps your own children have done something incredibly stellar in their childhood causing angst reflected in the grey hairs on your head. Remember the old adage: “Revenge is a dish best served cold?” Now’s the opportunity to get some of yours back!


Why choose a computer game sure to keep the child in question quietly absorbed for hours? Get something exciting with flashing lights and sirens! Nothing says love like a full drum kit, without batteries to remove to quell the noise. A cordless microphone would encourage the child to exercise their natural talents in singing or oration! Please use your innate craftiness; give these presents at their house, not yours. You know why!


Remember, when giving loud, thrilling gifts with hidden meaning, slip the child some extra batteries on the sly … just in case the ones included disappear! Planning ahead during the holiday season is critical, after all.

Poor Bunnies

Brown-Eyed Susan had her first litter of bunnies and instinct didn't take over. The six didn't survive 24 hours. We'd gone to get kitten milk replacer (useable for bunnies), but the last four were cold by the time we got back. Depressing.

Worse yet, I remembered Butch telling me people sold "pinkies" that died to pet shops to feed snakes. I saved the babies in the freezer. Opened the freezer today, and feel even sadder. I know this is a business, and some income is better than none at all, but it doesn't help. Gotta put them in a paper bag cover until I call the nearest pet shop. The tiny paws and teeny ears are heartbreaking to see.

Time to breed some more rabbits. New babies thriving are bound to help me feel better.