Restoration

Let me tell ya, it was more than just a bruised ego after tumbling down those stairs early Monday morning.  Yes, I've felt the wonders of a bruised ass, which seemed to manifest itself around 4:00 every day this week.  I knew that days of being on my feet were not going to help the situation, but I guess I didn't realize that even ample padding on the arse won't protect all those moving joints in there.  I was feeling O-L-D by late afternoon, with a dull throb that turned into a screaming of the hip joints by the time I was limping out of work.  Yup, screwed something up in there, and the madness of total chaos at work was not helping the situation any.

This kind of shit really pissed me off.  Typically, I'm the person at work doing the hauling and heavy lifting.  Yes, everyone does their share, but when random heavy duty things come up, I'm the person doing it.  It's the norm for me, and I don't mind it.  What I DO mind is pain building so much that by the end of a work day, I was begging my niece to change the water jug on the cooler, a simple task that I never thought twice about before the ass-tumbling.  Suddenly, I was faced with my body just saying NO, and that does not happen.  I am used to work days where I go home exhausted, feet aching from standing all day, bone tired from moving, hauling, and rearranging.  But this was different.  This was pain so bad I felt like crying when I walked out the door.  Pain that made me feel like dragging one leg behind me because it just didn't want to work anymore.  That does NOT happen.

Well guess what, miss prissypants...it happened.  And I was coming home every night with the oodles of yard work just MOCKING me as I hobbled in to the house.  The perfect weather just added insult to the injury and by late in the week, I was muttering "fuck you" to the weeds staring me down.  I was managing to get some kind of dinner in my stomach every night before soaking up a hot spray in the shower and gulping down pills, and that was summing up my nights in a nutshell.  The house got messier, laundry piled up, and the act of picking up a bobby pin off the floor made me want to scream.  I avoided looking outside the open windows, so I wouldn't feel the now Jurassic Park sized weeds taunting me.

There's a brick path somewhere under there.

I was grouchy.  With a capital G.  In bold, italic 36 point font. 

Fortunately, along with the usual chaos and mayhem at work, the bookwork piled up.  And piled.  And piled.  So much that even with all the pricing needing done, it was time for me to address it.  Which meant sitting on my ass for the day Friday.  As much as one can sit on their ass in that place, but apparently, it was just what the doctor ordered.

My ass rejoiced.  Though it's mind numbing work and makes me feel like a zombie, I finally walked out of work that evening without the screaming pain.

It's about goddamn time.

This of course, resulted in Saturday dawning with new hope.  Hope of tackling the zen garden.  Because the zen had been devoured by weeds.  First, I got a wild hair up my ass and tackled the file cabinet and played with the paper shredder.  I have no clue what even started that chore...maybe it was looking for the college billing, and not being able to see past the last four years of bank statements.  But, after shredding to my heart's content, it was outside I went. 

I managed to finish painting the windows for the tree stump/troll house project, and with that little chore finally done, I was motivated like a mofo.

You know the weeds are bad when you have to actually take your pruning shears to some of them instead of pulling.

The stars were aligned perfectly.  The weather was warm and sunny, but not overbearing.  The neighbor's dogs weren't wandering.  The other neighbor wasn't having a hillbilly gathering with horrid music to infiltrate the zone I was in.  Children weren't screaming, crazy man wasn't ranting and being hauled off to the mental institute.  Even the mosquitoes left me alone...mostly.

Apparently, weed growing is good for strawberries.  Strawberry plants that I have given up on since they were planted eight years ago.  Usually the birds get to them before I do, so now they're just pretty little plants taking up space between flowers.  But birds must not like weeds anymore than I do, because I found a small handful of them as I was pulling and chopping. 

Haven't gotten around to cleaning that table yet, slacker.

The pulling and chopping was bittersweet, as I realized that the final blooms are just that...final.  My early autumn blooms are popping out, with everything else starting to brown and die off.  Not quite the full arrival of fall, but it's hinting at it.  Throwing out reminders that these perfect days are now approaching their final countdown.  Reminding me to clean out the firepit so we can actually use it this year, thought it's starting to look closer and closer to the burn pile that is now a gigantor mass of weeds and withered crap just waiting to be doused in gasoline.  Burn, baby, burn.

That's gonna be a big ass fire.  BOOM.

