Getting One's Goat

So...yeah. I'm neglecting my blog. But really, it's summer. Who isn't? And besides, I have been very distracted with important things like working at work, working on houses, sending my youngest child off to Europe and milking the goat.

That's right. I said milking the goat.

Backup.

About a week ago I came home from a particularly bedraggling day at work. I had to go to a lot of properties that ... how shall I say ... have a snowball's chance in Hell of gracing the covers of Better Homes & Gardens. I spent so much time walking through knee-high grass, poison ivy and little snakey playgrounds that, when I finally came home to my own little snakey playground full of knee-high grass and poison ivy, I dedided something drastic would have to be done. I just couldn't take it any more. I got out the weed wacker.

DUM DUM DUMMMMMMM!!!!!!

You don't know my history with lawn equipment. It's not pretty. I have what is kind of like the Midas touch but instead of everything I touch turning to gold, it pretty much truns to crap. At least as far as lawn euipment goes.

No, really. There isn't a piece of lawn euipment we own that I didn't break. The one item that I was doing really well with - a string trimmer on wheels - I finally ran over with the car. And not on purpose, either. So, you kind of see what I mean.

Anyway, I got the weed wacker out and basically drove myself batty for 3 hours until I finally got tired of taking it apart and putting it back together. In that time, I managed to clear about a 5 x 6 foot area.

It was then that I made the fateful proclamation to my hubby. "We're getting a goat."

He was pretty amused by all of this because he's been trying to get me to agree to the whole goat thing for about two years now. All of these tales of "eating the poison ivy" and "clearing the brush" and whatnot won him over quite a while ago. I, on the other hand, never had any desire to get a goat. They always looked a little bit just this side of evil to me. I don't know exactly what it is - probably because, of all the livestock animals, they would be the ones to most remind me of monkeys with their lower lip all sticking out and everything. And I hate monkeys. I hate monkey because they remind me of people and, well, I can't even tell you how much people freak me out.

But I digress.

I don't think my hubby really took me seriously until I piled him, my daughter and her friend into the station wagon and headed off to the farm market. When we got there, we sent the girls on their merry way and went to look at the available goats. It was very disappointing because there were only two there and, wouldn't you know, they were L Mancha goats which have the distinction of not really growing ear flaps. You wanna talk about weird, take a look at this...



See what I mean? There is no way I wanted to look out my window and see an earless goat grazing around my lawn. No siree. We dicided to go walk about the farm market awhile and check back later. As luck would have it, shortly before the auction started, more goats arrived. Goats that had ears. Woopee!

Now, let me pause here a minute and tell you, if you are a meat eater, and you want to remain a meat eater, don't ever go to a livestock auction. At one point, the girls, both vegetarians (before the auction, even) came in to have a look. Unfortunately for them, they happened to come in during the veal calf acution.

I'm not a veal eater to begin with. After this, I will never be a veal eater. Here is a basic summary of the veal calf's thoughts throughout it's little life span...

"Oh, look at me! I'm born! What is this big, wet tongue? Oh, you must be my mother. Hey, wait a minute. Where did my mother go? Oh, look. A truck. I'm going for a ride, I'm going for a ride. Oooh! A big pen full of other little guys just like me! Hey guys, what's up? Hey, wait a minute. They keep taking them out one by one and no one's coming back. Oh boy! My turn! Wow, a whole bunch of people staring at me and one guy talking really fast. Oh! Another ride on a truck! I'm going for a ride, I'm going for a ride! Hey! A big creature in bibs! You must be my new mother. Um...someone forgot me in this shoe box here... Um, hello? Anyone? Oohh...food. Oohh...more food. And more food. Yay! I finally get to come out of the shoe box and..."

And that's pretty much it. Now you are veal.

But the problem here is that they are SO DAMN CUTE with their little cow faces and big, black eyes. The girls eventually left, more committed than ever to remaining vegetarian. And so it goes.

Eventually it was time for the goats. Luckily, we had a wise old farmer dude sitting next to us to clue us in on the finer points of livestock auction bidding. Goats by the head, sheep by the pound.

It was very exciting because it all goes so fast and you really have no idea what is happening until the auctioneer says "Lady, you just bought yourslef that goat" in a tone of voice that may as well have been saying "Lady, do you have any idea what the hell you are doing buying a goat" and all the time you're thinking to yourslef "I think I just bought that goat and what the hell am I doing buying a goat?" And that fast, we had a goat. Now all we had to do was get the goat home. In a station wagon. With two girls. The old farmer dude's last words to me were "Good luck." He had no idea.

