Not Funny

            Our wonderful kids were in town for my birthday, and first gave me this card:

        Okay, pretty funny. But then... there is a LIFE RULE we must all follow, but which I forgot about, and broke while my kids were in town: Never tip your hand.

          This means that if you are afraid of some creature, you do not reveal this, or you will be tormented by versions of this animal popping up in what your family thinks are hilarious moments.

          Remember when I told you about meerkats?  You can read that blog here, and I recommend it because it is hilarious:

https://jonihilton.blogspot.com/2013/10/the-sorry-truth-about-meerkats.html

              Yes, I came home to find a little meerkat family figurine in a plate
of ketchup.

              I’ve also shared a personal, scary bat story here, which you must read next: https://jonihilton.blogspot.com/2025/08/batting-thousand.html

              And now, while my darling family is in town for my surprise birthday, somehow the subject of bats comes up and I relay the bat story.

              So, they all head off to the supermarket to shop, and what do I see when I walk into the family room?

               What supermarket sells stuffed bats?  It sounds like a dreadful appetizer, doesn’t it?  Anyway, this one’s kind of cute, I have to admit. (And next time, I'm telling them I'm afraid of chocolate ice cream.)

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A True Birthday Surprise

           I told St. Bob I didn’t want a fuss for my birthday. Just let it come and go, you know? So he said he’d take me to a hotel downtown for a timeshare dinner, then we’d stay overnight, have breakfast, and come home. Easy peasy, (even queasy, if you think about the timeshare pitch).

          So… off we go. Turns out to be a very nice hotel, with a two-story lobby. As we are in line to check in, Bob points to the balcony above us. “What’s that?” he asks.  I look up.  I see these people waving from the balcony:

          Every one of our kids is there, two have flown in. Our DIL-to-be is there. Friends we’ve had for 50 years have also flown in, and all of them are standing there, waving.

          I thought I’d faint. So many people I love, just like going into Heaven. At least that’s how I imagine it. Here are my 6'4" sons:

Here are all of us, with St. Bob, daughter Nicole, and future DIL, Melissa:

         We visit and catch up with everyone:

          AND THEN… he takes us all to The Kitchen, a Michelin Star restaurant where you’re served course after course (a dozen courses?) of incredible food. It takes four glorious hours. These are just a few samples:

          I’ve never had such a wonderful surprise. Turned out I really did want a fuss.  Thank you, St. Bob!

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Holey Moley?

         Remember my idea to tear out my lawn and replace it with a flower garden?

  Well, not only do the pollinators love it, but someone else:

          I saw a garter snake twice, so I thought it might be a snake burrow. (And you love garter snakes because they eat pests.)   But it's unlikely he made the tunnels, because they like someone else to create the burrow first. So that narrows it down to some other critter.

         Also, there are four or five of these holes and I’m getting suspicious. We are now talking tunnels. So I looked it up, and since there are no piles of dirt, that rules out gophers, ground squirrels, and  moles. By the way, did you know a mole is not a rodent? Aha… the things you learn in Joniopolis.

          I see no vanishing of vegetation, so that thickens the plot. Rodents would be eating the plants.  Maybe it's a vole.

          What is a vole, you ask? Aha. It looks very much like a field mouse, can’t climb very well (it’s somewhat plus-size), and it can gobble up lots of roots and bulbs. It is also repelled (you’ll love this) by fox or coyote urine, which apparently can be purchased at nurseries.

          So… I’m off to get laughed at, at the nursery.  You get to stay home and enjoy my Youtube Mom videos with 10K other subscribers.

Do I Really Kneed This?

           Here is what happens if you have a knee replacement and you live with Bob Hilton. First, he will use your walker as a footrest while enjoying some cookies. You will post this picture on Facebook, and many of your friends will think he had the knee replacement, and will wish him a speedy recovery.

      

    Next, he will make an AI video of you DANCING—yes, dancing—with said walker. To view this video, simply visit https://www.facebook.com/joniopolis

You will be twirling about, lifting the contraption over your head, and singing along with Michael Jackson’s Beat It. Once again, you post it, but many of your friends think it’s still Bob who had the surgery, and Bob’s walker that you're dancing with. 