After the discovery of an ant infestation/swarm/grossout factor, I began to see light at the end of the tunnel.  Could have been that the four foot high weeds were finally allowing sunlight in, but I like to think it was the motivation I needed to withstand the sudden swarming of mosquitoes and finish the zen garden, so I can enjoy it for the last short months of outdoor peace.

Gross, especially when you realize you've grabbed handfuls of the swarming little fuckers.

There are still plenty of Jurassic weeds waiting for my destruction, since there are still plenty of flowerbeds surrounding this house, but the zen garden has actually found it's zen again.  Appropriate that the resurrection lilies are blooming, since I felt a smidge of resurrection myself, trading the butthurt (literally) for the ache of several hours of crawling around on my hands and knees yanking like a madwoman.  Well worth the aches, since I now have my place of restorative relaxation back.

Resurrection lilies, aka Naked Ladies  *immature giggle*

Munching on berries.  Contemplating life.  Without any corpses in the trees.

Zen restored.

There's An App For That

Funny that I chose to clear out the rose bushes yesterday.  I typically let nature take over in that area, because the roses are very old and usually get eaten up by some insect or creature.   But it's near the patio and storm cellar doors, and I was sick of the view of overgrown Jurassic Park looking weeds.  I had to wonder if I was just masochistic by the time I was done pulling all the weeds and other plants that seem to want to grow there, because my arms look like I wrestled with a cat that had a hot poker shoved up it's ass.  I'm still randomly having to take a needle to my hands to pull the sliver like thorns out of them.

I was doing yard work in an effort to cure my grumpiness, so maybe there was a subconscious will to harm myself back into a state of zen and joy.  Whatever it was, it didn't work, and I had to put myself in a time out (aka nap) by late afternoon.  I woke up thinking I could then move on with my evening by being good mommy and cooking dinner and finishing some laundry, hell maybe I would even bake for the kidlets.  But when I realized 19 year old child wasn't home, and 16 year old man child wanted to go hang out with friends after work, I settled into further sloth behavior and planted my ass on the couch with some magazines. 

I saw a weather alert on my phone for a severe thunderstorm watch, which anymore seems to mean that it will get windy and we will be lucky to see a sprinkle or two.  I actually abandoned the sloth behavior and marched outside where the wind was starting to pick up, and weighed down a few things, pulled patio chair cushions into the shed, and moved some stuff closer to the house.  I was feeling pretty smart at this point, since I usually wait to pick up things after they've blown across the yard.  Looking at the skies, and being blinded by sun, I went ahead and watered flowers that appeared to have withered and given up on life.  By this time, I'm fed up with these constant promises of rain that never seem to happen, and feeling like the oh-so-smarty pants that is just going to trump Mother Nature's false promises.

The first Severe Thunderstorm Warning rolls in, and I'm rolling my eyes at the brief rainstorm that made me close my windows for ten minutes.  Next thing I know, the sun is shining again, the birds are singing their happy little song.  The 19 year old arrives home, and I start perusing Netflix wondering if there is something for us to watch that we can agree on that won't make her roll her eyes or my brain putrefy.

Then BAM!  Both our phones illicit this horrendous screeching sound and I see this weird looking window pop up with a random "tornado warning, take cover".  We look at each other with a WTF, I glance at the windows and see the sky is cloudy but nothing that is making me think it's time to grab the ruby slippers and run for cover.  Within seconds, the ear piercing howl of our town tornado siren starts wailing.  And I really do mean wailing.  It's never quite uniform in it's wails, and seems to select random pitches the longer it goes. 

So, considering our storm shelter is also the Chupacabra lair, and you can only enter it through cellar doors set into the ground outside, we do what any normal small town Iowan would do and go outside and look up.  Of course, having grabbed that extra appendage called a cell phone, we both look like little groupies as we're holding phones up getting video of the waaaaah, waaa(hiccup)aaaaah, waaaaa(belch)aaaaah.  We make our way to the front of the house, where we can bet a better view of the western skies that might tell us if Dorothy is about to leave Kansas.   Nope, nada.  Zip.  Zilch.  Yeah, it looks like some storms are rolling in to the northwest, but it's pretty far out there and nowhere near our six little square blocks.  The sirens make a final wailing death screech and die off.  We wait, hanging out on the front steps watching these storms in the distance, enjoying a breeze that is just enough to slightly cool off a hot and muggy day.  Obviously, being a phone junkie, I'm taking pictures, checking weather radar, and being reassured by the large cell I see is passing us by to the north.

