my husband is obsessed

This baby is on Ebay.  It's 30 miles from us.  We're going to see it tomorrow.  Pray for us, I'm afraid we're doomed.

Embarrassing Internet incidents

If you want to embarrass yourself, the Internet is the perfect place to do it.  This brought back to me full-force today, and I thought back over the years to some of my old chat-room  slip-ups.

I don't really care for Instant Messages, unless there's really something to talk about; just to IM somebody and say, "What are you doing?" or "How are you?" (unless they've been sick recently) isn't my kind of thing.

Back in the old chat room where I used to while away countless hours, there were some people who could get my dander up a bit.  Jerry was one of these, and although I consider him a friend, and still talk to him in a chat room from time to time, sometimes he got on my last nerve.  I'm sure he feels the same about me.  When he'd get on a rant in the chat room, rather than go off on him in the public forum, I'd IM a friend and let her hear my opinion.  That way, it didn't turn into a world war, and my friend and I would have a few harmless laughs.

To IM someone in an AOL chat room, you double-click their name on the right side of the chat screen.  Folks, if you do this, be SURE you double-click the right name.  Because the snide remark I was making about Jerry this particular time went straight to him; I had clicked the wrong name.  Yes, I deserved the embarrassment. 

Recently I was going to IM Celeste, my J-land pal, to invite her to an AOL group I belong to.  I double-clicked her name, I thought, and typed the invitation; but it wasn't her.  It was someone I just had on my buddy list for the heck of it, and she would not have been the least bit interested in my group.  How do you explain to a total stranger that you "accidently" instant messaged them? 

I have an online acquaintance who, if she receives an e-mail that is one of the "urban legends" or hoaxes going around, sends everyone on her mailing list the facts about the "lies", making the poor person who sent it out feel like a fool. 

Today I got an e-mail from this person that was, in part, an Urban legend.  Perhaps some of you have seen it, a picture of a man with a huge bear he shot in Alaska.  The bear isn't as big as the story says, and the bear did not have human remains in his stomach, as the e-mail contends. 

Well now, of course I couldn't wait to point her to Snopes.com to get the real facts, like she is always doing with other people.  Which would have been fine.  But then I decided to forward it to a friend in e-mail, telling her about the snopes site, etc.

But instead of clicking "forward", I clicked reply.  So, the sender of the big-bear e-mail received the little gloating note intended for my friend.

Just a few of my embarrassing Internet moments.  I could write a book.

And yes, I deserve every embarrassing moment I've mentioned.

PS  I'm sending this link to Jerry as part of my penance for wrong-doing. 

a stinkin' billy goat!

Soooo... three hours after my last entry, there's a knock on my door.  It's Jessica, back from her ride, with a billy goat on the end of her lead roap.  It followed her home from a mile away.

"I don't know what to do with him," she whined.

"Well, you can't leave him here, Cliff hates goats!"

It seems she saw this cute little goat in a pen at the old Yackley place and figured she'd let 'Tude get acquainted with him by touching noses with him.  The goat, having no companions except chickens and ducks, decided to go with his new-found friend, so he jumped the fence and followed.  All goats are adept at jumping fences, killing fruit trees by eating the bark, and climbing on new cars to put dents in them.

Jessica and I, together, got him in the back of her very high-off-the-ground four-wheel-drive pickup, and I sat there and held onto his stinking horns while she drove us to the goat's home.  Why do his horns stink?  Because he pees on them all day, hoping to smell attractive to some nanny goat.

Just another episide of my country life.

Excuse me, I have to take a shower.  I smell like a goat.

I'm a horse-whisperer again

We have an intercom between the house and Cliff's shop.  A while ago, Cliff buzzed me, and when I responded, he said, "Hey Donna, come out and catch Jessica's horse for her."

Tude always ran from his owners when they first brought him here, but I had worked with him a little and gotten him where he'd stand still while they walked up to him.  I guess he's had a relapse.

There was Jessica, a rope in one hand and a bucket of feed in the other (she had hoped to bribe him with grain), looking ready to cry.

"Here," I told her, "Give me the rope, and you take the bucket of feed."

I had several plans in mind, if Tude walked or ran away.  But what he did was take a couple of steps toward me, and when I got to him, I put the rope around his neck.  It was rather disappointing, really, because I wanted to show off my horse-whisperer abilities.

However, Jessica was duly impressed, and very thankful.  I had to laugh when she told him he wasn't getting any feed because he's been a bad boy.  As if he would connect not getting any feed to his naughty behavior, five minutes before.

 

Crazy dogs

I spent almost two hours at the cabin yesterday after my granddaughters went home, listening to Floyd Westerman sing Indian songs, and watching my dog, Mandy, and her friend Buddy.  I have no idea what they thought they were chasing, but they were dead earnest in their pursuit of whatever demon it was.  Buddy barked a lot... short, angry, staccato barks.  Mandy isn't very vocal, so she only dug and probed with her nose, and sometimes went to see what Buddy was barking at. 

Just before heading back to the house, I took this shot from my porch.

It's so pretty back there.

WEEKEND ASSIGNMENT

 When I Grow Up

Weekend Assignment #77: What do you want to be when you grow up?

This can be answered one of two ways: You can answer by saying what you wanted to be when you were a kid, or, you can answer by saying what you still want to be, one day, one way or another. It's up to you.

All I wanted to be, as a child, was an Indian... a native American.  I knew, even then, that it wasn't something you could "become", but that's what I wanted most of all, and I questioned my relatives, hoping to find that there might be a tiny drop if Indian blood somewhere in my veins.

What I'd like to be now?  A writer.

Extra Credit: What did your parents want you to be when you grew up?

Anything I did was fine with Daddy.  I believe Mother wanted me to be a preacher's wife.  Whew, I'm glad that didn't happen!

a good day for cooking

We made our second trip of the season to Rasa's orchard yesterday, and picked up two bushels of Fuji apples; the Galas we bought a couple of weeks ago are almost gone: my granddaughters love apples.  I picked up three butternut squash, too.  They're fifty cents each there, and in the store, they're ninety-nine cents a pound.  I also got the first really great-tasting watermelon I've had this year.

It's a cool, rainy day, and I felt like cooking a substantial meal.  So I made an apple cobbler (the kind with biscuit-type topping) and sausage corn-bread in the oven, and microwaved a squash stuffed with chopped apple, brown sugar, and a few pecans.  Cliff is a happy camper with that sort of meal.  Here's a picture of our plates, with the cobbler behind.

It's time for us to start actively searching for some pigs to raise.  Our freezer is looking pretty empty. 

Here's the recipe for the sausage-corn bread we both love; Cliff likes to top it with hot Pace Picante Sauce:

My friend Ora left a comment that made me realize I didn't quite scan all the recipe!  You put half the batter in a greased pan, 8X8 or 9X9, top with the hot meat mixture, put the other half of the batter on top of that, and bake at 375 for 30 minutes.  Then let it set for 5 minutes, cut, and serve.