Foolery

Just Like Normal People

Here is my fancy-schmancy new handbag, which is actually a feed bucket for horses.

As promised to my friend Brian, who said he wanted to see it full of Skittles, here's a look inside:

Sorry Brian; no Skittles. That would just be weird. Where do you get these ideas, anyway?

Strap on the Feed Bag

I saw this Saturday at the Red Bluff Bull & Gelding Sale. Do you know what it is?

Nope, it's a feed bucket for your horse. Durable, crushable, probably indestructible, American-made, and beautiful. I admired it at this booth:

And my sweet, goofy mother heard me and slipped my equally sweet and goofy brother some cash so he could buy it for me while I wasn't paying attention, which is pretty much any time. It's gorgeous, with nubuck leather trim and strap and belting leather bottom (mine is trimmed in tan). Can you tell I used to sell fine leather goods? I did, you know. Also, those holes are breathing holes. Uh-huh.

Yes, I said a feed bucket. No, I don't have a horse. I'm filling mine with Skittles.

(Photo stolen from this guy)

Thanks Mom! I know you're mystified by why anyone would want to throw on a feed bag and walk around that way, but the fact that you indulge my idiosyncrasies and don't question my weirdness means you're weirder than I am, and that's probably where I got it.

If you want to see pictures from this year's Red Bluff Bull & Gelding Sale -- and why wouldn't you? -- please check out my blog post at my other blog, Reasonably Educated Bumpkins.

Good Samaritans on the Rampage

The doorbell rang at 10:00 last night. I had forgotten that we have a doorbell, frankly.

It was the neighbor, Lupe, and her granddaughter Miranda. They are lovely and thoughtful and were simply telling me that the dome light was on in my car, thus saving me a dead battery today.

However. When the doorbell rings it sends our two dogs into an absolute frenzy. The kids were asleep. Chas was asleep. I was watching TV and bolted out of the chair.

“Hi? Just a minute!” I yelled through the window of the front door. Lupe and Miranda could hear the howling and yapping of The Demon Dogs, who were not the least bit interested in getting into their crate so I could open the door. Of course not. But at least they were far away, over by the bay window, when I opened the door --

“Hola,” I said, as Wally shot between my feet through the doorway and out into the night.

“Hi Laurie,” said dear Miranda, speaking for her grandmother. “The light is on in your --”

“Just a second, honey -- WALLYYYYYYYYY!” I called frantically, knowing it’s useless to call any kind of hound when his nose is busy (and it’s ALWAYS busy). As I hustled past them onto the lawn, sock-footed, Miranda kept on, undaunted: “-- in your car, so we wanted to tell you, so . . .”

“Thank you so much!” I enthused, distracted by the whuffling beagle I was trying to outsmart by pretending not to give chase. Wally had rounded the front of the house, headed for the pitch black back yard and then . . . THE PASTURE. If Wally got to the pasture there’d be no catching him tonight. “Wally, c’mere boy,” I called weakly, hoping not to spook him. Miranda suddenly understood my distraction.

“C’mere, Wally!” she called brightly. And do you know, that dog -- who has never come when he’s called, EVER -- trotted calmly up to Miranda for pats and scratches? I scooped him up as nonchalantly as I could manage, and thanked Lupe and Miranda profusely for everything, then carried the still sniffing Wally into the house and bolted the door.

A dead battery wouldn’t have been so bad, would it?