Sans Meatballs

Yesterday was state mandated trailer park school that I have to attend every two years and boy is it a sleeper.
I have to drive 45 min and stay four hours to listen to attorneys and state regulators talk about law such and such point whatever and how it applies to you when none of it applies to me because we only have four spaces and nobody deals drugs or abandons their home. I shouldn't complain, obviously the laws are in place for a reason and we're just lucky to have good people as neighbors on the farm, but yeee-awn, it is SO boring!!
I sat next to a guy who was wearing plastic cowboy boots, a pearl snap shirt, lots of shiny jewelry, smelled like generic cigarettes, and had George Jones hair.
He was what dreams of 1967 mobile home communities are made of.
I'm willing to bet his park is called "The Spinning Wheel" or "El Rancho Estates".
He had real trailer park style and to be honest I was a little palpatated.
Until he started talking.
He was absolutely and 100% completely all in government out. Not only did he hate the government, but every tax, law, bill, program, regulation and representative.
He was what dreams are made of... Until he started talking.
That's ok, there were a few other people at the table that I talked to who made the time pass quickly and now my time is served and I am an official Oregon State certified trailer park manager for another two years.

I came home from class to find Bart had gone through the garbage and spread it all over all over the house and Buddy chewed holes in my underwear.
Ever since I went on vacation (hospital time is referred to as "vacation") this is what they do.
I was shocked when I was "away" and everyone started telling me the dogs were tearing up the trash because they had never been garbage hounds before and then they started doing it every day.
Once I came home they only did it when I would leave, and now they only do it if I leave for more than an hour or so.
There was a half eaten pint of chocolate ice cream in the trash, or should I say there was a half eaten pint of melted ground in sprinkled with coffee grounds and egg shells chocolate ice cream in the carpet.
Yes, because that's what it was.
Gross.
So I had to clean the carpet and shame the dogs before I went out to find the donkeys to put in the yard.
I had to put the donkeys in the yard because Butch was coming to trim their feet and I didn't want to have to go on a walk-about later because I had to make meatballs and get dinner ready.
After I found the donkeys and set them free in the yard I came in to make the meatballs with the sausagee Wyatt took out of the freezer the night before to add to the sauce that Robin made and froze a few weeks ago.
I reached for the thawed out sausage only to find that it wasn't sausage at all, it was thawed out ground turkey because apparently my fifteen year old son has a hard time reading frozen food labels.
Seriously.
He told me so.
Fine, I would make spiced up frozen meatballs for the spaghetti.
Have you ever tried previously frozen heavily spiced held together with forty cups of italian bread crumb turkey meatballs?
If you haven't, don't, I can save you the gag reflex.
No meatballs in the spaghetti. Nor did we speak of the meatballs and we will never speak of those meatballs again and I guess I need to invest in some freezer glasses for my son.
Oh well, the yard donkeys got their toes trimmed, I did my time at trailer park school, the dogs had their ice cream and underwear, and we all had a nice dinner and watched a movie on Netflix.
All in all a great day.

Peas.