The light show starts with some really great lightning powering up in the northwest sky, and I'm pretty chillaxed enjoying the show, because it's still pretty far off, and really doesn't seem to be moving toward us.  I confirm this again with a quick check of the handy dandy weather app I have on my phone, and then track down my son to make sure he doesn't try to drive home while this little weather "event" is moving through.  I mean, my app is telling me it's not going to actually hit this area, and yeah, it's breezy, but it's not even raining and all the lightning is pretty far in the distance.  I'm feeling confident (cocky) that this is the usual weather forecast that always seems to miss us.  But you know, *ahem* just in case I'm wrong (but I'm NOT wrong because I have that handy dandy app on my phone), I wouldn't want my son driving through big open sky country just to try and come home.

As the light show gains strength, I'm thinking how cool this would be to jump in the truck and get on the other side of the six square blocks so we have a open view of everything moving through.  Hubby calls from North Dakota, asking me what's going on there.  He's got a buddy calling him who lives west of us saying they have a tornado touched down, and I reassure him with the handy dandy radar app I've been using and telling him OF COURSE we are being cautious.  He understands fully, because he's usually the one down in the Chupacabra lair changing the furnace filter, and he knows we don't go in that pit of hell unless we absolutely have to.  C'mon, in ten years we've only sheltered down there twice before in a storm, so really, this is no big deal.  Plus, there's that cool light show going on.

It's getting darker, afterall, it is night time at this point, and the light show is really the only thing letting us see what these storm clouds are doing.  We've got some pretty green going on above us, but my app is still telling me all is fine, though I catch myself looking up to see if I see any swirling going on during those flashes.

Still no rain, still just a nice breeze, though I admit to myself that the breeze has probably graduated to the status of windy.  But hey, it's hot out, and I'm enjoying it.  There are some hellacious looking clouds passing up to the northwest and I'm thinking hell, those farms are getting pounded, but cool show bro (cocky little weather girl that I have become).  Daughter heads in the house to plug her phone in, because there is nothing worse than a dying phone when there are so many status updates needing to be tweeted, Facebooked, and SnapChatted.

And then WAAAAAAAAAAH, WOOOOOOOOOOO....the town siren starts up again.  In about three seconds flat I realize it's too dark now for me to see what the skies are really doing, I've watched all the weather spotters speed out of town, and our sirens typically are only activated when something is actually seen.  Yup, time to stop relying on the weather app and get our asses into the cellar.  The daughter grabs the cat who by this time is yowling; perhaps attempting to out yowl the town sirens. 

We get into the Chupacabra lair, still feeling at least halfway confident that this is like any other time and we'll just be standing among the spiders and dirt until the sirens stop.  The cat is still meowing like the whiny little wussy that he is and I'm thinking he really needs to just shut up or next time his ass stays upstairs.

FLASH, the power suddenly goes out.  With it, goes the tornado siren.  We give it a few seconds in the pitch black windowless storm cellar, and yup, town generator kicks on and the siren goes back to wailing it's siren song.  However, the creepout factor just went up five times since this IS the Chupacabra lair, and the only things we grabbed were a whiny cat and cell phones.  At least daughter has a flashlight app on hers, so can use that if we have to.  I'm not too thrilled at the prospect of the power being out, because even with only six square blocks to power, we hardly EVER lose it, even during strong storms.  Just as this thought crosses my mind, the tornado sirens start wailing a dying, winding down sound, and even with the siren being located just through our back yard, it gets quieter and quieter until it finally dies a horrid sounding death into silence.

And then we hear the storm.

Howling winds, and the rain starts, and it must be one hell of a pounding, driving rain.  I'm still thinking ok, strong storm, and at least this is better safe then sorry.  Though it's starting to feel like the horror movie scene where something comes out of the dark.  The cat is still yowling, so at least he hasn't been snatched and eaten by whatever lives in the lair.  Though he's still yowling, and the sirens have stopped, so what's he so bothered by?  No, I don't want to think about that, because that may mean my app is wrong, and so far this is really no big deal.

