Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Party Hats & Ice Cream Cones

     We were enjoying dinner tonight at Applebee's when in parades a family plus others who are obviously going to celebrate someone's birthday. I only knew that because they were carrying birthday banners and presents. The presents were NOT a dead give-away, but I kinda figured the birthday banners were. Anyway, it got me to thinking (eating and thinking for me at the same time is way multi-tasking!). Who designed those hats that are worn at birthday parties and sometimes at New Year's Eve parties? You know, those cone-shaped hats that look like a miniature dunce hat precariously perched on a basketball.
     After everyone got seated and before the wait staff could take any orders, everyone in that party had to put on one of these hats, you know with the thin rubber band engulfing your chin so you can't really talk for fear of it stretching to its limit and smacking you right back in the kisser. They do look kinda stupid sitting there on top of someone's head, don't they? Although, when you think about it, no one really seems to mind. They're more interested in seeing if the candles can be extinguished with one fell swoop (I know some people who can't, but that's another blog!) or what's inside the pretty packages. I, for one, am more interested in getting to the heart of the menu and then to the traditional cake and ice cream that follows.
     So, really, where or when did these hats first make their appearance? Any trivia or history buffs out there? I probably could look it up, but that would be just way too easy. So I'm asking anyone willing to offer an explanation here. I do have an explanation, so I'll start this silly little game. Take a good, hard look at the hat when it's sitting on someone's head. Then slowly tilt your own head clockwise until your hair part reaches six o'clock. That would mean your chin is at noon (or midnight, whichever you prefer). Do you see what I see? Yes, it's actually an ice cream cone.
     Look again, quickly before it melts--er, leaves, or goes away, or whatever. The cone hat on top of the head makes it appear as an inverted ice cream cone. So if you tilt your head clockwise (or counterclockwise, whichever floats your root beer), you can see that the person's head becomes the "ice cream scoop" and the hat is the cone.
     So I offer this explanation of why the pointy hats were designed that way--ice cream cones and birthday parties are a great marriage. So much more longevity than any of Elizabeth Taylor's unions. So I think the hat was designed with the ice cream cone in mind. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it!!!

Tuesday, June 14, 2011


     Fred croaked.
     Well, actually, Fred died. He must be a victim of the drought. I think I first met Fred when he was just a little tad a couple of years ago when it last rained 'a good 'un.' Fred was on my doorstep and I nearly accidentally ended his life then when I stepped outside and he didn't give me a warning sign.
     I didn't see much of Fred after that. Oh, I saw him a couple of times hopping around the yard, looking for a swimming hole. But those were few and far between, as they still are. I never really thought much more about Fred until a few days ago when he surfaced--all petrified in a frog-sitting position. It's kind of sad seeing Fred that way. He was such a vibrant fellow, so full of life.
     But, actually, he appears to be "frozen in time", if you will. We discovered him in the bottom of the well pit. Poor guy probably thought that was his last resort so he tried to find water the only way he could. I'm sure it was dark in that well pit, but, then, I don't think frogs really mind if it's dark. They're probably most happy if there are a few insects to munch on and I"m sure there isn't a shortage of those in the well pit. From the looks of things, Fred grew up to be a good sized fella.
      I'm not sure what kind of stories Fred could tell if he were still alive. Probably a few about how he survived dry conditions as long as he could. I really hope Fred's predicament isn't an omen for the rest of us trying to weather out this drought. Hey, Fred, it's actually thundering outside right now. Could it be? Or is that just you singing your choruses in Froggy Heaven? Well, it's got a nice beat, but you can't dance to it.
      I would have enjoyed hearing Fred croak rather than seeing that Fred croaked!

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Hensama Bin Layin

     I am thoroughly convinced that I own a terrorist hen. At first I thought she was simply the "leader of the hood", so to speak. She always comes running up to me at somewhat of an angle, kind of like she's going to jump up and attack, but at the last minute she changes her mind when I give her a piece of my mind. When she sees me or hears me come out of the house, she comes on a dead sprint from wherever she is on the farm. Well, she definitely is a "free-range" hen.
     No vehicle is safe from Hensama. If a door is left open, she not-to-politely invites herself into the vehicle. She'll stand there a minute, contemplating the best way to hop into the vehicle. If it's a pickup, she opts for the floor because it's too far up to the seat. If it's a car, she's pretty confident she can leap onto the seat with a single bound. If the door is shut, she'll stare down the front bumper and eye the top of the hood.
     But Hensama did something a couple of days ago that earned her "the" name. I cruised into the feed barn to toss out a little hen scratch. Hensama came on the run and flogged her way to the front of the proverbial pecking order. I just picked up the nearly-empty sack and tossed out a little feed--along with a mouse. Forget the feed! Hensama spied the mouse and the chase was on. She'd take her claws, talons, whatever they're called, and try to step on the mouse. Mighty Mouse would zig and Hensama would zag. All the while she is clucking at the top of her lungs and the rest of the chicken ranch residents looked at her as if she had totally lost the remains of her pea brain.
     After a couple minutes of unsuccessfully trying to stomp Mighty, ole Hensama finally succeeded. She had the little furry creature slapped down on the ground underneath her claws. Down came the beak with a mighty stroke and little finesse. And that, my friends, was the end of Mighty Mouse. But Hensama didn't stop there. She proceeded to have herself a little mouse for breakfast. Perhaps it's a delicacy for chickens in some parts of the world, but here in Edison, Colorado, I prefer to think of it as a terrorist hen's delight!