Occasionally my Bubs’ Boy Scout troop meets at a new locale. They spice it up, Scout style, by gathering at a new venue. It’s how they roll.
This week they met up at the local library, a place near and dear to my heart, as you know by now.
I told the rapt audience — in my head, they were attentive; in reality, none of them knew I was speaking — a few juicy library related details like circulation numbers and collection figures. Oh, yeah, they were enthralled.
Okay, they cared not a whit but the future of their snack relied on their listening to me prattle for a bit.
I was brief. Concise. To the point.
I was brilliant, people.
And at the end, several scouts were issued brand spanking new cards which they broke in immediately. It was a beautiful thing.
Then they snacked.
Meeting adjourned, the scouts were dismissed. Upon leaving, one sweet boy asked his dad if he, too, could get his own library card.
The father scoffed, and replied, “We’re not driving all this way to go to a library,” and shuffled the confounded, still questioning boy out the door into the cold.
Now I understand the scowl of the librarian from my youth. She was on low boil.
It may be inward, but you should know, librarians? They percolate.
I’m a little obsessed with the Bacon Number, that silly game of “how many degrees of separation are between me and Kevin Bacon”. I was thrilled to learn that mine is 3, because I know a girl whose friend met Mr. Bacon personally.
All this time I thought it was a lowly 4, so imagine my thrill when I went up a degree! (My four was from my San Fran trip — our hostess was a friend of another actor in a Bacon film.)
I was Four Happy, but now I’m Three Thrilled.
Now, this very afternoon, unless my cousin is messing with me — please, Annie, don’t be messing with me — I might have a Chuck Norris Number? And it’s a TWO?
Plus I found a dollar in a forgotten coat pocket.
The world is my oyster, I tell you.
P.S. Chuck Norris’ Bacon Number is 2. I Googled.
Four days of rain, sleet, thunder snow — in Oklahoma, that’s a real thing — slick roads, and icy cars have left me beaten down, exhausted, withered, and melodramatic. And Bubs has been right by my side for all of it.
Schools were closed, fences were blown over, snow drifts buried one of my dogs, who dug his way out, dang it (I’m kidding! Don’t call PETA) and at last at last I was able to scrape the car down and get her out so we could get air-not-contained-within-my-house.
But it started with Play-Doh, the homemade kind. I Googled and found ten batrillion recipes for flour/salt/water combinations. And two with vegetable oil added. You may know I don’t like to follow recipes; I think they’re “guidelines” more than stricture. And to my credit, I followed one of them, leaving me with a crusty mess of slightly green, less-than-dough, that didn’t play well with others.
Well. As you can imagine, I went Kitchen Rogue and created my own dough and here’s the secret (whispering): it’s in the oil!
When I went off book and added oil to the no-oil-in-it recipe, hoo howdy! Beautiful, pliable, lovingly purple-d dough, perfect for dinosaurs and tulips.
It’s in the oil!
And since I was so inspired and creatively conscious, I also made snow ice cream with Silk chocolate soy milk and orange extract. OOoooo….my goodness. With a heaping bowl of that I was far less grumpy.
And then came the afternoon, when I thought leaving the homestead and Going Into Town would be a good idea. In the Downtown of the Out There are impediments to forward movement, halfway buried under snow insouciantly shoveled to the left with whatever implements are in the Out There budget, which seem to be teaspoons and a jug of Morton’s salt. Let’s say visibility wasn’t great, and the Mighty Taurus plowed right over … something large …. leaving me stranded and up high, happily rooster tailing whatever tractor or stray dog may have been behind me.
How did I get out of that mess? Thank heavens for big suede-booted, burly lumbermen driving a Saturn and wearing Carhartt canvas onesies, that’s all I can say. They plodded my way and literally lifted the Taurus over the obstruction while I rooster-tailed them. I did feel terrible about that. I shouted to any and all who were present — which, in my estimation, was none — that these two were my heroes as they squooshed themselves back into their clown car and drove away.
Thank you, Nameless, Unsung Heroes of the Out There. You saved me, allowing me to drive on and get that sixty-four ounce Big Gulp before heading back to the prison of home until The Big Thaw.
Side note: the Taurus’ door latch froze again. I thought my goose was cooked, that I’d have to wait for spring to come and thaw the latch so I could have safe highway driving. Really, I was certain I wasn’t getting my Big Gulp today. But my brain kicked in and I squirted it with a miracle spray that tamed that latch and gave me freedom again. What was the wonder elixir? Dove body spray! Alcoholic content freed my door hinge whilst also deodorizing the rest of the car. Yup. Another win/win.