Groundhog day

Okay, so I'm guilty of feeding the resident groundhog. I know, I know, you shouldn't get close to wild animals, you probably shouldn't feed them, either, but he kept coming out of he woods around the garage and back deck like a stray dog...and it was cold...and raining...and I'm a total sucker.

He isn't rabid, either. Simply hungry. (Previous experience in an animal rescue) I think the warm spell we had here brought him out of hibernation and since he's getting a free meal-why go back, right? All the vegies and stuff I'm supposed to be composting-is groundhog grub. And he's loving it.

So-Given my husband's recent violence regarding the mole situation in the backyard (previous blog entry) I'd neglected to tell him that we've taken on another pet. I'm thinking the Man can only take so much, right? Remember Bill Murray in Caddyshack? I'd rather not have him start blowing up the backyard....

Back to Phil-named after the famous PA groundhog. Phil and I had fallen into a routine-or so I thought...I'd wait until after Man went to work at 0'dark thirty and creep outside with my kitchen scraps and set them on the other side of the fence near the edge of the woods-next to the compost pile.(Man did wonder why compost pile seemed rather pitiful, yet he's not concluded anything substantial-nor does he suspect my involvement. I'll ride that train until it derails.)

Phil, it seems, got a bit impatient with me this morning and made his appearance before Man left for work.

"Holy F*$K!" And then the sound of a coffee mug bouncing off the kitchen island onto the floor. The floor that hasn't been replaced yet from last catastrophe. (another previous blog entry)

Whenever Man proceeds curse word with HOLY, we're in for it. Usually the situation involves a male-made self-inflicted problem that can escalate into full-fledged disaster without my intervention. So even though I was asleep, wifely hearing kicked in and roused me out of bed. I guess a woman can sense when blood, smoke, fire, or possible animal attack is eminent.

As I'm putting on my robe-he comes dashing into the bedroom. "Honey! There's a beaver on the deck! He's staring at me through the sliding doors! You gotta see this!" In some respects, men NEVER grow up. 4, 14, or 40-they have the infuriating tendency to force you out of a warm bed to look at something.

I try to be vague. "I think it's probably a groundhog." Yeah, right. I think??? Damn you, Phil! He was leaving in 20 minutes...Couldn't you just wait by the tree like you've been doing for the last two weeks?

"No way, he's too big. It has to be a beaver."

"We don't have beavers."

"We have water."

"We have a little creek that empties into a man-made subdivision drainage pond." What self-respecting beaver would choose that pitiful puddle for a home? Plus, I don't think there are any beavers in the area. Of course, I didn't think we had foxes, either, or coyotes, but we do. And no, I don't feed them.

I wander into the kitchen and there is Phil in all his glory sitting just beyond the sliding doors on the welcome mat. I glare at him and begin cleaning up spilt coffee.

Man is beyond outraged. "Just walks up onto the deck like he owns it. Look at him! Ugly little sob. Next thing you know he'll be getting into the garage. Or worse, he'll be strewing garbage all over"

"He can't-you've padlocked the trash." Man had several altercations with a family of raccoons not long after we moved into the house resulting in our garbage being not closed, not tied down, not bungeyed-but padlocked. We leave our garage door open all day long when we're home-but padlock our garbage. Interesting...aren't we?

"Besides," I throw in. "Groundhogs don't eat that kind of thing."

Dubious, he looks at me as he's pouring another cup of coffee. "They don't?"

"No, they don't. They eat bugs and raisins and berries and stuff..." I'm reaching, I know.

"And you know this how?"

"I was born in Pennsylvania. We have the corner on groundhogs."

He thinks on this for a minute-then looks at Phil-who is still sitting outside the door. "I don't know about that, Mary. I'm thinking they eat just about anything-like those beady-eyed little bastard raccoons. I probably should call animal control to come and set a trap."

NO! I think fast. "You're thinking of a woodchuck." I offer. "Now they eat just about anything."

He considers Phil with a frown. "Maybe you're right."

Well, I'm kinda right. Woodchucks and groundhogs are actually the same animal-but Man initially thought Phil was a beaver-so I'm betting on his continued ignorance on the subject. :)

Or at the very least until I figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do with one very brazen groundhog...

You Should Be a Romance Novelist

You see the world as it should be, and this goes double for all matters of the heart. You can find the romance in any situation, and you would make a talented romance story writer... And while you may be a traditional romantic, you're just as likely to be drawn to quirky or dark love stories. As long as it deals with infatuation, heartbreak, and soulmates - you could write it.