I hear the home phone ringing upstairs and am thinking what the hell kind of moron is calling NOW?  I almost wish I could answer it just to tell the damn telemarketer sitting on his ass in India that HELLO WE ARE ABOUT TO BE BLOWN TO PIECES HERE DUMBASS.  My cell phone rings, it's my dad, I tell him it does actually sound like it's getting bad, and he tells me it was him calling the home phone to inform my stupid ass to get down in the lair.  Gee, Daddy, do you know your daughter or what?  Not like I had been sitting outside watching everything for the last hour.  I let him know we are ok, in the cellar, it's getting loud, and I will call him when it all passes.  Once I'm off the phone, I hear the rumbling.  Granted, this could be thunder that is rolling through so steadily that it creates a dull roar, but it's just not feeling that way.  It's the kind of rumbling you actually feel and not just hear.  I keep reminding my daughter (and myself because I'm finally feeling a tad concerned) that a tornado will be deafening, so as long as this remains a dull roar, it's passing us by.  Rains are torrential, I can hear the water starting to seep into the basement, and I briefly think of the sump pump that sits two feet away from me without any power.  The cat is still freaking out, the daughter is getting pretty stressed, and I'm occasionally holding my hand to the wall behind me to see if I feel it vibrating.

Time passes SO slowly when you're waiting for the house to come down around you.

It was a total of about 25 minutes in the cellar.  Without the sirens to let us know how long to remain underground, I had to rely on my handy dandy phone and the warning that finally appeared on it a full five minutes after we actually went to the cellar.  The cat settled down about the same time the noise diminished to just downpours, and I got to enjoy the soothing sound of even more water trickling in.

Rub a dub dub.  View from the wood board we were crouched on.

Daughter's phone had died, so no trusty flashlight app to use (going to have to get one of those), and we both decided we need an emergency bottle of liquor stashed among the rock, dirt, and spiders.  Probably should get a weather radio while we're at it.  And a flashlight that doesn't require an app.  Yeah, I'll get around to that.

Let me tell you, this town is CREEPY with no power.  After rising from the depths, and after reassuring a hubby who probably had to be worried sick because the last thing I had told him is that we were in the cellar and grudgingly admitting it sounded pretty bad out there, I began mopping up the wet soggy messes in the house that had all the windows open (my carpet is still damp today).  I admitted my addiction to the rest of the world and went out to the truck to plug in my phone and listen to the weather radio station.  Things had totally calmed down and we did take a brief drive to see if anything had damaged our area, and short of tree limbs down and leaves whipped everywhere, it was otherwise just very, very dark.  Which made the light show going on to the south of us really pretty.

Just can't resist those light shows.

Another hot and humid day today, with another forecast for strong storms tonight.  No weather radio.  A somewhat crappy flashlight I found in the house.  No liquor.

So not prepared.

Better charge my phone for those handy dandy apps.

The Animal Whisperer...Part Three

I'm wrapping up the animal saga in the hopes that it will end the war with nature.  You see, I love the furry and feathered little bastards, but they seem to follow me in some kind of suicidal death wish.

Just last week, it wasn't enough to feel like a superhero at work.  Nope, no caped crusader to round out the day, but a real live bat to contend with.  Silly girl that I am, I thought a nice cool morning meant I could open our front door to the store.  I mean, how heartwarming is it to walk through an All-American small town to see the welcoming sight of doors open on a fine spring day?

Obviously, that's what Mr. Bat thought as well, when he came swooping in at breakneck speeds and instantly dive bombed for the lower level.  My boss thought she caught some kind of fast movement out of the corner of her eye, and with customers in our lower level, we truly thought it would be an instant scream that would notify us if that was really the intruder we thought it was.  Instead, we heard laughter, and then a very casual "you have a bat down here".

Let me first tell you, of all the creatures on this earth, I HATE bats the most.  We could rid this planet of every last one of them, and I don't care if it would mean an horrid bug infestation of epic proportions...I'd still be a happy camper to know I never have to deal with a bat again.  I'm the big fat wussy who goes screeching out of my house, into the back yard when a bat appears in our drafty old money pit we call home.  Yes, you read that right, I run OUTSIDE where the bats live and hide there until someone kills the bastard.  It doesn't matter that there are bats swooping about in the dark while I cower in terror.  I somehow feel "safer" when there's a big empty sky for them to fly around in and not eight foot ceilings confining them within a short distance to my head.

That being said, I quickly grabbed our brooms and being the massive chickenshit I am, I hand the broom to the customer in the lower level.  Why?  Because her blase "you have a bat down here" tells me she isn't bothered by them.  I'm so bothered by them that I don't go any further than the stairway landing that's only four steps down from the main level.  I'm so bothered by them that I reach further than really is safe in order to hand her the broom, because even one more step down is more than my pay grade allows.  As I hand over the broom, I see a swooping blur of brown, and immediately shriek and go running back up to the main level where I cower near the closest rack of clothing.

