This is not the post I had intended for today. I am awaiting pictures sent to my gmail account, which is behaving about like Blogger a couple of weeks ago. There is no excuse. I demand better service for my fee of...absolutely nothing.
So this is a lesser post. Like a lesser babka. The cinnamon babka of Hillbilly Mom posts, if you will. I hope that you don't find a hair on it. I also hope that Farmer H is not in a liquor store, wearing a Gore-Tex coat.
The #1 son is at it again. He needs his own show on the Travel Channel. Food Battles. That boy always wins.
Let's start with a disclaimer. It has been a busy week, and I have not yet been to the store. Yesterday, though the students were released at 12:45, the teachers had to stay until 3:00. And then be back in time to find a parking spot to participate in graduation ceremonies. So the cupboard is bare, and this Old Mother Hubbard is tired after returning to her Mansion at 9:00 last night. So tired, I broke my almost-record of posting almost every day.
#1, on the other hand, enjoyed a school lunch cookout of hot dogs by the industrial technology building. Right after that, when dismissed, he and his crones went out to eat. Then after graduation, the choir teacher took his techie helpers out to dinner in lieu of paying them all year. Not that I'm complaining, but he had paid them for the last two years, and then pulled the plug. Whatever. I just wish he would have made it clear that payments had ceased, because what with his Pavlovian conditioning, they kind of expected something each time they gave up their own afterschool and evening plans to set up and run audios and visuals for his events. He should have crushed their monetary dreams right away. They still would have helped him.
It was shortly before 11:00 p.m. when #1 returned to the Mansion. He carried a styrofoam tray of what looked like fettucini alfredo leftovers. And he was mad that it had not come with the two pieces of chicken as advertised, but had not complained. Too bad, so sad. The choir teacher got ripped off.
This morning it was just #1 and me in the Mansion. I got out of the shower to discover that he had eaten the two breadsticks from Captain D's that my mom had given me last night when I picked up The Pony after graduation. I found out when I offered to make #1 some sausage/pancake corndog dealybobbers. "No, that's all right. I'm full. I ate two breadsticks." When I complained that they were MY breadsticks, #1 was not contrite. "Oh, get over it. You can have my noodles." Which I did not want for breakfast, but filed away the thought for lunch. Because #1 was going to the movies.
About ninety minutes later, #1 said, "I wish you had made me those sausage/pancake dogs. You should make them for me now." I demurred. He had turned down that offer when it was on the table. Then #1 asked for gas money to go to the movie, because he might possibly be driving 30 miles out of his way to pick up a friend. And then demanded fast food money.
"No. I'm not paying for your friend to go to the movie. If you had to use your lawn-mowing money for gas instead of for $12 nachos whenever you feel like it, you would start charging your riders gas money. The other kids do."
"Well, if I was paying for my own gas, I would. Now give me money for McDonalds."
"No. I'll make you a baloney sandwich."
"I don't want a baloney sandwich. I want McDonalds."
"You're not getting money from me. You barely have enough of your own for a movie and snacks."
"I have it in my account, but I hate to take it out."
"You should hate it, for something like that."
"OK. Make me a sandwich. HEY! I'll have my noodles!"
"You mean the noodles you gave me when you ate my breadsticks?"
"Yeah. Warm them up." The noodles were gone in two minutes.
He left for the movies. Upon return, he complained that he had to spend $5 for a Slurpee.
"Five dollars! You could have gotten popcorn for that."
"I didn't want popcorn. Now what's for supper?"
"Who says I'm cooking supper? You can make a baloney sandwich."
"I don't want that. Make me hot chicken tacos."
"I'll put in the chicken, but you take it out. It takes 30 minutes. You have to turn it over after 15."
"That's too much work. You do it." He fiddled with the McDonalds bag that The Pony had carried in after his day with Grandma. "Hey! Here's a cheeseburger!" He started unwrapping it.
"That was going to be MY supper."
"Heh, heh. It's mine now."
"Let's see. You ate my breadsticks. Then you ate the noodles you gave me to replace the breadsticks. Now you're eating The Pony's leftover cheeseburger that I had claimed for my supper."
"If you let me have the cheeseburger, I'll cook my own hot chicken."
"I already put them in."
"Yeah. But I'll take them out." He chewed the last of the cheeseburger. "So all you have to do is turn them in 15 minutes."
That boy is a world-class negotiator. Or manipulator.