. . . .and other Sunday appropriate thoughts, activities, and conversations.

Ah yes, it's Sunday morning, 7:15am.  Ooops, make that 6:15am.  We forgot to set the clocks back before we fell asleep.  Honey has been grumbling the short while we have been awake because he volunteered to help his dear childhood friend drive a new foot bridge up to this dear friend's hunting camp, thus interfering with taking full advantage of the extra hour afforded to us by the "fall behind" time change.

Honey checks his e-mail and discovers "The Man" has answered his last e-mail.  "The Man," is suffering from the week and a half into the school year required disease that is a tradition the world over.  Being the good thoughtful helpful Catholic reared man and father that he is, he prepares a reply, which I have intercepted:

Indeed! Get yourself some Robitussin,whichever one fits the bill. They make 
them specifically for different ailments (cough, flu etc.) and remember #1 
rule. HYGIENE. Wash hands aplenty! How are you feeling by the way? Did you 
remember to turn the clocks back an hour? I have to help with that stupid 
hunting bridge. Consider this: Building a bridge ( that I will be freezing 
at least one nut off) to hunt a stupid animal (only species dumber is the 
one that's hunting them) that tastes like ass. (hunters must have nibbled ass 
before to know this) Then when they don't get their deer, they bitch. I 
would suggest going into Market Basket casually strolling down the aisle 
(it's heated and there is no snow and barely a possibility of being shot at) 
and make my selection of already packaged meat of my choice. I would not have
to bitch about not getting the meat that I should be getting from the stupid 
animal I shot that tastes like ass anyway. Enjoy the warmth of your bed. I 
know I was till I had to wake up to perform this moronic task. Talk to you
soon son.
 
Dad

There is the doorbell.  I follow Honey down the stairs.  He lets in his dear childhood friend while he puts on his coat. 
I say, "Bye sweetie," and kiss Honey tenderly on the lips.
Childhood friend says, "She never kisses me that way."  Honey laughs.
I say, "Because, that is YOUR wife's job!"

I close the front door and head up to the good computer to see if my Mom is on-line.  She's not.  I come across an interesting book review over at Confessions of a Libertine about the religious right hijacking the Constitution in their quest to create a theocracy and their contention that the forefathers founded this nation on Christian values. 

Since one of my early pioneer ancestors left the Netherlands because of religious persecution and eventually became a pastor at several churches in the New York/New Jersey area in the late 1600's, I take exception to their twisting of history to further their religious slant.  What these modern day zealots fail to realize is that these early pioneers came to this land to escape religious tyranny and then many of them then became the tyrants bent on converting their neighbors to their brand of religion.  The wise framers of the Constitution recognized that a "free society" could not possibly be free if the government were not separate from the many religions of the people who were already occupying this land.  A state sponsored (approved) religion is DENYING FREEDOM to those who came here to worship freely.

Honey pokes his head around the corner and asks, "Do you want to go get some breakfast?"
"Wow," I say, "that was quick."
"I only had to drive the truck to drop off the bridge.  Make sure you close the door to the room, there's cat puke in the trashcan and I don't want 'pukie' to knock the can over so he can eat it," he says.  I gag and yell, "OK!"

Honey thinks he's had to do the majority of picking the places we eat.  I make him happy and pick Perkins.  No one in this town knows how to make home fries.  Everything is deep fried or those nasty pseudo potato shreds.  Perkins just happens to offer the nasty shreds or the larger deep fried chunks.  It's all about choices.  Honey orders the two egg breakfast, scrambled, with sausage, and a yummy blueberry muffin.  He also chooses the (cringe) nasty hash browns.  I get the country breakfast, scrambled, bacon, sausage gravy and biscuits, and the country potatoes (chunks).  Honey eats the chunks.

We settle into conversation as we wait for our food.  Our table is passed by a woman wearing fur.  Very uncool.  "She must be from Westmont," I say.  "We get them in our store.  They make it a point to look down their noses at us peon retail workers and mention that they live in Westmont.  One of these days I'm going to slip and laugh in their face while pointing out Westmont is in JOHNSTOWN which ISN'T just one step down from the crowned heads of Europe."