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

So that one worked! And I didn't cheat, either. :)

You Passed 8th Grade Math

Congratulations, you got 9/10 correct!

Could You Pass 8th Grade Math?

Damn! That was hard!

How You Live Your Life

You seem to be straight forward, but you keep a lot inside. You're laid back and chill, but sometimes you care too much about what others think. You tend to have one best friend you hang with, as opposed to many aquaintences. You tend to dream big, but you worry that your dreams aren't attainable.

How Do You Live Your Life?

Your Personality Profile

You are sexy, powerful, and bold. You're full of passion and energy... Sometimes this passion has a dark side. You feel most alive when you're seducing someone. You never fail to get someone's attention. Quick minded, you're also quick to lose your temper!

The World's Shortest Personality Test

Signage, stupidity and people who stare.....

I'm not stupid, really. Though I'll admit to some less than stellar moments, I usually have a good head on my shoulders. Today, however, was not one those days. People who read this probably wonder how I manage to get through the day-I'm right there with you.

It all started with a phone call from my sister who was having troubles with her quasi-on and off-boyfriend that floats back into her life when he needs inspiration. He's a musician that has taken 7 years to get through college. He might graduate this year with a degree in something like Greek mythology. Which is fine, if you are going to do something with it. He'll probably just keep floating...and my sister will keep the life raft up. "But he's so.....deep!" she says. Right. I'm convinced.

Anyway, I try to be sympathetic, I listen, I commiserate, I sigh. She needs to simply dump the looser and move on-but who am I to judge, right? Look at my husband. He's at war with nature-and losing. I've told her what I think-but she can't see the forest for the trees.

During this conversation-I'm at the airport waiting for my flight and I'm having to pee-bad. I try to do the goodbye chant-but she starts in with another story-then she gets on Mom's latest complaints and my eyeballs start to float. I try to interrupt, I try to interject, I try but end up walking toward the bathroom because I can't wait any longer. I start in with "I have to go"-and she doesn't hear it. Either that, or she's more like our mother than I want to even imagine.

So, I figure, you know what-if she's going to keep yapping, then I'm going to the bathroom. She's my sister, right? How bad is that? Probably pretty bad, but at this point, need is taken over any manners or privacy. I march into the bathroom, choose a stall and slam the door-she's still yapping-I do my thing-she's now on the fact that the boyfriend quit his job because they didn't understand him-I'm trying to listen, deal with toilet paper and keep my temper in check. Then she starts bawling. Now I feel bad and I'm trying to reason with her.

I walk out of the stall to wash my hands and approach....

A urinal!

It takes a minute to register. I'm like-what the hell kind of sink is this? I can't find the knobs...My sister is still talking, bawling, ranting, and I'm standing in front of a urinal with my cell phone tucked in my neck...

Then I make the mistake of looking to the left. Then the right. Two men are standing there-positively riveted on me. Like I'm a creature from outer space. Thankfully, they are only standing there-flys zipped. One of them clears his throat and says.."This is the men's room."

Ahem...Do ya think?

I'm horrified. I mumbled something-probably a really foul word mixed with an apology. Hang up on my sister-and literally run out of there like I'm on fire.

Did I mention.....I'm in uniform, and both these men boarded my flight ten minutes later....

How my Man communes with nature.....

So I'm almost recovered from my perfume/dog pee/liquored-pecan disaster. In case you haven't noticed, these kinds of things happen to me-alot.

Unfortunately, though, I went into work for two days with a whack mark on my forehead from the kitchen drawer ledge. I noticed the odd looks and tried to explain-I did it, it was me, I whacked my head on the silverware drawer because I'm an idiot....

Thankfully, most of them know my husband and his antics. So no one called in Employee Assistance to deal with a battered woman. (Sadly, we've had to do that a time or to.) In my situation, however, it is common knowledge that if anyone is at risk for violence in my house-it is him.

Perfect example: This is what greeted me when I came home from work this evening.

It is 30 degrees outside. Man is in backyard holding shovel with wild-eyed look. "They are tearing up my *$&%&$^* yard."

"Who?"

"THE DAMN MOLES!" He shouts. Now, our backyard is basically woods, creek and ravine. Imagine the echo...

Man then goes into berserker mode and starts stabbing the ground with the shovel. Grunting, cursing, growling, it is quite a show. He makes the tunnels the moles made look like child's play with the damage he's causing...but I think...okay-fine. We'll let you have your tantrum. I hope ALL the neighbors are watching. They already think we're nuts, why not just add some validity to their opinions?

