I just want the pony treasure

GOBBLE GOBBLE. 

It's Thanksgiving here in Canada, so Hubby and I ventured down to visit the fam.  We first went to my Aunt and Uncle's house in small-town Ontario on Saturday night, and then yesterday we visited with Hubby's family in Hometown. 

Yesterday afternoon we went out walking at my happy place with Ma and Pa in law, Cousin J and her adorable dog, and Uncle D and Aunt K and their two girls.  (I call them "girls" because in my head they're still 2 and 5 years old.  Never mind the fact that it's been 11 years since I met them.)



My Happy Place.

Only, this wasn't just any ol' nature walk.  This was "geocaching." 

Have you heard of this, this geocaching? 

Here's what I understand:

People all over the world log onto GeoCaching.com and then they go on a treasure hunt.  The "treasures" are hidden in public places by other people and then marked by map coordinates.  Then hunters use their smartphones and GPS devices to locate the treasures (also known as "caches" to people who actually know what they're talking about).  When you find a cache, you sign your name, take a picture, and then log it on the website. 

It's all very exciting.

So we started off on the treasure hunt that Uncle D had planned out for us.  I was totally on board.  I love walking, I love nature, and I love doing fun things with our family. 

I also love treasure. 

So when Uncle D announced that we'd arrived at the GPS coordinates for the first cache, we went eagerly searching through the woods.  This went on for at least 5 minutes before we gave up.  Sorry, folks, but there was no damn treasure there.  Geocachers are LIARS. 

Despite our initial failure, we carried onward and upward.  We found the second, third, fourth, AND fifth caches.  SUCCESS! 

Although, it's possible that by the time we got to the fourth cache, I was losing interest.  I was far more fascinated by Hubby's poking stick. 



This is Hubby's poking stick. Notice its length, making surprise distance poking possible.




This is Hubby's poking face.  He needs to concentrate very carefully. 



This is Pa in Law, after having been mysteriously poked. 

I might have also been distracted by tiny hungry birds.   

That's a tiny hungry bird on Hubby's hand.  Eating birdseed that Hubby stole found.   

 

When Uncle D asked me to dig out the fourth little treasure box, I was mostly just annoyed that it wasn't the My Little Pony theme I had been promised, and that the congratulations letter was way too long. 

So it turns out that I'm not a good geocacher.   In any case, I've learned that geocaching is more about the experience of the hunting, rather than the finding of the treasure.  Just like life. 

(Although I may or may not have subsequently downloaded the geocaching app and learned that there are half a dozen treasures caches RIGHT NEAR MY HOUSE.  Maybe.)

 

 

I don't live in Bumtown.

This morning I came downstairs with a babushka towel on my head, wearing my bath robe (aka house coat).  I was serving myself a cute little bowl of yogurt when Hubby pointed out that there was a random guy outside. 

Some ass bucket had backed his pickup truck into our driveway and was digging through our post-party recycling boxes to thieve our discarded bottles and cans. 

Now, in theory, this doesn't bother me.  In theory, if people want to get up early and rummage around through other people's trash, well, all the power to them. 

But in practice?  In practice, people are idiots and they need to stay the fuck away from my house. 

I know, I know.  I should just return the bottles to the store myself.  And if I'm not going to benefit from the bottle money, that someone else probably should. 

But I also know that the 3 measly dollars garnered by 1000 sticky beer bottles is not at all worth the headache of sorting and loading the damn things, let alone driving them around town. 

I also know that people are idiots and they need to stay the fuck away from my house. 

So, I put on my best "don't think I won't punch you" facial expression and boldly marched outside to ask the shithead if he was serious, if this was really necessary, and, of course, could he stop being an idiot and kindly stay the fuck away from my house.

Buddy wandered off, and Hubby started ranting that we were certainly, thanks to me, going to get shot - or robbed - or egged - at some point in the near future.  

But then, not FIVE MINUTES LATER, when Hubby went out to his car and there was ANOTHER wannabe-hobo with his fucking minivan backed up to our driveway... Well, needless to say, Hubby wasn't tolerating it any more than I was.

I'm not sure what Hubby said to Idiot Number 2, but I suspect it was something along the lines of "Stay the fuck away from my house.  Please."  Because Hubby's polite.

You guys.  This CANNOT be an unreasonable expectation.  I don't think it's absurd to want strangers to stay the fuck away from my house.  My quiet little street doesn't need them here, and I certainly don't need them scavenging through my stuff. 

This is a disturbing new trend.  It's unseemly.  It's annoying.  It's unnecessary.  And I will not hesitate to go marching out there every goddam week if I have to until these idiots get the hint.