"My co-worker, Diane, lives in Westmont.  She and her husband are retired Navy.  They lived in Italy for awhile.  They have a replica of Michelangelo's David in their garden. Their next door neighbor was visiting one day and nervously mentioned that you could see David's penis.  Diane stood there with her mouth agape while her husband sarcastically explained it was Michelangelo.  You know?  Art.  The neighbor was clueless!" 

I continued, "and you wonder why I make fun of the people around here?  How did you escape the stupidity that your neighbors seem to suffer from?"
"I took full advantage of the free education that was offered to me," he quips.  Our food arrives.  He takes one look at my sausage gravy and comments, "that looks like cat puke."  I look at my plate, shrug, and dig in.  In between bites I say, "I'm a bad Mother."
"Why?" he asks.
"Because I forgot my daughter's birthday again."
"You mentioned this yesterday," he says, "did you call her to wish her a belated birthday, yet?"
"No," I sheepishly confess.   He prods, "why not?"
"Because I haven't reached the proper level of guilt that a mother should feel for forgetting her child's birthday!  I should be there some time this afternoon.  Then I'll call.  What if she's working today?"
"You are a bad mother.  I don't forget my child's birthday.  Maybe you can tell her you set the clock back . . . . to the beginning of October."
"You only had one child and we already forgot to set the clocks back," I retort.

Honey looks across the street at the Aldi's.  "Maybe we should stop and get a turkey."
"Are we making the turkey again this year," I ask.  He looks at me squinting his eyes slightly and asks, "did we make it last year?"
"Yup.  Don't you remember?  I was sick.  You threw a fit when you walked in and I was making the stuffing."
"Oh yea," he remembers, "you were trying to put the gizzards in it.  You shouldn't do that, put things into food that you know I don't like."
"But you did like it the first four times you ate it!  It was only after you SAW what I put into it that you didn't like it."
"We're through," he says exasperatedly as he throws his napkin into his plate.
"Ok, I'll move out when we get home.  I'm taking my cat and the rest of that soup that I made that you like."
"Lets not be hasty," he says, "I think if we don't talk to each other that should be enough."

The waitress passes by and drops the check on the table.  We both grab opposite ends of the check and pull.  I get the top corner.  He gets the bottom three quarters of the check with the totals.  It's the wishbone method of determining payment.  We head up to the cash register with our coats and our check parts.  The young cashier looks confused as we both hand her our parts of the check.  Then she tries not to laugh as Honey points to me and explains, "she tried to cause a scene.  I was never so embarrassed."  I tell him, "don't lie to the girl, I'm always embarrassing you." 

We head to the grocery store.  Honey shops on Sunday, I won't.  I ask him, "what are you making for the football party today?"  He throws a frozen Butterball^® into the cart and says, "pulled pork.  Barbecue.  On buns."
"Are you making any side dishes," I ask.
"No," he laughs.   "I'm providing free beer and a yummy sandwich.  If they want proper nutrition they can get it at their own house.  Besides, my brother will probably be the only one who comes."  We make it through the checkout and head toward the door.  There is a man wrestling a cart out of the corral.  I'm poking Honey in the ribs.  We trade knowing smiles, then our faces go slack as the cart wrestler turns and looks at us.  Out in the car we start laughing. 
"Did you see that," I ask.
"Oh yeah," Honey laughs while shaking his head, "a mullet and bed head!  Where do these people come from?"

We pull out of the parking lot.  He asks, "are you sure we made the turkey last year?"
"Yea, I'm sure," I say.  "I remember because I was really angry about the stuffing and blogged about it."
He feigns surprise and says, "You bitch!  You put that on the internet for the whole world to see?"
I chuckle, "I am so flattered by your confidence in my story telling abilities.  I know you think millions of internet users are as captivated by me as you are but the truth is I really only have about seven or eight faithful readers.  Besides, Honey, I don't use our real names.  As a matter of fact, your name on my blog is Honey!"

We arrive at home.  I help Honey put the food away.  "Are you going to watch football with me," he asks.
"You are so silly, " I say.  "You know I don't watch football.  I'm going to go blog about your thoughts on hunting.  See you later."  Kiss.  Kiss.

tags: volunteers  hunting  religion  freedom  breakfast  conversation  food  memory  turkey  stuffing  mullet  popularity  football  blogging  

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