Farmer H and the boys are gone for the weekend, participating in the State Youth Bowling Tournament in Cape Girardeau. Or Cape, as we call it around these parts, because who wants to spell Girardeau, or even wrap your lips and tongue around it? Same way we refer to Ste. Gen, not Ste. Genevieve. Or if forced, "Saint Jinivie."
Yes, we're lazy, mealymouthed, illiterate slackers here in Hillmomba. Not that there's anything wrong with that. We're still good people. Except for those who comment on other people's breasts at the gas-station chicken counter.
With the menfolk away, I'm the man of the house. A girly-man, unschooled in the ways of plumbing and appliances and animal husbandry, though passable at remote-controlling. I've already plunged a toilet. It is so like those guys to leave me in the lurch. I've taken apart the innards of my dear Frig, whose uncomfortable rumblings and groanings led to the diagnosis of a malfunction in his ice-maker. I've skipped to the chicken house with a green and purple Easter basket and put all my eggs in it. Eggs which have now been freshly bathed and tucked into the bottom of Frig for the night.
As character in a 1950s movie, perhaps one starring Debbie Reynolds, or Tony Randall, might say, I'm batching it for the weekend. Those who know me would quibble on this pronouncement.
I'm b*tching it for the weekend.