Gourmet Veteran Pony Drama

I love this weather. Tomorrow, I may brew a pot of vegetable beef soup. Don't picture me dropping in an eye of newt, or any other exotic ingredients. I'm not a gourmet, by cracky.

HH and the boys and The Veteran and his new family are down in the woods roasting their weenies. I prefer to stay in the house after dark. The Veteran has a 15-day leave for family reasons. Not our family. Then he's right back to Iraq to finish out his 18-month, third tour of duty. It doesn't seem right.

My Little Pony is a drama queen. All day, he's been planning on the weenie roast. After bowling, (and by 'bowling', I mean the Halloween party at the bowling alley where the knuckle-to-armpit casted Pony went to play games and eat pizza and get a bag of candy), he decided he didn't want to go down in the woods. Which was fine with me, because it's windy and cold and he's had the sniffles all week. Then, when HH came back to the Mansion in the Scout to pick him up, My Little Pony pranced down the basement steps with his lip stuck out and tears in his eyes, whimpering, "Dad says I can't go unless I put on a jacket!" Jeez Louise! Then put on a jacket already! I had to reason with him for 5 minutes, then take him upstairs to select a bright yellow fleece hoodie from the pile in the rocking chair at the end of the hall, and fit that thing over his humongous blue cast. Then he was happy as a clam, and trotted down the front steps and loaded himself in the passenger seat of the Scout. #1 drove the 4-wheeler. He's been back twice for forgotten paper plates, and for Coke, because Root Beer and Diet Coke disagree with his refined palate. I really think he just likes to ride the 4-wheeler instead of sit around a smoky campfire.

The neighbors have been shooting up a storm today. I don't know what gives. It was a beautiful day, although windy, after a week of rain and gloom. But it's not deer season yet, unless you count bow season, and while I'm not much of an outdoorswoman, I DO know that bows don't go 'bang bang' when you shoot them. And it's not just our next-door poacher. It sounds like every redneck out here has invited the city cousins down for target practice. Or perhaps the nation Hillmomba in under attack and my subjects were afraid to tell me. I don't know why they would give me the silent treatment. Just last week I got a new suit of clothes, and they were full of compliments as I paraded myself about the grounds. Perhaps I should have told HH to outfit everybody in hunter orange.

HH has this cookout thing down to a science, since we first tried it in July with my mom. Hey! It was the boys' idea to have a roaring campfire when it was 98 degrees. Anyhoo, now HH has a standard list of supplies. Quarter-pound hot dogs, regular hot dogs, two packs of buns, fun-pack chips, a 12-pack of Root Beer, one bag of large marshmallows, and mustard and ketchup in individual packs. He got the mustard and ketchup from the bowling alley for free, even though he offered to buy some. That's my HH. He's got connections. We used to have some bratwursts, and potato salad, and different chips with dip. I think HH even tried s'mores one time. But now it's his standard cabin cook-out list. He loads up the Scout and goes down to 'set things up' about an hour or two before the guests are expected. He's an odd duck.

Which is as good a way to end a post as any.