I figured we needed something to help in restraining the goat for when she busts through the back window of the car as we wait in traffic so we set about finding a dog collar. Out of the 80 bazillion vendors at this farm market, exactly none sell dog collars. Go figure. So instead, we bought her a sassy little purple bandanna.

We took our receipt and drove around to the back of the auction building to pick up our goat. Very much like a lumber yard or something. All of the loading docks were full so hubby waited in the car while I tried to go score us a pick-up spot. As I waited, I watched a family load a sizeable calf into the back of a blazer. The side window was busted out and repaired with plastic and duct tape. I looked at our little station wagon with all of its windows still intact and wondered to myself if I really gave the weed wacker enough of a chance. Before I could get into the car and tell my hubby to just drive away, the dock guy asked me for my slip.

"One goat" I said, and motioned to my hubby to bring the car over.

I can only imagine what the man was thinking when he came back with our goat to find the back hatch of the wagon open with two teenage girls looking back at him, giddily screaming "A goat! A goat! A goat!", eagerly waiting to tie the little purple bandanna around its neck. I supposed he didn't think too much about it because he uncerimoniously deposited the goat into the wagon and wished me luck.

What do I look like? Some kind of greenhorn? I've dealt with animals. I own a farm for cryin' out loud. Just not one with traditional livestock as of yet. I wanted to tell him "Look, buddy. I've got a farm with 8 head of cats!" Instead, I just got in the car and told my husband "Let's get this goat home before it smashes a window.

Well, we made it home with all windows intact. As a matter of fact, the goat seemed to be quite comfortable in the car. And why not? I'm sure she didn't go cruising around in air-conditioning at her former home.

When we got her home, she set right about the business of eating the weeds. Good goat.

We decided to name her Gyra because we figured - however incorrect we may be- that Gyra is the feminine of Gyro and a goat is pretty close to lamb and Gyra sounds nicer than Mutton. Not that we're going to eat her. I'll eat her right after I eat my lawn mower.

After about 2 days, we noticed she was getting a little big in the udder and hubby said "Maybe she was milking. We're going to have to decide whether we want to milk her or let her dry up."

We. We are, he says.

I don't know about him, but I've never had to milk the lawn mower.

We decide to let him give it a try while I hold her and whaddayaknow we got a bowl full of goat milk. And another one the next day. And the next day. And then all of a sudden, his work schedule shifted and "Anne, you're going to have to milk Gyra today." And the rest, as they say, is how she bacame a goat milker.

You may wonder what we're doing with all of this goat milk. Well, you're not alone there. I'm wondering what we're doing with it all as well because we really don't have the equipment to do this in a very sanitary manner so we could use it for drinking or cheese or something. The only alternative I've found so far is to make soap with it. So, when Christmas time comes around, guess what's going to be under everyone's tree...

Anyway, now she's all settled in and, I have to admit, I've grown pretty fond of her. She's not really all that evil looking and she is very friendly. Very friendly. Like she wants to be around us all the time. So much so that when we go into the house, she walks around looking in the windows until she finds which room we are in and then watches us. Because, you know, goats are herding animals. I did not intend to be part of the herd. I do not like looking over my bowl of Rice Krispies and seeing a goat staring back at me. I do not like walking out on to my front porch to find a goat lazing on my picnic table waiting for someone to follow around the yard. So, you might guess where this is going. And you might guess where we're going. In our station wagon. Because we are farmers, dammit.

Fitting In

Hi.

Remember me?

Anyway.

Here's a little post to keep you interested. Nothing exciting, mind you. Just a maintenance dose.

Over the weekend, I decided to go visit my friend. The friend - and the visit - have nothing really to do with the story. But that's where I was headed when I looked at my gas gauge and realized I wouldn't be going much of anywhere if I didn't stop and pay my resects to the Bush cartel. Bitter much? Moi? Noooooo.

So I pull into this gas station/convenience store which was recently bought out by some East Indian folks. Now, I only mention this because it is very pertinent to what happened.

I'm standing pumping my gas, draining my wallet, whatever, when I notice a car pull into a parking spot. I watch as an East Indian woman gets out and walks into the store. I didn't really notice anything else about her and just figured she might be a member of the family that now owns the store.

