The Land of Milk and Honey

This past week we [returned/came officially for the first time] to the land of milk and honey (LoMaH). As I explained last time, this piece of titular geography should be taken more literally and less figuratively.  For some reason we use the term "milk and honey" to refer to a place of regal opulence and promise. But, I mean, does anyone actually consider the consumption of milk with honey to be a delicacy? If so, you are probably one of those freaks that also eats honey on your stewed tomatoes. (Yes, I have eaten this. No, it was not appealing in the slightest). Milk and honey is one of those food combos that falls into the category of "all my real food is gone, but tomorrow I go on Christmas break so I better not go shopping, let's just eat cherry pie filling and a handful of uncooked rice" type of foods.

I think this literally is a re-labeled jar of  spoiled mayonnaise.

Every time that I drive into LoMaH, I always drive past a shop that purports to sell "raw honey." Isn't "raw honey" just a euphemism for "still probably has wax and bee's wings in it, but we will pass this off as healthy"? When I Googled "raw honey" most the sites that came back were from the nether-regions of the interwebs. I'm sure we have all seen such sites. They have the ads for "One weird tip to cut your belly fat in half" or have flashing banners proclaiming "This little-known loophole saves (fill in current state) drivers $297 a year on car insurance." Maybe my time in LoMaH will help me better understand the benefits of raw honey.

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Part of getting all of our possessions to LoMaH was renting a UHaul truck. Although we have only been married for a short while, we have a lot of stuff. I think that this is one of the major reasons why the median marriage age is on the rise around the world. Back when our ancestors got married, they were lucky if they even had a change of pants or a pair of shoes to their name. We've all heard stories about great-great-great Granny Mildred and how she moved an entire city block in a 4' x 4' handcart. Now days getting married necessitates having at least three or four pairs of shoes. And let's not get started on pants and their necessity in marriage. (Okay, in a word, they are necessary; however, you would not know it from the looks of some of these LoMaH denizens. Perhaps this is to cut down on moving costs).

To make a long story short, we ended up renting a UHaul truck from a place that pretty much resembled Watto's Junk Shop. The place was run by a squat balding man that probably was wearing a shirt, but I cannot remember. (Pants are a definite check mark though. He must not be a LoMaH local). The walls of the shop were adorned with all sorts of blasters and gadgets that who-in-the-galaxy knows what did. There may or may not have been a small horse-like creature trotting around the show-floor. We did not go in the basement part of the shop, but I'll bet that Jabba the Hutt had someone in carbonite down there.

Originally we had reserved a 15 foot truck, but I guess that reservations with UHaul are just façades to make you think you will get what you want. We ended up getting a 10 foot truck, which worked out just fine. At one point we were actually offered a 20 foot truck, but when you are expecting to be flying an X-wing, being offered a Death Star instead is not exactly what you want. We had a lot of stuff, but not that much stuff. Plus, we did not have designs on shooting a high power laser cannon at anyone.

Our apartment here in LoMaH is pretty nice, certainly a step up from where we were before. No snoring neighbors, no maggots in the vacuum, and no people playing night games until 3 a.m.

Tune in next week. I do not know what the topic will be, but it probably will have something to do with the U of Fruits.