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So much to blog about, so little drive to move my fingers on the keyboard.
I could tell you about the ongoing Orwellian nightmare that is the patch of earth around our house, or give you folks a new chicken recipe that rocks.
I'll start with one, and then see if my attention holds to the other for later.
Let me tell you about last Tuesday.
I did post that day, but it was absolutely horrific on many levels. The one I'm most concerned about, though, is the inundation of my front and back gardens with (disgusted voice) woodland creatures. Nolan jokes that I enjoy the outdoors as much as anyone - provided it's through a pane of glass in the climate controlled environment, preferably with someone bringing me something cold to drink. I always thought he was exaggerating; I mean, I'm not much of a camper, because having all of your possessions that make you comfortable inside your house and taking them outside is just... mind blowing to me, but I like to go for walks, and I like the flower beds and so forth.
What I do not enjoy, though, is the wildlife that thinks my yard is still their home. I don't care if it was theirs for the past however many years. I pay a buttload of money to Wachovia Bank to purchase my little acre and a half, and I'll be damned if I want those creatures still on it. Forgive the horrifically politically incorrect allusion, but consider me the white man, and all the non-humans on the premises the Native Americans. Y'all go find yourself a reservation across the street, cause this girl's patch of grass is henceforth OFF LIMITS TO YOU.
I told you about the birds, right? After a bit of research, I found out that they are indeed called yellow-bellied flycatchers, and they are extremely protective of their nest. I know this not from Wikipedia, but unfortunately, from experience. I was weeding the flower bed, minding my own damn business, when I saw the birds swooping down and doing fly-bys at the dogs. Now, the dogs were unmoved by the whole situation, they cared not even a little bit that these brids were dive bombing them. I swear I thought I saw Katie sneer once. Anyway, I was pretty sure that the birds weren't getting close enough to hurt the dogs, so I continued across the yard, doing my thing. It was then, that I heard them chattering again, and when I looked up, I was nearly face to face with a diving bird.
Now, gentle reader, think about how you feel when a rather large insect comes at your head. I don't know about you, but I bob and weave and sort of bat my hands around (As if the insect will sense that my hands are a wicked instrument of terror and must be avoided at all costs). Well I did that.
And then with the next swoop down, I HIT THE DECK. Flat out, face in the mulch. That's humbling, let me tell you. (Especially with Frank giving me one of his LOOKS.) I swear, there was a manic glint in that bird's eye. I think he wanted to kill me. But as I outweigh it by... let's just say A LOT, I quickly recovered. And got my camera.
Look at him. Flapping his wings at me like he was all something. I'm gonna let him slide, because I discovered he and his punk friend has a nest of eggs in the tree that I was working beside.
Harumph, I say. HARUMPH.
THEN, I leave the relative safety of back yard to go to the front, where just three days earlier, I has seen aBasilisk big ass snake on the front porch. I don't have to tell you, I was wary. I think you might have been, too, so when I put my hand out ro pull a weed and something moved, I screamed and flailed and jumped back.
My neighbors must have a great time telling their friends about the crazy lady that lives next door.
In any case, it wasn't a snake, it was this guy:
I'm calling him Trevor. He's HUGE. I mean, for a frog. Or toad. Or whatever. (The know-it-all neighbor girl Blakely, assures me that he's a toad. *eyeroll*) You know what? It doesn't make a spit of difference to me.
I kinda like Trev. He's shy.
I've decided he can stay.
But the dirt daubers and snakes and bumblebees and wasps and freaking obnoxious BIRDS? (Once the eggs hatch - I'm not a monster) Consider this your courtesy call. You are no longer needed to fulfill a purpose at this address. Don't let the door hit ya on the ass on the way out.
Not that they're inside, but, you know, whatever.
I could tell you about the ongoing Orwellian nightmare that is the patch of earth around our house, or give you folks a new chicken recipe that rocks.
I'll start with one, and then see if my attention holds to the other for later.
Let me tell you about last Tuesday.
I did post that day, but it was absolutely horrific on many levels. The one I'm most concerned about, though, is the inundation of my front and back gardens with (disgusted voice) woodland creatures. Nolan jokes that I enjoy the outdoors as much as anyone - provided it's through a pane of glass in the climate controlled environment, preferably with someone bringing me something cold to drink. I always thought he was exaggerating; I mean, I'm not much of a camper, because having all of your possessions that make you comfortable inside your house and taking them outside is just... mind blowing to me, but I like to go for walks, and I like the flower beds and so forth.
What I do not enjoy, though, is the wildlife that thinks my yard is still their home. I don't care if it was theirs for the past however many years. I pay a buttload of money to Wachovia Bank to purchase my little acre and a half, and I'll be damned if I want those creatures still on it. Forgive the horrifically politically incorrect allusion, but consider me the white man, and all the non-humans on the premises the Native Americans. Y'all go find yourself a reservation across the street, cause this girl's patch of grass is henceforth OFF LIMITS TO YOU.
I told you about the birds, right? After a bit of research, I found out that they are indeed called yellow-bellied flycatchers, and they are extremely protective of their nest. I know this not from Wikipedia, but unfortunately, from experience. I was weeding the flower bed, minding my own damn business, when I saw the birds swooping down and doing fly-bys at the dogs. Now, the dogs were unmoved by the whole situation, they cared not even a little bit that these brids were dive bombing them. I swear I thought I saw Katie sneer once. Anyway, I was pretty sure that the birds weren't getting close enough to hurt the dogs, so I continued across the yard, doing my thing. It was then, that I heard them chattering again, and when I looked up, I was nearly face to face with a diving bird.
Now, gentle reader, think about how you feel when a rather large insect comes at your head. I don't know about you, but I bob and weave and sort of bat my hands around (As if the insect will sense that my hands are a wicked instrument of terror and must be avoided at all costs). Well I did that.
And then with the next swoop down, I HIT THE DECK. Flat out, face in the mulch. That's humbling, let me tell you. (Especially with Frank giving me one of his LOOKS.) I swear, there was a manic glint in that bird's eye. I think he wanted to kill me. But as I outweigh it by... let's just say A LOT, I quickly recovered. And got my camera.
Look at him. Flapping his wings at me like he was all something. I'm gonna let him slide, because I discovered he and his punk friend has a nest of eggs in the tree that I was working beside.
Harumph, I say. HARUMPH.
THEN, I leave the relative safety of back yard to go to the front, where just three days earlier, I has seen a
My neighbors must have a great time telling their friends about the crazy lady that lives next door.
In any case, it wasn't a snake, it was this guy:
I'm calling him Trevor. He's HUGE. I mean, for a frog. Or toad. Or whatever. (The know-it-all neighbor girl Blakely, assures me that he's a toad. *eyeroll*) You know what? It doesn't make a spit of difference to me.
I kinda like Trev. He's shy.
I've decided he can stay.
But the dirt daubers and snakes and bumblebees and wasps and freaking obnoxious BIRDS? (Once the eggs hatch - I'm not a monster) Consider this your courtesy call. You are no longer needed to fulfill a purpose at this address. Don't let the door hit ya on the ass on the way out.
Not that they're inside, but, you know, whatever.