After a few thumps, Mr. Bat decides the main level is the safe place to be, and comes swooping up in a grand flight of "FEAR ME NOW" in which I shriek again and duck down to the lowest possible position without completely flinging myself to the floor.  Because throwing myself to the ground is going to be a much bigger display of cowardice than the shrieking and ducking.

Up comes the customer, who by now, I'm fairly sure is completely disgusted with the wussies who work in this place, and we all realize Mr. Bat has wisely tucked himself away in our storerooms in the back of the store.  Not wanting to look like an even bigger wuss than I already do (if that's possible), I sneak back into the storerooms to see where he is crouching.  Yup, he's hanging out on the wall above the back door.  Making sounds that rival a puppy's whimper, I realize the best option at this point is to open the back door and encourage him to fly to freedom.  However, this means I will have to march my cowardly, quivering ass directly below his roosting spot.  My overactive imagination that LOVES to run mini-movies of potential scenarios to every occasion in life is already picturing the creak of the door disturbing Mr. Bat, in which he decides to swoop down onto my head and tangle in my whacked out, teased and full of sticky products hair.  In which he will get stuck, all while making that godawful bat chirping sound and beating his leathery from the pits of hell wings on my head.

Did I mention that overactive imagination?

I tiptoe back, with the broom-armed customer right behind me.  I'm sure at this moment, she's wanting to use the broom on me, because I'm still whimpering and whining.  I, of course, don't get the door unlocked right away....oh no...that would be too easy.  My fingers are fumbling, I'm mumbling, customer is probably raging, and I finally fling that door open (of course it HAS to open IN and not OUT), I stumble around it like my life depends upon it  (because it DOES) and hurtle myself against the storm door nearly screaming in relief when I stumble out into the alley.  I prop the storm door open and YUP, you guessed it...STAY OUTSIDE.  I hear big thwacking going on, and am sure the only person with a set of balls in the place has destroyed the creature from hell.  After a few moments of silence, I poke my head in to see what is going on, and the customer tells me she's whacked him good, but he stumble-half ass flew up into a corner where we are never going to find him.

OH GOODY.

I give her kudos.  She DID spend valuable shopping time attempting to locate the injured demon, but after about ten minutes, gave up the good fight.

So, here we are, now enclosed in the store (because of course we shut the doors, before all his little bat friends could join him), wondering if he's dead, dying, or just laying in wait.

Hours pass...YES, HOURS.   Hours of barely touching lunch because it's icky to try and enjoy food when there's a bat lurking.  Hours of refusing to go to the bathroom, because it's in a dark corner of the lower level, and if he comes swooping down while my pants are around my ankles I will be scarred for life and no amount of coaxing would get me off that toilet and into an even more enclosed space with Mr. Bat than that upper level.  Every amount of work we are attempting to get done is accompanied with furtive glances up over our heads.  We're telling every customer that comes in so they understand any sudden shrieking and ducking should he attempt to grace us with his presence again.

Suddenly, when the tension is so thick we could choke on it, a customer at the front of the store shrieks while looking down at the floor and says "THERE IT IS!!!", and whoosh whoosh whoosh, the bat is flying at floor level because that's what evil creatures of the pits of hell do when they know you are completely freaked out by them to the very core of your being.

He gained speed, and altitude and thank all that is good in this world, began a lazy circling of the ceiling of the store.  It seemed lazy, because it seemed like the slow motion of a horror movie right before something terrible and gory happens.  We grab brooms, and my crazy waving over my head is pretty futile, considering I'm only reaching about five feet from where he's playing.  But then, FINALLY logic and the magic light bulb goes off in my head.

These suckers are blind.  They fly on radar.  Movement affects radar.  HELLOOOOOOO GENIUS!

We get that front door open again and start waving the brooms like madwomen, trying to encourage (if you really want to use a positive happy word like encourage) Mr. Bat to fly away, get the fuck out of here!  Apparently, we are not so genius, because the ceiling fans are still spinning, and considering they are near the front door, he's staying clear of that area.  So, calm and rational thinking creeps in again, and we shut off the fans, waiting ever so impatiently for them to stop spinning.  It briefly crosses my mind to stupidly stick a broom in the fans to get them to halt so they stop sooner, but yup, once again, logic prevailed through the terror.

