Redneck Review

Thursday, June 30, 2005

The Bad Luck Garage

We don't spend too much time around the garage. Things just go
wrong. Wednesday, for example.

The boys wanted to set off some fireworks that were left over from
last year. #1 son got out the box. He got safety glasses for himself
and his brother. Now before you go saying that I am a big over-
protective nerd, get this: their dad lost the sight in his left eye because
when he was 14, he leaned over a parachute firework that didn't
go off, and then it did. So he says they must wear the safety glasses
or no fireworks.

I had just finished spraying part of the porch for ants with some
Save-A-Lot generic wasp and hornet spray (hey, if it's bad for
them, it must be bad for ants, too) and set the can on the shelf
by the garage door. I opened up the door and pushed the button
to open the big door so we could walk through to the carport.

#1 son handed me two punks. "Here, Mom, light these for us."
I grabbed them both about an inch from the end to light them
with a lighter. It took a minute, then SIZZLE! Sparks shot out
in all directions. I screamed, and ran down the sidewalk to the
parking area beside the garage. The boy had given me sparklers
instead of punks. I had noticed they were kind of gray, not brown.
But they had wooden sticks at the end. I thought they had turned
color from aging for a year. #1 turned color: white. He didn't
know they were sparklers, either. Good thing we didn't blow
up the car and the garage, what with the fresh bug spray and all.

Poor garage. We find the cats' dead treasures there: mice, birds,
baby moles, frogs, snakes. We also found our poor dead kitty,
Gizmo, there. He was curled up in his box "sleeping" as we left
for school one morning. #1 reached in to pet him, and got a
funny look and said, "Mom, I think you need to look at him."
He was still warm, but dead. He looked like he was asleep.

#2 son had his own bad luck in the garage. He was just a little
shaver, about 3 years old. He was clutching a chocolate-chip
granola bar (only the most nutritious breakfasts for my boys)
and squeezed it too hard. Half of it fell on the garage floor.
He screamed that he wanted it. I told him to eat the half he
had in his hand. NO! I said I would go in and get him another
one. NO! So, I did what any redneck mother in a hurry to
get to work would do....I picked it up and gave it to him. The
tears stopped, and all was right with the world. (This was
before we had any cats.)

The first time Hillbilly Husband backed our "new" used
Suburban out of the garage, he broke off the passenger
mirror. That was about a $100 error.

And then there was the untimely demise of Mr. Kickball.
Beware the horror that is my garage!


  • At 6:36 PM, Blogger Rebecca said…

    Hi Hillbilly Mom,
    I'm guessing that all the ghosts in your neighbourhood use your garage as their monthly meeting place? Kind of like a Rotatian or Lions club.

  • At 7:18 PM, Blogger Hillbilly Mom said…

    No, they stick to the house. The garage is just like a Friday the 13th in the calendar of my life. No spirit vibe there.


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