Ah, Hail…

You know that I never exaggerate, so you can take this to the bank as solid truth:

I’m fairly certain that Thing 2 is a cross between a kangaroo and a squirrel.

Who has been given a four-shot Americano from Starbucks.

Followed by a Mountain Dew chaser.

And a dozen Pixy Stix.

I had really good intentions today of using Thing 2’s nap time to resize pictures from our trip to the zoo, because, Y’ALL!  We left town last weekend, and we did some things!  I haven’t had time to shrink all my pictures down to something that can be handled by computers here on earth, but today was the day.

And then my kangaquirrel took a nap that lasted for 55 minutes, before he was back up and juggling the dining room chairs with his bouncy feet.

And then my friend, Elaine, texted me from Bigger Town, and said, “Holy burritos, Batman!  We have just had the hail storm of the century, and it is HEADED YOUR WAY!”  Do you know what I do when people tell me that giant storms are coming?

I pretty much pack a First Aide kit and refill my chai latte and do some pacing from one window in the house to another.

And then the storms never do actually hit.

I texted Hubs and told him, “Elaine says they had big hail.  She actually called it ‘vicious hail,’ and she said it’s heading towards us.”

Hubs was very unconcerned.  Hubs wishes he was a storm chaser.  Hubs has actually verbalized his desire to chase down an F-5 tornado and get it on film.  He also wants to scuba dive in a metal cage and pet a Great White Shark on the nose.  And he’s said that if there are ever private flights to Mars, he would go.

Our insurance company actually loves Hubs.  They keep asking him if maybe he doesn’t want to add skydiving and trapeze flying to his bucket list.

Hubs is not one to take any precautions in the threat of a major storm, unless it’s to refill his Coke and get a good seat outside to watch things unfold.  So you can imagine my shock when Hubs called me thirty minutes later and literally yelled into the phone, “Are you and Thing 2 okay?  GET HIM AWAY FROM THE WINDOWS!”

Do you know what two opening sentences like that do to me in a phone conversation?  My adrenaline shot up so hard, the top of my head burst off.  I suddenly envisioned the F-5 bearing down on us.

We got zero-point-zero hail at the Jedi Manor.  What we did get was a little rain.

What Hubs got at his office across town was hailstones that were bigger than golf balls.  They were actually working themselves up to be baseballs.  The storm broke everyone’s windshield in their office parking lot.  The hail exploded Hubs’ friend Ryan’s sunroof into glass dust.  Little trees lost their lives; bushes went home to be with Jesus.  Glass was flying, the horses in the nearby pasture were taking a beating, and Hubs’ truck will never be the same.

(Which might be a blessing, because Hubs’ truck is the kind of truck that you usually see lining a river bed, to keep erosion from happening.)

(If we would quit spending our dollars at Starbucks, Hubs might be able to upgrade to something as nice as a ranch truck that’s seen better days.)

Naturally, when Thing 2 is bouncing off the walls and climbing onto my desk and throwing dishes out of the dishwasher, and when Hubs calls to say, “We’re under attack out here,” I just give up on resizing pictures from our weekend.

(Don’t judge me; I think I took upwards of four hundred snapshots.  It was THE ZOO, people!  The zoo!  It’s not every day you see Melman the giraffe craning his neck to see if he has melanoma on his neck.)

So what I have for you tonight is simply this:

Guess who was introduced to cream cheese on a Ritz cracker today?

IMG_5205 IMG_5206 IMG_5212He loved it.

And now, with the kangaquirrel in bed, fast asleep, Hubs and I are going to go sit in silence with a box of wine.  We’re decompressing from the day and mourning the death of a truck that should have given up the Ghost years ago.

Y’all have a great weekend.  With any luck at all, sometime next week, I’ll show you pictures from our trip from LAST WEEKEND.  It’ll be exactly like reading a week-old newspaper, only not as much fun.

Carry on.

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