With a few more frustrated and desperate waves of the brooms, Mr. Bat escapes to freedom.

I wanted to just lock the doors and call it quits, racing to the nearest bar for the rest of the day, but there were still people shopping.

Yes, people shopped through this whole bat drama.  I love shopping, hell, it's like my second favorite thing to espresso, but I'd rather wear a pair of Crocs for a month every time I went in public than shop in a store with a bat swooping around.

So, that's it to the Animal Whisperer saga.  Add in a few other encounters, like hitting a bird with my truck antenna.  Yes, it actually thought it was avoiding me and THWAK!, leaving a huge chunk of feathers wrapped around the damn thing.  Then there was the baby bunny I nearly creamed on the side of the road only blocks from home.  My first thought, was of course, to inform baby bunny that Daddy Bunny was hanging in my tree.  And, to make my encounters with the animal kingdom complete, there are now so many bugs everywhere you go that they swarm my head, ears, and nose the moment I go outside.  I guess that will guarantee an avoidance of communing with nature, which can then guarantee I can avoid another animal drama and finally break this trend.

Unless, of course, Chubacabra rises from the cellar slithering through the return air vents.

The Animal Whisperer Series...Part Deux

After the winter to top all winters, I could not WAIT to get outside into the dirt.  An eternally long spring, with bipolar weather that couldn't decide if it wanted to snow or require flip flops really delayed alot of yard work.  So, when I finally got weeks of gorgeous sun, I hopped outside like a gleeful leprechaun looking for that pot of gold.

I have alot of landscaping and flower beds, so it's alot of work that's done in stages.  I usually start one day with house side beds, work my way around the front, dedicate a day to trimming and pruning, and then there's my pride and joy.  The zen garden.  What started out as a tiny little kidney shaped bed that barely held a handful of irises and a peony bush is now the size of some people's back yards.  It wraps around a tree, takes up an entire corner of the yard, includes chairs, a path, bird bath, and hours of work.   It's where I'm most happy, enjoying the sounds of birds of all kinds, watching rabbits and squirrels gleefully playing through the rest of our yard.  It's almost like a Disney movie, except I only play Princess every 3rd Friday of the month.

Imagine a picture perfect day.  Blue skies, fluffy clouds, gentle breeze, and a glorious 70 degrees.  I was in THE ZONE.  Pulling weeds, dividing and replanting, enjoying the early blooms.  Hours of work, taking moments to feel at one with nature, talking to the momma robin as she shrieked at me to get the hell away from her nest.  Being rural, but in somewhat of a town, (if you call six square blocks of houses a town) I of course, had to pick up the occasional litter and oddball piece of garbage that had found its way into my flowerbeds.  Even that couldn't kill my zen.  I was just in a total state of joy to be out there doing what I love.

As I neared the tree swing and started pulling weeds, I found little fluffs of fur.  Awwwww....how cute and endearing!  It's spring, and the rabbits are out in full swing, making their little dens so I'll have cute baby bunnies bounding through the yard doing a nature happy dance with me!  See, I love bunnies this year, because I destroyed their home under our house (maybe I'll elaborate on that another day).  I no longer want to crush their skulls with a sledgehammer...I am one with the bunny, hopping along on my little yard errands enjoying a beautiful day!

I see more of these little fluffs of fur and I squeal in delight as each new treasure is discovered!  Bunny love!  Dance with me bunnies!  Let us join together and sing the song of our people!  Ok, it's wasn't that warm, but maybe I had gotten too much sun by that point.

I finish off the work on the zen garden, and allow myself to finally sit down in my absolute favorite spot in the world...my tree swing.  It's a grand old maple tree, which I've watched grow through the years, and nothing quite makes me as happy as that spot on the swing, and tilting my head up to look at the gorgeous canopy above me.  It's a goddamn Hallmark movie but without any of that having to interact with people crap.

My head tilts back, and as my eyes gaze slowly upward, enjoying every moment of that favorite spot on earth, I notice more fluffs of my precious bunny fur.

Wait.  I'm looking UP.  Bunnies are DOWN.

My gaze continues up into the tree and then I see it.

BUNNY CORPSE.

Not just a bunny, but a big old fucking rabbit.  And not just a big old fucking rabbit, but one that has been very tidily picked clean of his innards.  Possibly his head too, but I can't see that far up and there is no way in hell I'm going to hoist myself up into my glorious tree to find out if Mr. Rabbit's eyeballs and brains are still in his head.