Others will think it’s real, and that you have made a miraculous recovery.

          Both are wrong, so you decide to have a bowl of chocolate ice cream 

          Whether recovering from surgery or not, you can sit and enjoy my Youtube Mom videos, along with 10K other subscribers.

National What Day?

          As many of you know, today is National Dog Day in the U.S.

          This is the most superfluous holiday I can think of: EVERY day is Dog Day.

My dad used to say, “If a dog gets into the right home, he’s the luckiest creature on earth.”

And think about it: You are given praise and tummy rubs several times a day. You bring no income to this family, yet they feed you, provide you with a snuggly bed, play fetch with you, and even pick up your poop. Almost nothing compares to a dog’s life.

So, as a writer, I’d like to propose a different holiday, one that makes a world of sense. It would honor people who have signed up for a lifetime of frustration, having to be patient, and having to proofread.  It’s the poor, beleaguered spouses of writers.

We could call it Spouses of Writers Day (although S.O.W. comes to mind), or maybe just PPW—People Patient with Writers. Bless their hearts, they will talk to us for ten minutes, only to hear us ask, “What was that, again?” because we were miles away on a desert island or a roller coaster, coming up with dialogue and plot points.

          Our frustrations billow through the house as we moan about agents, publishers, even grammar (though that’s usually other people’s). 

          
We jot down ideas, misplace them, and then insist these were the best ideas ever. We dream great ideas, scribble them on a bedside pad, and then can’t read any of them in the morning.

  

        Honestly, our careworn companions need a day to be celebrated. Or, at least to have a favorite meal, followed by a hot fudge sundae.

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Don't Be a Pill

          I have a wonderful group of friends in what we call “The Etc. Club.” ETC stands for Extra Talented and Creative. A few years ago one of them broke her arm while driving (!!) and said to the rest of us, “Double up on your calcium, Girls!”  So, I did. A month later I had kidney stones.

You’d think I would learn. A week ago she showed us all her little pill-carrier, a tiny metal box you can attach to a key chain, or wear around your neck. She has actually had a couple of mini-strokes (TIAs), so this is a great way to keep a baby aspirin handy.

Once again, I dutifully ordered one for me and one for St. Bob. Not only could this help us, but someone else nearby, right? But now I have to come up with some kind of padding for it, because here’s what the box literally said:

And we certainly can’t have pills crashing into each other. And now you can pass on this excellent advice.

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You're Hooked on WHAT?

           The other day I was at lunch with a couple of friends, and one of them happened to mention her first date with her husband. Turns out they decided to go boating in canoe, truly a romantic first date. The river was sparkling blue and a gentle breeze helped guide them along. 

Then, as they went under a bridge, a fishing line was hanging there, and the fish hook snagged her nose!

          What are the odds of this? First, you have someone sitting on the bridge, who knows when, who loses their line. But wait—the line miraculously gets stuck and doesn’t fall all the way into the water.  But wait—it manages to dangle its hook exactly at the height a person’s nose could be, if they were floating by in a canoe underneath. And then the boat is lined up perfectly. Folks, you couldn’t do this if you tried 1,000 times.

          My poor friend had to go back to her home with her date, as he carefully removed the hook from her nostril, and dabbed her nose with alcohol. Some of you (and you know who you are) would be crying and screaming at the same time, right?

          As we left our lunch area, they mentioned the overly chatty woman sitting next to us, dining by herself, yet jumping into our conversation as well. My friend mumbled something, and I thought she said, “Better than having a bishop in your nose.” (Well, we’re all LDS so we actually do have a bishop.)

          “What did you say—having a bishop in your nose?” I asked.

          “No, a fish hook,” she reminded me.

          “Oh, yes,” I agreed. “That’s much better than having a bishop in your nose.”

          And that’s when I realized I might be just a teensy bit like autocorrect. Sheesh!

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