"I thought you bought one of those sound thingie's" I interject into the fray. "Did it run out of batteries?"

The "thingie" being some kind of mole-deterrent that you stab into the ground. It sets off sound waves, the moles don't like it-they leave. We've also tried the windmills, the mothballs, and the castor oil. These beasts apparently, are mutant moles who are invincible to everything. Hence, the Man's breakdown and declaration of war upon the mole population.

He's ranting now: "Nothing works. Not a damn thing. I've tried to be humane! I've tried, Mary. But this is it! I'm over it! I don't care what you say. I'm GOING TO JUST KILL THEM!" Several stabs into the grass to emphasize point.

At this point, I attempt reasoning. "Why don't you just come inside. This is ridiculous. It is to damn cold right now for moles to be creeping around the yard."

"THEY ARE VERMIN!" he yells at me. "$&%^@* VERMIN! LOOK AT WHAT THEY'VE DONE TO MY GRASS!"

I want to say. "THE GRASS IS DEAD! This is March, you fool, no one is looking at grass!" Instead, I just turn around and walk into the garage.

Several minutes later, I hear a loud bang.

Dear God! Is he shooting them? Where did he get a gun? Or worse, maybe someone has finally had enough of his foolishness and just shot my husband for being the neighborhood nuisance. (Where we live-incidentally-is like...well..we're the only people in the cul-de-sac that don't have a subscription to Guns and Ammo.)

I run downstairs to the garage and discover Man standing there-with THAT look.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT NOISE?"

"Um....I threw the shovel."

"WHAT?"

"I was pissed, and I just lost my head and flung it."

"What did it hit?" I start walking out to the driveway-you see, I already know.....I have a feeling....I should have parked in the garage....I'm envisioning windshield cracked, hood dented....I'm seeing red...

Wisely-he quickly informs me-"Um...it didn't hit your car."

Good thing. Else he'd be thanking God that we DON'T own a gun. I'm calm. I'm collected... "What did you hit?"

"My truck."

:)

Some days, it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.....

You Are Animal

A complete lunatic, you're operating on 100% animal instincts. You thrive on uncontrolled energy, and you're downright scary. But you sure can beat a good drum. "Kill! Kill!"

The Muppet Personality Test

Thanks to Dennie for having the Muppet test on her blog~ I was wondering why I was having such an awful day. Has to be the hair!





Okay, so here's my morning thus far. With my job-I have some "On Call" days. Which means, I sit at home and wait for them to call me into work. They do pay me to do this, so I can't complain. I'm sure this practice isn't unheard of. So today, I'm on call. But if my day keeps up at this rate, I might be in traction and if they call, I won't be able to answer.

At 6AM:

Get out of bed when alarm goes off. Trip over man's slipper, stumble into dresser and knock my perfume bottles all over.

Scream obscenity as perfume runs all over antique wood, down front of drawers and onto carpet.

While running for towel-I trip over dog. Animal cannot understand why I'm in frenzy and thinks I want to play.

Stub toe on linen closet frame.

Scream even fouler obsenity-several times. Scare dog-who promptly pees on carpet.

Toe aching, I limp over to dresser and attempt to clean up disaster. Perfume reeks-I'm lightheaded.

Manage to clean up mess, put on robe-enter kitchen where I attempt to pour myself a much needed cup of coffee. At least Man made java before he went to work at o'dawn-thirty.

Drop teaspoon on floor-lean down to pick it up and wack my forhead on the silverware drawer because I haven't closed it yet as a result of being lightheaded and in major need of caffeine.

Can't scream obscenity, as ability to speak is hampered by pain.

Sit down on floor and contemplate crying. Dog licks my face to remind me that I have pee to clean up. Deal with that instead of crying.

Calm down, get over it, open pantry in need of cereal. Food, as always, usually will suffice any temper.

Discover that CEREAL THEIVING MAN MUST HAVE EATEN LAST BIT OF CAPTAIN CRUNCH!!! Nothing but oatmeal left that even resembles a breakfast type meal, and in my present state of mind, boiling water is out of the question. The bastard even ate the last banana!

Obscenities fly again!

Furious, I open tin of chocolate covered pecans thinking that the Breakfast of champions is grossly overated. Dig in.

Stand in pantry-alone, shoveling handfuls of candy into my mouth until I resemble a squirrel.

Realize that pecans are also coated in liquor as well as chocolate and I'm on call today. Random Alcohol testing does happen in my profession. Nearly choke.

Spit out pecans.

On floor.


Okay, so does anyone see a pattern here???????