NOT SO ADVENTUROUS ANYMORE

Back when I was dating Big Daddy, I had very few expenses and a very spoiled pooch.  Malik and I had matching coats and sweatshirts (yes, I was one of those people).  I used to take him to PetSmart and buy him whatever he sniffed interestedly.  I also used to get him all manner of gourmet dog treats: carob-dipped rawhide lollipops, vanilla yogurt drops, doggy breath mints.  And, Big Daddy used to make me laugh by sampling every pet treat I brought home.

Big Daddy was always an adventurous eater, whereas my family and I were run-of-the mill eaters. Big Daddy would try things at restaurants that I would never dream of putting in my mouth!  I, on the other hand, would find one dish I liked and order the same thing every time.  After we got married, I would impulse-buy little interesting tidbits for him at the grocery store (like alligator and stuff).  And I was always experimenting with our gourmet cookbooks; some of the meals were disgusting, but some were really good.

I guess Big Daddy has lost some of that adventurous culinary attitude in the past few years, because he was less than impressed when I came home with these:

Those would be frog legs.  And they looked like someone had cut a very little person in half at the waist.  There were even little toes *shudder*!  But, because he loves me, he reluctantly breaded and fried them up.  Let me just tell you, I have never smelled anything quite so objectionable!  And I live near cows and horses!

I, of course, refused to taste them, but Big Daddy tried them.  He said they tasted like a chicken wrapped in a fish.  The spectre of a frog was with him the entire time he tried to eat them.  We ended up throwing them out and spraying copious amounts of Oust around the house.

And, thus ends the era of adventurous eating.

AN EARLY CHRISTMAS PRESENT

After accidentally killing my beloved Malik, I had no desire to get another dog. Big Daddy said he wanted a dog, but I knew that the idea of a dog was much more appealing to him than actually having a dog in the house.


Then, this guy showed up.




And wouldn't leave.



And then Big Daddy started loving on him when he was outside. And then the cherubs named him "Piggy Pudding." And then we let him sleep on the back porch on a particularly cold night. And we gave him some food and water. And now we have a dog (renamed "Harley," because "Harley" is a manlier name than "Piggy Pudding").


Says Bean, "Mom? I'm glad that Harley's here. It's nice when everyone has dogs."

HOW DID THAT GET HERE?

Bean and Cakes woke up pretty early this morning and were prowling the house for who knows how long until they came into my room to wake me up and tell me about their amazing new discovery:

Yes, that's a dead bird at the bottom of the steps.

So, my question is, how did it get here? And, how do I get rid of it? And, how do I keep my kids from touching it while I figure out if I can actually bring myself to pick it up and take it out to the trash? They've intricately woven this dead bird into one of their imaginative storylines.

Aaah, country life ...

LIFE IS LIKE A SHAKESPEAREAN PLAY

My mother was an English teacher, so I often look at the world through Shakespeare-colored glasses. Something that happened over the weekend reminded me of Hamlet. I don't want to get into the whole, complicated story of Hamlet and all its interpretations. There is one speech in the story, however, that I would like to highlight.

Hamlet was upset with his mother for murdering his father and carrying on with his uncle. So, he was going on a tirade about all the things that made him angry and/or irritated about women. At one point in the speech, he highlighted women's general predisposition to "nickname God's creatures." At the risk of sounding sexist, that is so true. You don't see men doing it, but women do have a tendency to nickname God's creatures. As illustrated by my cherubs:

This time of year, we tend to get swarmed with migrating ladybug-type insects. They look like ladybugs to me, but I've been told that they're not. Anyway, they got into Grampy's hobby room. So, Grampy got out the trusty ol' Raid and killed them. Later, the girls happened upon the pile of dead ladybugs. For some reason, Bean decided to name one "Shirley." (I can only imagine that "Shirley" came from the fact that we are currently reading the second book in the Anne of Green Gables series). So, Bean was marching around the house, talking about Shirley the Ladybug, when Cakes chimed in, "Shirley and all her dead friends!"

THINGS THAT SCARE MY KIDS ...