When I am done, I hang the nozzle back on the pump, curse George Bush and his tyrannical ways, and head into the store to get a drink and make payment. As I walk in, I notice the woman is chatting with the lad behind the counter. I get a coke out of the cooler - yes, I'm back on, have been for a while - and go back to the front to pay. As I come around the counter, I get a better view of the gal. She's on the youngish side, pretty and I notice she's slightly pregnant. Ok, not really sightly but more like volleyball than basketball. I hand the guy my money and, as I'm waiting for my change, I glance one more time at the woman and that is when I notice it. Her T-shirt.

Now there are plenty of T-shirts I own for painting, garden work and what-not that I would only wear out in public if I happened to quickly run out for a drink, supplies, whatever. You know the kind. They were either given to you by a misguided relative (ie. "Pray For Me - My Husband Is Italian") or they are hold overs that you bought when you were either young, stupid or drunk or all three (ie. "The Difference Between Men And Boys Is Cubic Inches" tastefully displayed inside the Chevy logo, of course).

These are the shirts that linger and linger then rise to the surface of the shirt drawer every once in a while like a pond turning. They show up during that time period when you are PMSed to the hilt and cannot look at a washing machine without wanting to murder someone dear to you. It usually coincides with the diminution of the pants and underwear drawer which is why you will often see angry, bloated women, buying bread, milk and other items of such necessity, at the grocery store clad in neon green stretch pants that highlight the lines of the giant briefs beneath them, yellow socks, all topped off with a pink T-shirt sporting a giant Minnie Mouse face or, perhaps, a large white T-shirt with the words "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go!" in big, block letters. Don't look at her. Don't judge her. Just give her your silent prayers.

Anyway.

I don't know if this was one of those T-shirts or not. But I couldn't get over it. It was so good I wanted to take her picture. It was a gray shirt with a picture of a screaming eagle, wings and talons outstretched. Over the eagle, in big block letters colored in the pattern of the Rebel Flag, were the words "The South Will Rise Again!"

On an East Indian gal.

Now that's assimilation.

The Ugly, The Bad and The Good

Hi folks.

I know the title is a little backwards but I figure most people like to get the good news last. Also it will keep you on your toes.

So, first The Ugly...

Most of you who read this know my dear seestor and you can pretty much figure on how the genetic chips fell. For those of you who don't, I will give a quick summation. My dear older sister got the looks, the body, the brains, the wit, the talent, etc.

I got...um...well...I got my grandmother's really big arms which would probably be good for working the fields of Poland. And...I got...um...a pretty good tolerance for heat and loud noises...which would be good for...um...working the fields of Poland during a war in the summer. And I got...um...well...I suppose that's it.

So anyway, it is only when the planets align perfectly perfect that I can look at myself in the mirror, smile and say "Well...that'll have to do." And that, my friends, is a good day.

It just so happened that I was on my way to one of those good days recently. For some strange reason my hormones, which have waged a continuouse battle on my face since age 11, decided to have a cease fire. One day of no zits, blotches or blemishes. One good day out of my entire life. It was nothing short of a miracle, my friends. I went into the bathroom to get ready for work, looked in the mirror and realized this, this is the day I have been waiting for all my life. I could cast aside the concealer saying "Not today, Covergirl. I don't need you!"

And then...

Who knew? I mean, really. I was just getting a shower. And I don't even really have nails! Whhaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!

I was washing my face, for cryin' out loud! I just went to splash some water on my soapy face, misjudged and OW! I gouged a rather large chunk of skin right out of my chin. A gouge! Out of my chin! What the crap??!! That is so unfair!

So, instead of having a small little red spot on my face that I could hide with make-up, I had a huge wound pulsing deep, red blood.

Sigh.

When I got into the office my co-worker told me I looked like I fell off my bike.

No sympathy.

And now...The Bad...

So, if any of you read the last post, you know my teenage son now has his driver's permit. And I was worried about it. Silly me. How misguided was my concern.

For, lo! He bought himself a dirt bike. Not just a dirt bike like BMX bicycle. No, no. This is a motorcycle dirt bike ala Evil Knievel. Hello, it's a freaking RACING BIKE. Like FAST. Sigh, again.

