White Trash

The last day of overtime! Woo-hoo!!

It was rough to get out of bed this morning. The alarm went off, I got up, reset it for another 15 minutes, went back to bed, and spent those minutes mentally justifying what I’d done. And I still got to work on time. I rule.

Since I didn’t leave time for breakfast at home, I’m stuck with what the vending machine has to offer. Unfortunately my choices were Salisbury steak or a “my mommy hates me” lunch (known in some circles as Lunchables) (and yes, God help us, they have their own website). I think of them as a little adventure in a box. How exactly do they get the turkey perfectly round, flat, and cracker-sized? Speaking of cracker, how white trash do I feel for eating this crap for breakfast?

In a not-too-subtle segue, Debbie’s boyfriend came straight to our house last night after a day spent hunting. He walked into the living room in head-to-toe camouflage, carrying a bloody huge gun/rifle thing. I was like, “Um, no.” I insisted he take it outside — put it in the barn, his truck, anywhere but the house. Irrational, maybe, but I will not have guns in my house. He grumbled, but he did it…and Debbie thanked me. But get this: he then proceeds, without asking permission, to skin and gut a deer in the yard! We didn’t realize what he was doing till he’d already started. Am I wrong to think this was incredibly rude and wrong? He just assumes, since we live in the country, that we’ll be okay with him disemboweling a furry creature in our yard. What’s even worse, he left a bloody (and worse) patch of grass when he was done. He wasn’t even going to clean up after himself! I was livid, and at this point Debbie even balked and made him go hose it down.

Man, I’m still steamed over this. I’m ambivalent about hunting as a pastime…I think people who do it generally have a screw loose, with some exceptions…but I can see both sides. But c’mon! We’re talking about respect for personal property here, which I’ve noticed that hunters in Hanover County lack. I can’t tell you the number of times we’ve heard shots from the back of our woodland, and we’ve had to yell at Debbie’s father more than once to stop squirrel hunting on our land, because we have a cat who looks remarkably like a fat squirrel. What is wrong with these people?

Fume, fume, grumble…I leave you with these thoughts and return to my white trash breakfast. Happy Wednesday…