My kids (especially Cakes) are generally pretty fearless. They jump off of high things and horse around almost more than their poor mother's pregnant nerves can handle. But, they are scared of some things:

Houseflies (photo courtesy of QPM)...

Moths (photo courtesy of the University of Sydney)...

Finding Nemo ...

And, then there was the critter we found in our yard the other day that, surprisingly, didn't scare my cherubs to death:

We were outside after a spring rain, and one of these little guys crawled right over Cakes' flip-flopped feet and into a crevice near the sidewalk leading to our back porch. I expected mass hysteria on the part of the children; instead, they squatted down exclaiming about how small and cute it was, and then they proceeded to try to force-feed the poor critter dandelion greens until it managed to escape when the girls were distracted.

RABBITS AND CHICKENS AND MULCH

Last year, we had two major issues with our garden: weeds and those disgustingly enormous tomato worms. So, we decided to get a head start on those issues this year. We have loaded up with organic pesticide, and we are buying untreated mulch and hay to spread around the plants and down the aisles. I know that mulch will not completely stop weeds from growing, but we are hoping to retard the growth enough to make the weeds manageable.

However, we have been accosted by a new enemy. Our garden is being decimated by a humongous rabbit. Yes, one gigantic rabbit is singlehandedly destroying our fledgling plants. We've lost half of our tomatoes and broccoli, and we've lost all of our lettuce and beans. So, when I went to the local co-op to purchase my hay and untreated mulch (along with some seed corn to bolster our currently pathetic corn crop), I asked the co-opers for some advice on dealing with the pesky ... um ... is a rabbit a rodent? The co-op staff gave me three suggestions.

The first suggestion was to spread human hair around the perimeter of the garden. I figured we could get some hair clippings from the local salon. However, Grampy nixed that idea. He was a little grossed out, and declared that he could not eat vegetables that had been nourished by other people's rotting hair. Fair enough.

The second suggestion was to sprinkle Cayenne pepper around the perimeter of the garden. The smell will temporarily keep the rabbits out. Of course, it must be reapplied after every rain or watering, and the rabbit will eventually get used to the smell and invade the garden again.

So, the third suggestion was to follow the second suggestion. Once the rabbit gets used to the smell of Cayenne pepper, we need to sprinkly shavings of Irish Spring soap around the garden. Again, this is only a temporary solution, as the rabbit will eventually get used to that smell, too; but, the hope is that the above methods will deter the rabbit long enough to allow the plants to grow a little. Once the plants get too big, the rabbit won't want to eat them anymore, and will be forced to seek tender young shoots elsewhere.

While I was receiving these pearls of wisdom from the co-opers, my cherubs were happily occupied with this:

Yes, a big trough of chicks. Fortunately, the chickens were covered with netting. Although my cherubs found them to be adorable in the trough, I think there would have been mass hysteria if the chicks had been able to make actual contact with them.

MUST BE A GIRL THING ...

I don't like bugs. They freak me out. The bigger the bugs, the more they freak me out. No one told me that bugs get bigger as one moves southward. Before I had kids, I freaked out freely when I saw a bug. Big Daddy, being my knight in shining armor, always hurried to my rescue, squashing the offending critter.

Now that I have kids, I am keenly aware of my reaction to bugs. I don't want to pass on my penchant for freaking out about them. So, I am very careful to remain calm, no matter how large and freaky the bug is that appears. I calmly explain to my cherubs that one needn't be afraid of bugs. I tell them to look at the bugs, but not to touch them unless Mommy and Daddy say it's okay (seeing as there are quite a few poisonous bugs here in the wonderful South). I tell them that we only kill bugs that are inside because they are pesty, not because they are freakishly terrifying.

Despite my efforts, however, my girls burst into hysterics at the sight of even the smallest bug. But, right now, small bugs are not the problem. It's crane fly swarming season.

They are enormous and repulsive. They look like a cross between a prehistoric mosquito and a flying spider. They congregate in our car port so much that I can no longer park in there if I want any hope of getting my kids to actually exit the vehicle. They gather on my back porch, so we now have to go in and out of the front door. They swarm up from the grass, which makes the walk from the car to the front door a forced torture march for my princesses. I drag them screaming to the door, yelling above their shrieks, "Keep moving! Keep moving! They won't get on you if you keep moving!"