You know, it didn't really bother me too much because he's been riding since he was 6. It's not like this is anything new. And, to be honest, I'm kind of proud of him. He worked at odd jobs and saved up the money himself. He found the bike himself and now it's in our garage.

The clever among you may say "Why is it in the garage? Why isn't he out riding it?"

Yeah, well...



That would be his tooth. Or, more appropriately, the lack of his tooth.

You see, he did go out riding. And jumping. And crashing. And then for an emergency root canal. And then for x-rays on his face. Did I mention that he hasn't even been out of school for a full week yet?

So, next week we get to go see the orthodontist about a new tooth.

As for me, I'm pushing for a gold cap. You know, for that gangsta look.

And by now, we're all about ready for...The Good

Well, I'm a proud new mother. I've waited for months and now, my little one has arrived.

Not a BABY for Pete's sake! What the heck it the matter with you?!!

Of this...



Yes...it's a Martin. A beautiful, baby Martin.

My dear hubby - did I mention how much I love him? - got it for me as a birthday present.

The story is, I found the guitar I wanted and decided I would save up, little by little, to buy it. I printed out the information on it, drew a little "This-Is-How-Much-I-Raised" thermometer next to the picture, and stuck it on the refrigerator. My plan was that, by looking at the guitar every day, I would be motivated not to spend my money on anything frivolus like food and, instead, save my money for the guitar. I suppose my hubby figure I'd be long ago starved to death by the time the guitar actually arrived so he went and ordered it for me.

What a guy!

Did I mention how much I love him? And really, it's not just because he got me a Martin. Really, it's not.

No, really.

So, there you have it, The Ugly, The Bad and The Good. Just another day in the life...

Oh, Adrenaline! At Long Last, We Are Together Forever!

So, I took my son to get his driving permit yesterday.

My heart rate is starting to come down, thank you very much.

It's not that he's a bad driver...it's just that there are so many other drivers out there, and he's my son, and very inexperienced, and did I mention he's my son and there are so many other people on the road and he's my son?

I can't explain it but those of you who have kids know exactly what I mean.

It was great and terrifying. Greatly terrifyig.

He wanted to drive home from the driver's center but I wouldn't let him.

"Not on this road" said I. "We're going to start out on some small back roads at home and then we can work up to this."

As luck would have it, we couldn't have made it 100 feet down the road from the driver's center parking lot when a guy backed right out of his driveway in front of me. This is a 4 lane highway we're on folks. There shouldn't even be driveways on 4 lane highways but, as the story goes, the houses were there first and progress and planning came along at a much later date. So now, you have these little houses with little driveways - not big enough to turn a car around in - on this 4 lane highway where the speed limit is 55. So, if one is not coming from the driver's center parking lot a mere 100 feet away, but rather tooling along doing the speed limit, you can have one of these folks - the "Teachable Moment Folks" I like to call them - back out in front of you. And, you know, it's not some youngish aggressive driver in a 5 speed BMW backing out in front of you. No, no my dear readers. It's a rather aged person is a big-ass automatic Buick that would only see any kind of quick and immediate acceleration if it was strapped to an ICBM.

"Whoa there, Buddy! What the heck are you doing? Can't you see cars are coming?" I rattle at the unknowing driver. "There. There you go" I said to my son. "The perfect reason you can't drive home today." Luckily, I managed to scoot around him unscathed but not unseethed. "Idiot."

Son, of course, was confident in his abilities to avoid the lumbering Buick. I, on the other hand, am slightly more skeptical.

We spent the rest of the trip home with me prattling on about "tips for dirving" and grilling him on road signs.
Me: What does that sign mean?
Him: Merging traffic from the right.
Me: Good. What does that sign mean?
Him: Caution, hard right turn ahead. Slow to 35 miles per hour.
Me: Good. What does that sign mean?
Him: Um...Interstate 81 is that way?
Me: Good. What does that sign mean?
Him: Uh...McAdoo is getting public sewer. That has nothing to to with driving...
Me: Never you mind. What does that sign mean?

And so on.

He did eventually get to drive. We all went out after hubby got home for work for a celebratory dinner of diner food with deep fried appetizers, complete with soft ice cream for desert. Of course, it was dark by the time we left.

"You know" I ventured, "It's ok if you had enough for today. I can drive home."

He was having none of it.

