A description of my blog. http://www.my-site.com 4192164824082479200 Diesel's Summer Vacation 2008/06/#4192164824082479200 2008-06-09 While Diesel is taking a well-deserved break from blogging this week, we present to you a special series of guest posts, lovingly entitled "Meet the Real Diesel."

Today's guest blogger is Snuppy, aka "Crazy Aunt Bea," formerly of Central Snark, whose special bond with Diesel has transcended time, space and several restraining orders. Enjoy.


Diesel's Summer Vacation

Diesel was the prettiest little girl I ever did see. Despite her dirty face, impossibly short hair, and the fact she wore dingy dungarees over a torn tee shirt, I could tell from the moment I shoved her inside my car that she was a child worth investing time, money, and bath salts on. And believe you me, I went about doing just that during the summer young Diesel spent with me on the ancestral family farm, located on the outskirts of Pixley, California.

Like all children in new surroundings, Diesel -- or Dee Dee, as I preferred to call her -- was initially timid, and just a tad terrified. Truth be told, I was a little surprised by all the fuss she made when I picked her up at the bus stop, but knew she’d settle down once she got used to the smell in the back of my station wagon. Still, the drive home wasn’t without drama, and more than a few tears. Dee Dee claimed she was in the wrong place. She also claimed – and this part tickled me to no end – that she wasn’t a girl at all, but a little boy! What an imagination, that kid. I never ceased to delight in the stories she made up about robots, wizards, and men dressed up like bats, and had high hopes she’d one day become a librarian. Sadly, thanks to something called “new math” and her inability to grasp the nuances of Dodge Ball, Dee Dee never made it past the 3rd grade. But, as I so often do when thinking of clumsy, stupid children and/or things that get my panties get in a wad, I digress. This story is about someone named Dee Dee, the prettiest little girl I ever did see, and how she and I spent one hot summer bonding over bundt cake, burlap, and bug spray.

As one might expect, Dee Dee fell into a deep slumber her first night on the farm. I knew she was tuckered out after her long trip, and figured it wouldn’t hurt to give her a sip or two of my sherry just to help the sleeping process along. I’ll never forget the look on her face when I poked her with the sharp end of my cane at 4:30 the next morning. Dee Dee stretched out in her tiny bed looking just like our lazy barn cat, Faleero, following a night of drunk monkey loving with a tomcat named Turd. Of course, Turd is beside the point. The point is Dee Dee, also known as Diane, who was the prettiest little girl I ever did see, and how she came to embrace pink bonnets and Barbie dolls, despite her penchant for blue jeans and habit of standing up whenever she had to pee.

What a joy to see Dina's bright-yet-squinty eyes as she rubbed them in disbelief when I showed her how to slop the pigs. She let out a horrific screech I suspect folks could hear all the way down in Bakersfield! Oh, she was a feisty one, that child, but I didn’t care because I knew as soon as I saw her sink into the mud and/or a deep depression that she’d settle into life on the farm soon enough. I also thought she’d feel better once she got herself cleaned up and properly dressed – two things I expected to happen as soon as her chores were done and she’d polished off a hearty meal of loquats, gruel sandwiches and unsweetened lemonade.

Being modest in nature, precious little Dina -- or was it Dana? -- insisted upon bathing in private. This was, of course, out of the question, and not only because the bath tub was in the middle of the kitchen floor. I patiently explained to Dana that I’d learned early on that I could save all kinds of time and energy if I cleaned the vegetables and/or slaughtered poultry while taking my bath. I also attempted to impress upon Daisy what a big mistake it was for nosy little girls to ask so many annoying questions.

As she leaned over to pull off her pants, I couldn’t help but notice a teensy piece of flesh hanging down between her two rosy cheeks. Upon further examination, I was shocked right out of my hairnet to discover a large-yet-unassuming wart positioned directly atop ‘o her privates. “Where’s my paring knife?” was all I had time to mutter before sprinting out the back door in order to wrestle Debbie to the ground. I may have been past my prime, but trust me, I was spry. Spry like a 3-legged dog chasing after a 2-legged rabbit, and that’s saying a lot. But what 5-legged animal chases have to do with a child whose name I can't quite recall but was the prettiest little girl I ever did see, will become clear to me after my nap and/or I finish telling this story, whichever comes first.

For the sake of argument and/or the aforementioned nap, let’s just say I not only caught Dodo, but managed to apply a poultice of poison ivy and dingleberries to the bump on her crotcheral area, only to discover -- much to my horror -- that the more "it" was rubbed, the bigger "it" got. Now I hadn’t just fallen off a turnip truck, so I knew this was the work of the Devil himself, and, as such, would not be easily cast off. I told Denise it would be best for her immortal soul if she took care of the problem herself. And, being the good and God-fearing child she was, she worked long and hard, day in and day out, to do just that. Neither agricultural spraying nor heat wave nor lack of wart-removing ointment could keep that child from the task in hand. Not that her masterful efforts to abate the problem did any good, mind you, but at least she gave it her best shot.

More things happened after that, but perhaps those stories should be saved for another day. Suffice to say that pretty little girl and I shared many laughs throughout the summer, usually at her expense.

Now, I can’t be sure, but I could swear I heard Dorothy tell the sheriff – who’d mysteriously appeared on my front porch in the middle of the night to collect my beloved niece – that the days she’d spent on my humble farm had been among the happiest of her life. Then, being the big whiny baby she was at any given moment of any given rescue, she started to cry and said, “There’s no place like home. There's NO place like home.” -- which, when you think about it, makes no sense at all.

The End.


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