We've put up bluebird and purple martin houses in an attempt to reduce the swarms. The poor birds can't eat enough to keep up with the plethra of crane flies.

So, in spite of nearly unbearable cabin fever, we don't venture outside much. We sit wistfully in front of the window screens, waiting for the swarms to abate ...

R.I.P. MALIK (1995-2009)

In 2000, Malik was found tied to a tree in Philadelphia with a note pinned to his collar that said, "Please take me home with you." He was extremely aggressive, covered in fleas, and his skin was black and scaly from seborrhea. He showed signs of neglect and physical abuse. And I fell in love with him at first sight.

For nine years, Malik was at my side at every moment. He walked so closely behind me that if I stopped suddenly, he would run into my calf with his cold, wet nose.

After I had the cherubs, Malik didn't receive as much attention as he used to. But, I don't think he minded. He was old, and his day consisted of eating, sleeping, and doing his business. He didn't affect daily life in the house much, but he was a fixture.

On Monday, I accidentally hit Malik with my car, breaking his leg in a very bad place. Because of his age and the nature of his injury, the veterinarian recommended euthenasia. He will be sorely missed.

NEW ARRIVAL (NO, NOT PEANUT)

Our neighbor's horse had her foal this week. Poor Ms. Sandy spent a week sleeping on hay bales in her barn (through freezing temperatures, a tornado warning, and pesky barn cats) while her mare labored. Finally, at 6:00 a.m. on Monday, the foal made her appearance. We tried to get some closer pictures, but the mare was rather protective and the electric fence was turned on.

Aunt Tracy's cat had kittens this week, too. She is desperately trying to get us to take one. Fortunately for me, Bean showed a major allergic reaction to them, so I have an excuse to vehemently oppose bringing yet another pet into the house.

ARE THOSE ... ARE THOSE TURKEYS?

Big Daddy and I were taking the girls to story time at the local Barnes and Noble on Saturday morning. It's sort of become a tradition with the kids. We go get coffee and cookies at Starbucks, and then head off to the children's section to listen to a story (this week's story was My Little Girl, Tim McGraw's first book, which was perfect for my girly cherubs). After the story and craft, we take the girls over to the Thomas the Train table so train-obsessed Cakes can have her fill of train time.

Anyway, we were on our way to story time, driving on one of our one-lane, country, back roads, when we saw these:

Big Daddy whipped out the camera phone, saying, "Look at the size of those turkeys! We have to send Grampy a picture of those!"

I replied, "Um, I don't think they're turkeys ..."

We got a little closer. They paused to curiously observe us as we took pictures. I think they were emus. Or baby ostriches. The point is, what the hey are emus/ostriches doing on the side of our one-lane road?

I mean, I expect turkeys, skunks, horses, goats, possums ... But emus?!

WORDLESS WEDNESDAY - DOGS AND KIDS BELONG TOGETHER

Go here for more Wordless Wednesday.

TOM

There are a lot of family cemeteries around here. It seems a lot more common here than up North. There is even a little plot right next to the exit ramp of one of our major interstate highways. There's also one right in the middle of a cow pasture near our local grocery store. And, there are tons of tiny little family plots on many of the back-road farms around here. It's so common, in fact, that a lot of the back roads are named for their cemeteries (e.g. Smith Cemetery Road, Jones Cemetery Road, Joe Bag-o-donuts Cemetery Road).

On one of the many Cemetery Roads there lives a humongous tom turkey. We're still trying to determine if he is a pet, or if he has just been lucky during hunting season (quick fact that is completely unrelated to the story - turkeys roost in trees; I don't know, they seem a little bulky for that ...). But, there have been many times that we've seen him strutting his stuff down the road, followed by a harem of turkey hens and, inexplicably, guinea fowl.

One time, the cherubs were (as usual) screaming in their car seats when we came upon the tom. We stopped to give the cherubs a closer look. I rolled down my window and did my best turkey call. To my surprise, the brazen bird gobbled back and started heading toward the car! I nervously continued gobbling, hoping that the bird would not fly at me in a pecking rage (do turkeys do that?), while Big Daddy snapped pictures with his camera phone.