So, there you have it folks. My kid is out and about on the Pennsylvania roadways. It's amazing to me how many parents are going through this every day, knowing their child is now out among the driving population. It has really opened my eyes at my own driving habits, encouraging me to be a little extra careful. So, if you don't mind me asking a favor...BE CAREFUL!!! THAT'S MY KID OUT THERE!!!!!

What the...She Got Me!

Well.

It appears that a sniper blogger - my sister no less - has nailed me with a...Meme? What? Hello? Meme?

What it this? I am not sure I can explain it. It seems the gist of it is to answer questions about one's self and then pass said questions on to some other unsuspecting blogger who is merely sitting in her own little world, picking at her toes, thereby forcing her to actually think about something.

A cruel sport indeed.

So here are the questions and, with much anguish, my answers.

1. Estimate the total number of books you've owned in your life.

In my life? Are you kidding me? I have enough trouble remembering how many children I've had in my life and so far it's only two. As best I can tell.

Holy crap. Books? In my life? I know it's more than 22 because I own a full set of encyclopedias and I know I at least have another book besides that.

So, answer to question #1 is >22.


2. What's the last book you bought?

Hmmm... This one I'm not sure of. Do I count the one I might as well have bought because the library fine was equal to or greater than the purchase price? I suppose bought presumes keeping so we'll just rule that one out.

Let's see...bought...

I guess it would have to be The Dione Lucas Book of Natural French Cooking.

As opposed to The Dione Lucas Book of Unnatural French Cooking.

Why did I buy this? Well, you're guess is as good as mine. Ok, not really. I have the inside scoop on this one. I happened upon a set of 8 of those little soup crocks in a second hand store and I thought it would be a good idea to have them for when I make French onion soup because I did make it once before in my 35 years on this planet. And why buy the crocks without digging through the cookbooks because, even though I have no less than a bazillion cookbooks already...er...um...I guess I better go back and change my answer to question number one. See, this is why these kinds of things drive me crazy. I already got one wrong. Anyway, even though I have no less than >22 cookbooks and encyclopedias already - that I really don't use anyway, mind you, because when you get down to it aren't recipes really just a suggestion and not really meant to be taken as an actual course of action? - even though all of that, there might just be a better recipe for French onion soup in The Dione Lucas Book of Natural French Cooking.

Whew. Two down, three to go.


3. What's the last book you read?

Now this is a tricky one. I'm going to assume, for the sake of ease, that it means what was the last book you actually read from start to finish. I have a terrible habit of starting many, many books. Or sometimes not necessarily starting them at the start but just opening them up somewhere in the middle and reading it. Sometimes I even read the last page first. So, I guess you can really say I have a terrible habit of starting, middling and even ending books.

But, again, we'll just assume it means read all the way.

So, I guess the answer to that one would have to be Tangerine. It was one that my son was reading for school and I happened to pick it up while eating a bowl of cereal one morning. The rest, as they say, is history.


4. List 5 books that mean a lot to you.

Oh brother. Here we go...

First, I suppose would have to be The Bible for obvious reasons. I still never managed to read my way through the whole thing. I rarely read it at all actually - unless you count by proxy when I go to church. At any rate, a lot of what I follow in my day to day dealings comes from there. Also, a lot of good bluegrass music.

Second...a tie between Webster's Encyclopedic Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language and The Merriam Webster Thesaurus. I cannot function without them. I love, adore and delight in my engaging little thesaurus for one can have lashings of jocundity attempting to mizzle one's cater-cousin with curious vocalbes. The Dictionary, of course, helps one determine whether it is more appropriate to "mizzle one's cater-cousin" as opposed to "bumfuzzle one's cully". It also comes in real handy when I have to drive the big truck with t he seat that doesn't move.

Third...The Hitchiker's Guide to the Universe et al. The funniest damn books.

Fourth...The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. You know, I've never been into the whole self-help thing because, hey, why mess with perfection, right? But really, this book is pretty darn good.

And, finally...A Visit From St. Nick. It's not so much the story itself as the traditions tied to it. We still read it to our kids on Christmas Eve. Awwwwwww...


One more to go!


5. Tag 5 people!

What?!! Wait a minute... 5 people?! I only know 4 other people that do this and my sister - who is one of them - already tagged two of the others! Crap!
Ok, so I only have one other reader out there who actually comments here so...
d.b.echo...get hoppin' on this...

