It Ain't Golden

Happy Anniversary to me,
Happy Anniversary to me.
Happy Anniversary to MEE EEEEEE!
Happy Anniversary to me.

Oh, it's not my blogging anniversary. It's my wedding anniversary. I told HH not to bother with a card or gift, because I didn't have anything for him, and I wasn't getting out on Black Friday to look for something. Then I got to thinking...what if he DOES get something for me? Then I will feel bad. So the boys and I dropped in The Devil's Playground Friday afternoon around 3:00. Hey! It's on the way home. I figured the crowds would have dissipated by then. Which they had. Don't go thinkin' I bought HH something fancy. Just a card and some rawhide-looking work gloves and a Whitman Sampler. I know the way to that man's heart. Then it turns out he really DIDN'T get me anything. Which is OK. For once, he followed instructions. HH said he felt bad, but I think it was just a show he put on, because his eyes were not on me when he said it, but on the TV, watching Best Places To Find Cash And Treasures, which was not even about treasures, really, but about digging old bottles out of outhouses. I told HH that if they pulled up a jar of money, I would believe his outrageous claims that people used to hide money in a jar on a string down in the outhouse. Getting back to ME...I told HH that it didn't matter about the card and gift, because I KNEW he would take me on an overnight gambling excursion over the Christmas vacation. Heh, heh. I'm a crafty old bird.

Now HH has gone to my mom's house to...take a guess, people. Go on. What do you think HH is up to right now? You've had your clue. Ready? HH is at my mom's to walk down her property and look for old bottles. Oh, there's no outhouse. But the land used to be on a major road back in the day. And people back then were not so politically correct. Done with that beer bottle? Toss that sucker out the window! And there was also a dump on one part of the land. Not a dump as in 'landfill', or even a dump where they bulldoze all the crap over the edge of a hill and keep on a-dumpin', with fires burning, and rats to be shot with a .22, and an attendant who may or may not be a child molester. No. It was like a place where people pull off the road and dump their stuff and take off, thinking smugly: "There. Dogs will eat that stuff, and the rest will rot away. I've just saved myself a trip to the stinky, rat-infested dump. It's not like this land belongs to anybody. It's in the middle of nowhere. Nobody will even notice it." Then the dumper would pat his children on their freshly-Prell-shampooed heads, help them into the back seat to return to riding on that little back dashboard area under the back windshield of his Olds 98, light up a Marlboro, and drive back to town.

The times, they are a-changin'.

Tonight we are going out to supper to celebrate my anniversariness by not making me cook. We will, however still make me do yesterday's dishes. By hand.

The times, they are not a-changin' enough.