The cherubs were appropriately impressed by the turkey, and we spent the rest of our drive being regaled with high-pitched gobbles from the back seat. I guess that's better than screaming ...

WHO DO YOU EVEN CALL?

So, we woke up this morning to see this in the remnants of our garden.


It later ambled over to our field lines and ate some of the green grass there. Then, it lay down in the middle of the field and chilled out for a while. Not knowing who I should call to come get a horse out of my back yard, I (of course) got my camera so I could take pictures for my blog.

Neighbor Sandy, who has five horses of her own and, therefore, has the tack needed to capture an escaped equine, eventually came out and led it away.

DRAGONFLY, DRAGONFLY

I'm a big fan of trivia. I love having a wealth of useless information to share at get-togethers. Which is why I'm a big fan of Uncle John's Bathroom Readers. Have you ever heard of them? Right now, I'm reading Uncle John's Curiously Compelling Bathroom Reader. That's where I found out that Paul McCartney wrote "When I'm 64" when he was 15 years old. That's also where I found out that the average life span of a dragonfly is 24 hours. I find that amazing, considering how enormous they are. Which brings me to the point of this post.

Big Daddy was heading out to pick up Aunt Tracy and Uncle Matt for Sunday dinner with us. On his way to the truck, he found an enormous, dead dragonfly, completely intact. After sneaking up behind me and nearly giving me a coronary by placing said enormous dragonfly on my shoulder, he took it to the girls to show them.

Bean was immediately impressed. I tried not to act squeamish as she paraded around the house, holding it by the tail. She held it out to all the dogs, so they could get a good sniff, and then she passed the fascinating carcass on to Cakes. Who, to my horror, proceeded to gleefully dismember said enormous dragonfly in the middle of the living room.

THE CRITTERS KEEP ON COMING

One of the things I love about the country is all the room for the girls to play. I can knit on the porch while I watch the cherubs romp around in the fields. This morning, I released the girls into the great outdoors while I quickly donned my flip-flops so I could follow them out.

The door was barely closed behind them when I heard neighbor Sandy frantically calling in through my front door. She had both my cherubs by the hand.

I went outside to see neighbor Sandy, neighbor Wanda, and this:

Now, I don't know if you can tell from the photos, but these guys aren't ... er ... fixed. Apparently, that makes them pretty mean. And, of course, as soon as the cherubs saw the billies, they made a beeline straight for them. Sandy corraled the girls to keep them from being bitten or butted.

I brought Bean and Cakes inside, making sure they were safely behind the storm door. Then, as neighbor Wanda tried to call Animal Control, the police, the fire department, anyone that would come herd some goats and take them away, I ran inside to get my camera. My first thought after my children's safety was, "Ooo! Great blog post!" After taking some pics, with the zoom, I ran at them, yelling, "Ya, goats!" to get them out of our workshop.

They wandered over to our gardens, but Uncle Matt shooed them away. Then, they headed to neighbor Doug's house, where Doug's dog sent them scrambling for cover. They eventually ended up back in neighbor Sandy's yard, where they will probably remain until her dog, Dodge, comes home from the groomer's. At that point, Dodge will make certain that those goats are far away from our homes and our veggies.

THEY WERE HUGE!!!!

Ah, gardens. They are both amazing and terrifying, home to tasty veggies and fearsome beasts.

So, I mosied out to the garden today with the cherubs to pick a green pepper (we're making homemade, turkey-burger sloppy joes tonight). As I was out there, I surveyed my mostly weed-free garden and checked up on the status of my many veggies. It was raining, so I didn't want to pick anything other than the requisite green pepper (even though there were quite a few zucchini, yellow squash, and cucumbers that were ready to harvest).

I wandered over to our thriving tomato plants and, to my dismay, noticed that there were bites taken out of several green, German Queen tomatoes. Now, I've heard from neighbor Doug and Tanya that possums and/or racoons like to sample tomatoes when they're getting close to ripe, so I leaned forward to pluck the sampled tomatoes off (thinking all the while that I would try neighbor Doug's trick of hanging metal pans from the twine on which our tomatoes were ... uh, vining ... in an attempt to scare away the little thieves). I recoiled in horror when I saw this ...