And, um... if there's anyone else out there other than my sister and cousins...tag on you as well. Report back here when you are done.


Whew. It is finished.

Judging Books By Covers

This past Monday, Memorial Day, I spent pretty much the first half of the day attending parades. That's right, I said parades. As in more than one. Two to be exact. And, while I enjoy a good small town parade just as much as the next one, it was only by association with a certain high school marching band that I came to find myself watching two that day.

I only bring this up as a segue into the real meat of the story.

After parade number one finished, the certain high school marching band was supposed to play a number or two at a memorial service at the cemetary in small town number one and then board the school busses to small town numbered two for parade number two. Not wanting to get caught in traffic, I high-tailed it out of small town number one and headed directly to small town number two to find a parking space reasonably close to the end of the parade route. My goal was to pick up my marchers and make it back home in time to have a beer at an early enough hour to feel as though I celebrated Memorial Day in true coal region style. Too late in the day, you see, and you are not really celebrating the holiday - you are just another pitiful drinker. And we don't want that tag now, do we?

So I make it into small town number two, find a good parking spot and set out to find out how long I have to wait before the parade starts. It was the first time I was in this particular town for this particular parade so I also had to find out the route it was going to take. My guess was that it would be coming down the street lined with folding lawn chairs and a sofa or two but you just never know...

I found a kind looking older man and queried as to the start time. "11:00 is what I'm told" he says. I look at my watch. 10:10. Hopefully he wasn't lied to. I had about 50 minutes to kill in a town that has exactly one store which is a small time grocery store/sandwich shop. I briefly thought about perusing the aisles of the store but figured they would have the same canned peas and jet-puffed marshmallows every other store in Schuylkill County has. Instead, I bought a hot dog from the woman with the gas grill in front of the store and decided to wander about looking at the houses and mingling with the people.

Again, with small town being so small, there isn't exactly a vast array of architecture to look at. As I wandered, I found myslef paying more attention to the 2 liter soda bottles that were fashioned into decorative spinning things and the people already enjoying their Memorial Day beers. There was a staggering amount of both.

I was keeping my eye out for the 6 school bus caravan that would signal the arrival of our marching band. It was about 10 minutes before the start time of the parade and I didn't catch a glimpse of any busses. Right about then, my daughter called me to say they were on their way. "Cutting it a little bit close, aren't they?" I asked her. She then explained how they were delayed at the memorial service and, had I not been in such a rush to find a good parking spot in small town number two, I would have witnessed one of the memorial service attenders passing out and konking his punkin head on a tombstone on his way to taking a face-down nap in the cemetery grass. Damn...I always miss the action.

Eventually, I found myself on a corner that, judging by the crowd gathering there, seemed to be the hub of the hubbub. I figured this would be a good place to stand and take it all in and, with hot dog in hand, I looked every bit the local parade goer.

I noticed an older woman slowly making her way toward the corner. As I watched her approach, I took in the whole picture: festive patriotic sweatshirt, maroon pants, jacket carried ever-so-gently over arm from which dangled one of the largest pocket-books I've every seen (old ladies here don't have purses, they have pocket-books), and sensible running shoes - probably cross trainers. I thought about how she's probably lived here all her life, marking the years with each passing parade. Someone's grandmother, who will probably have family meeting her or stopping by her house later to take her out to visit graves. She probably worked in one of the local garment factories before they closed down, one by one, leaving the women to return to nests either long empty or still brimming with mouths to feed. She probably has little doilies on the arms of her sofa and plastic grapes in a bowl on the window sill. Maybe she has a little dog that runs and barks around the peonies growing in her meticulous yard. Her husband probably was in the service and this parade most likely means more to her than I can ever know. She was amost to the spot where I was standing and I had conjured such an existence for her that I could have thrown my arms arond her in a big hug just because.

She started to rummage around in her purse and stopped right next to me. I was expecting a "Oh, I can't seem to find my watch...do you know if the parade will start soon?" Or perhaps, "My heavens. What on earth did I do with my hankie?" At which point I would graciously offer one of my clean napkins.

What I got was..."Goddammit...I can't find my son-of-a-bitchen lighter! Where the frick did I put it? I can't find anything in this goddamned bag it's so friggin' big!"

I did not have a light to offer. Only conversation. Which I did. Then I finished my hot dog, watched the parade and enjoyed the wonder of it all.