Sacred Cows Too (MOO!)

Today I heard a story I thought quite odd: someone was using their shared one-lane driveway, and the neighbor with a leaf blower would not move—forcing the car to move through the mud and then regain its course.  Gr-r-r.  It reminded me of what I’ve heard about sacred cows at some locations in the East:  no matter how inconvenient, you go around it.

But don’t try to tell me that here in the West we don’t have a few sacred cows of our own—i.e., anything considered immune from question or criticism.  Yeah: each Westerner reveres something different.  Regardless, don’t mess with somebody’s clandestine bovine. (‘Sorry—‘couldn’t resist.)  In the inimitable words of Emperor Kuzco, “No touchie!”

Today I discovered—much to my chagrin—I have a sacred cow; but it’s actually a mouse. [At this point I checked: sure enough, I already wrote about sacred cows: dinner, parking, coffee, naptime, gift exchanges, and an old rocking chair.  But I digress. Back to the mouse.]

My mother-in-law is a scamp; as I’ve also written before, she manages to destroy anything that’s not nailed down.  Today she managed to dig into some storage and broke one of my Christmas collectibles (you guessed it, one of my Christmas mice).  As I gathered the pieces (and the tiny bits of wrapping tissue everywhere), inside I was grumbling.  By the time I was changing her, I was grimacing.  By the time I had her breakfast ready, I was growling.  Thankfully, by the time I was in the shower, I was grateful I’m still granted the Granny. But if graded on grumpiness…   Groan!

I could not even believe myself.  My Great God had to square me away over a stupid plastic mouse figurine?  Brother!

What else am I capable of?  …Thumping somebody for eating the last pudding cup?

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