Thanks, by the way, to one of the most helpful websites ever, What's That Bug, for the photo. As you may have noticed from previous posts like this and this, I'm not a big fan of critters. I wasn't about to get close enough to this thing to take a picture. The monstrosity was, like, 3 1/2 inches long and thicker than my thumb!!!!

Anyway, I ran to the shed for our organic pesticide, and emptied the entire container on our five tomato plants. It was then that I noticed that there was not one, but two of the hideous creatures lurking on my poor German Queen plant. Well, they should be gone tomorrow, because I pesticided the heck out of 'em!

ANIMAL CONTROL - ATTEMPT #2

So, we have all read about my wonderful relationship with Animal Control here in Williamson County. Well, the saga continues ....

Yesterday, I opened my front door to go check my mail and pick up my neighbor's mail (they're on vacation). When I opened the door, a large, beefy boxer (the animal, not the athlete) was sitting on my front porch looking at me. I didn't scream (after all, it wasn't a possum *grin*), but I did catch my breath and slam the door shut again. An hour later, the boxer was still, for some unknown reason, sitting on my front porch. So, call #2 this week to Animal Control.

Me: "A boxer has been sitting on my front porch for the past hour."

Animal Control: "Is he vicious?"

Me: "Maybe. I'm not about to go find out."

Animal Control: "Does he have a collar on?"

Me: "No." (Thinking, "But even if he did, I'm not going to try to go read it!")

So, they got my address and said they would dispatch someone. I thanked them, but I was thinking, "You will send out a truck for a possibly vicious dog, but not for a definitely-vicious-and-maybe-even-rabid possum in my trash can?"

After another half hour, Animal Control still had not shown up, and Big Daddy had begun tossing quesadillas out the front door for the boxer to eat. He eventually wandered away, and Animal Control showed up on my front porch with a leash 10 minutes later.

POSSUMS

So, my house has been in more disarray than the usual toddler-filled home because we're busy packing. Yesterday, I filled a trashbag with everything left over from packing up the bonus room, and went out back to throw the bag into our garbage can. As I released the bag, I thought I spotted fur in the bottom of the garbage can. So, I decided to take a closer look. I walked over to the garbage can, looked in, screamed, then soiled myself, because I had come face to face with the beady eyes and open mouth of an enormous, angry looking possum. I ran into the house, locked the deadbolt (just in case the possum knew how to work a doorknob), and told a wide-eyed Bean, "It's okay. An animal just surprised Mommy, that's all."

After changing my clothes (refer to the aforementioned soiling of myself), I called up Animal Control. The conversation went like this:

"Animal Control. How can we help you?"

"There's a possum in my trash can."

"So, tip the trash can over," said the Animal Control agent in a voice that suggested that I am a moron.

"Are you kidding me? What if it attacks me?!"

Pause. "Ma'am, it's not going to attack you."

"Seriously, it is looking pretty fierce."

"That's because it is scared and trapped. Just tip the trash can over, walk away, and it will leave." Again, spoken like I am a moron.

"Okay, thanks," I said, and hung up.

Now, there was NO WAY ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH that I was going to go near that trash can, so I leaned out of my back door with a broom, and tried to push the can over. The possum's weight, however, made this trickier than I thought it would be. It was like trying to overturn a Weeble Wobble, and hissing noises kept coming from the can every time it almost fell, and then rocked back into an upright position. This of course, had me screaming again. When the can finally DID fall on it's side, I panicked, picturing a foamy-mouthed possum flying toward me like a missile. So, I tried to quickly pull the broom inside the house so I could shut and deadbolt the door again. But, the panic made it impossible for me to pull the broomstick through the railing of our deck. I finally left the broom out there and slammed the door shut.

Would you know that the stupid possum did not leave that trash can until Big Daddy came home at 7:30 p.m., picked up the trash can, and shook the possum out while I watched from the window (screaming, of course).

Needless to say, I will no longer be taking our garbage out. That is now solely Burnie's job.