My Bubs and I are Car People.
What started with a movie coercion–the Bubs hates theatres–erupted into a newly found obsession with cars: pretty ones, with shiny chrome and guttural exits.
Because before the film, we nibbled at popcorn during the commercials when lo and behold, up popped an ad for a show called “Grand Tour,” which we immediately found upon arrival at the casa. One too-quick two-season streaming binge led to dabbling within around 17 seasons of “Top Gear.”
Television perusal I would not have seen if not for dragging the Bubs to see…whatever that movie was…I’m sure it was great.
(I’m sure it was a top quality film, Oscar-worthy, but perhaps not memorable…)
Between episodes of “Top Gear,” the Bubs and I are ever on the lookout for “cool” cars, which led to the City and a car show.
I’ve noticed our ideas of “cool” often differ.
Where I appreciate “Muscle” or “Cute,” Bubs raves over “Tech” or the vehicles he dubs with the obscure-and-can’t-quite-be-pinned-down term, “Sweet.”
Whatever the verbiage, I’m sure my boy and I are saying the same thing, right?
Anyway, he’s young. He’ll learn.
I’m kidding! Of course he’s not going to like the same style as me. It’s personal taste. And again…he’s young…and he’s still in training.
I have an open mind.
I’m willing to try new things…except skydiving…and anything to do with sharks, snakes, or spiders…or the ocean…but other than that, I’m open! Mostly…
Anyway, a bottle of drinking vinegar showed up in my fridge after a visit from my mother, who is always willing to try new things on me, I guess.
For six weeks, I ignored that bottle of drinking vinegar, because…ew.
Suddenly one morning I steeled myself and opened the bottle.
The vinegar was sparkling, and again…ew.
And it was strange fruits of pomegranate and…something else…exotic fruits to the prairie, I can tell you.
Which made it more appealing, I admit. Yeah, I’m rogue.
So I sipped.
Immediate reaction: a snarl.
Secondary reaction: hmmmm…
Third reaction: I’m headed to Sprouts for more.
Well…I couldn’t find this particular brand, so I tried a different one.
Final reaction: Never, ever, leave your comfort zone. It’s just not worth it.
And wait until your mom drags another jug of goodness into your fridge.
I have chickens.
I don’t believe they like me, though I feed them. But I’m fairly certain I like them, until winter descends.
Fowl beasts do not conveniently switch to hibernation when it’s freezing cold out, thereby allowing me the convenience of remaining inside where it’s toasty warm, therefore I must render myself impervious to the elements in order to feed and water/de-ice these ridiculous critters twice a day.
I’ve remarked about the chicken coat before, because, aside from the fire pit, the chicken coat is my most valued home accessory.
Everyone needs one. It’s yellow…vibrant within any blizzard, for identification purposes when my frozen corpse is uncovered come spring…and it’s puffy, like stitched clouds of strange, inorganic material that tells the prairie winds to “bring it,” because, seriously, breezes do not enter into the realm of warmth beneath the glowing sun-colored, zippered goodness that is my chicken coat.
I have other uncovered, frozen bits, so I tuck in…pull the shoulders upright, hide the neck, breathe within the cave of parka, move quickly, scurry inside before limbs fall off.
I love this coat.
But here’s a funny: I wore my coat on an especially chilly day into the world, into a public space, where people could see the grunge and filth encasing this otherwise spectacular specimen, so prete a porter.
(Darn embarrassing is what it was, but doggone it, I was cold, thus the coat had to stay.)
Anyway, whilst in a public restroom, I discovered how incredibly tiny construction can be. Who thought mounting a sink onto a wall with only three inches of selvage on either side would be genius? And mounting a paper towel holder and soap dispenser within that same realm? Dazzling use of space, right?
Because, when I right-handedly waved beneath the non-touch soap dispenser, my left elbow inadvertently caused the non-touch towel dispenser to spool out a six-inch length of paper. And when I waved beneath the water spout, my gigantic sleeve leaned heavily toward the soap’s unblinking eye, once more spraying upon my innocent sleeve. So what to do, but rinse the offended arm of its foamy layer, which caused the water to gush again.
I had two wet sleeves and a fistful of foaming Dove while a drying device looked on.
I tried, again and again, to rinse, de-soap, dry, rinse, repeat…
Until at last I gave up, and left the bathroom, and walked amongst the peoples admiring my bravery, my angry face dripping from within such a bold fashion statement — a yellow chicken coat, stained, probably smelly, and leaving a wet trail of droppings while I walked my Bubs and I out into the frigid air.
At home, I told the chickens I’m done with them, they’re on their own.