Well, isn't that just the perfect addition to a zen garden?  Circle of life, anyone?

I immediately utter some kind of guttural noise of disgust and fling myself out of the tree swing in the most ungraceful way.  And then of course, after I shake off the skeeve factor, grab my phone and snap a shot of Mr. Rabbit.

Then it dawns on me.

WHAT drug the rabbit up the tree?  The moment that thought hit me, I looked behind me and all around, to see if RabbitKiller was lurking in the brush pile, behind the bushes, or even better, further up the tree.  Because anything that would do THAT to a rabbit, is surely going to want to get a tasty bite of my more than substantial ass.

Step slowly away from the tree.  Google "what eats large rabbits".  Realizing there probably aren't coyotes dragging rabbits up a tree, I amend that search to "birds of prey large rabbits".

Suddenly, the birds are not chirping.  The squirrels are not joyfully bounding.  I don't see a single rabbit in the yard.

Cue opening music from The Shining.

Logic tells me a very large owl.  How large though?  That's a big fucking rabbit.  Ok, maybe a hawk.  But how big of a hawk?  I see hawks all the time, usually in the fields surrounding our town, eating small rodents, not big ass rabbits.  Hmmm...a bald eagle would be pretty cool.  But really?  Yeah, I see bald eagles all the time, but always outside of town, always in fields, always eating road kill.  This isn't road kill...this was a full course dinner.

And then, since OF COURSE I had to share this on Facebook, the brilliant friend who suggested boiling Supermouse in the dishwasher comes up with the answer.

It's the Chupacabra.

OH HELL YES IT IS.  It is the ONLY answer.  Which raises too many questions with too little answers.

Where is Chupacabra now, being the most important.

I think I was diligent in checking the previous home of bunnies under our house, but no, it does appear that the efforts made to evict them is still intact.

Then it dawns on me.  The basement.

It's no ordinary basement.  It's not even a slightly happy basement.  More like a run screaming for your life storm cellar.  Creaky old doors covering a hole in the ground kind of basement.  The kind of place sewer clowns would love to hang out in.  Perfect Chupacabra breeding ground.

Did I go down there and look?  OH HELL NO.  I only go down there if the tornado is across the road and holding up a big sign that says "GONNA MOW YOU DOWN BITCH SO GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY".   But Chupacabra is down there.  I know it.  I hear it breathing through the return air vents.  No, that's not the sound of the years of dust I haven't bothered to clean, it's the Chupacabra and I'm sticking with that story, so shut up.

So I ignore the danger lurking beneath my feet.  Mr. RabbitCorpse still hangs out in the tree.  That's an entirely different post that will involve things like early onset dementia and honeydo lists that have to include things like which way to put the toilet paper on the holder.

Country living.  Never a dull moment.  Chickenfuckers, Supermouse becomes Gluttonmouse, having a tennis racket nearby at all times, and now Chupacabra.  Did the mention of chickenfuckers make you go hmmmm?  Another time.

The Animal Whisperer Series....Part One

I just don't get it.  I'm sure there's some nature guru out there that would say I'm somehow in sync with Mother Earth, but only if you are a sick, twisted freak of nature.

I am the animal killer.  Animal collector.  Animal....something.  Maybe it's from hibernating in the polar vortex for nearly six months, and I'm just noticing these fuzzy little creatures more now since I'm not looking through windows covered in frost.  Maybe there's some kind of strange karma directing all these creature deaths my way to pay me back for squashing that spider with glee this winter while trying to peacefully pee.

It started with the mouse.  Oh yes, the mouse.  Living in a 110 year old house, in a very rural area, I am familiar with mice.  Usually in the form of their corpses left for me to admire by the cat with the shit eating grin.  I can't even call them corpses, since it's only hindquarters and tails I find.  Apparently, the cat is a zombie cat who likes mouse brains because he devours their heads as soon as he's played with them to the death.

Well, this particular mouse had superpowers.  It started on an early morning, finding the cat sitting in the middle of the floor with that shit eating grin on his face.  Knowing that grin, I started scanning the floor for the mouse corpse.  And oh yes, there about two feet behind him is Mr. Mouse.  Except it's ALL of Mr. Mouse, and his eyes are open.  So, figuring Mr. Mouse is injured and playing 'possum (because FatCat doesn't chase 'possums, no sir), I yell for hubby to grab a bucket so I can at least give Mr. Mouse a fighting chance at life by scooping him up and tossing him outside.  Oh no.  Mr. Mouse scampers away gleefully while FatCat just sits there with what I now think of as a dumbass grin.  I had a stern talking to with FatCat, and we came to an understanding that he would do better next time.

Another day, another dollar (not really), but I left for work with FatCat eyeballing the couch waiting patiently, so I expected to come home to mouse corpse.  He is after all, FatCat who has never made us actually have to buy a mouse trap, so I trusted his skills and forgave him his momentary lapse in judgement.

Arriving home that evening, I scour the floors looking for mouse corpse, but nope, nothing.  Assuming (haha, I have so learned my lesson on assuming) that FatCat has scared Mr. Mouse into actually finding his way back OUT of the house.

Another day passes, life goes on, I'm merrily thinking I'll load some dishes into my dishwasher.  Mr. Mouse is forgotten.  FatCat is living a life of leisure.  No worries.

WRONG.

I open the dishwasher door, and THERE...hanging like a magic trapeze artist, is Mr. Mouse on the top rack.  I screech and slam that door shut immediately.  Then stand there staring at the door asking myself what the fuck am I going to do, and why the hell did I just let a little mouse reduce me to a bowl of jelly, lame-o, screech girl?

Well, OF COURSE, I text one of my friends immediately.  I text my hubby (who of course is not home when this kind of shit happens), I text my daughter.  My friend, being a true after my own heart, sick and twisted individual, tells me to start the damn dishwasher and boil the fucker.  I'm skeeved out, and thinking I'm really not THAT mean to animals.  I like fuzzy creatures.  I don't WANT to boil them.  But then the thought of actually looking for the mouse in the dishwasher runs through my head.  I've been reading Stephen King since I was 13, and thoughts of a rabid mouse making a leap for my eyeballs runs through my head.

I gather my courage (yeah right, it's called being alone in the house for the next several hours and just needing to take care of shit), and tiptoe up to the dishwasher with FatCat in my hands.  I'm whispering in his ear that he will get homemade treats if he'll just get Mr. Mouse once and for all.  I set FatCat down, where he promptly yawns.  Asshole.  I open the door wide, and run out of the room.  I've got a great plan going here.

Ten minutes later, thinking I've given Mr. Mouse ample time to save himself, I root around in the dishwasher with handy BBQ tongs and then slam that door shut and start it up.  I wait, expecting to hear an awful grinding noise start.  FatCat sits at my feet, expecting treats and I tell him to fuck off.

Dishwasher finishes after nervous pacing and worrying from me.  Not really, but it sound's good.  I carefully open the door, just in case Mr. Mouse has somehow survived drowning and boiling and is waiting to eat my eyeballs.

Nothing.

No sign of him anywhere.

Just scrubbing and more cycles run to satisfy myself that all mouse germs are gone.

He is no longer Mr. Mouse.  He is Supermouse.  He becomes a legend of epic proportions.  He gains internet fame...or, at least as far as my friends list reaches on Facebook.  It becomes comical, and I'm able to relish in the humor of it instead of wondering where the damn Supermouse is.  Sort of.  I DO catch myself opening each drawer and cupboard slowly and with an expectation of Flying Supermouse.

Days pass, more dishes are done.  Cooking commences and kitchen is cleaned in a fit of "dirty mouse house" rage.

Then...

I open the dishwasher and what do I see?

Mouse shit.

At least this time, no mouse.  But, I AM wondering how the hell Supermouse is even getting in there.  And with boys leaving crumbs on the counter because toast is NEVER made on a plate, the more important question is coming to mind.  WHY.

I shame the cat.  He meows.  And walks away.

I call hubby and order...DEMAND...mouse traps.  I'll show you, Supermouse.  Yes, I will buy mouse traps for the first time in five years.  I WILL admit defeat.

His neck was snapped by morning.  I didn't even feel bad.  Because, by the time he was killed, Supermouse had turned into Gluttonmouse.  He was FAT.  He had been living high on the hog with his plate scrapings and bowl chunks.  He was nearly as fat as FatCat.  Which pretty much answered all my questions right there.

FatCat and Gluttonmouse actually worked out a deal to share all the food in the house.

FatCat hasn't been given a treat since.  I should have catshamed him with a picture next to Gluttonmouse's corpse.  But he probably would have chowed down on the fat mouse head that was cleaved in two.

Asshole.