another cautionary tale

Let it not be said that my failures…my suffering…is for nothing. I live my life as one great big cautionary tale for the rest of humanity. That’s right. Learn from my mistakes. I’ve made many. After countless hours of trial and error…research, if you will…I can say with great certainty that one should never attempt one’s own bikini wax. The uncoordinated should never attempt pole dancing, especially in the presence of those born for such things. I’ve flooded stoves, tripped over air, embarrassed myself so many times they should name a disorder after me. And today was just another day for Hurricane Erica.

First, I’d like to say…you should never go commando when you live on a farm. Especially while feeding ducks in an open yard…in the rain. Oh, especially when the pen has been thrown together as a last minute project.

I’m just going to come out and say it. It’s not my fault. I was tired. It was early. My husband whispered in my ear as he left for work that I needed to feed the animals. 

“Feed and water the ducks. Pour out their baby pool and refill it,” he said.

Slave driver!

So I rolled out of bed an hour later wearing a white tank and a loose pair of sweat pants. My  pajamas. But it was raining pretty hard, so I slipped my feet into my husband’s muck boots and trudged out to the yard with a pitcher full of duck food.

As usual, the crazy ducks had escaped and needed to be tricked into their pen again. This takes careful plotting and strategy. Something I’m not prepared for in the morning, but I did it just the same. I fed them, watered them, and refilled the baby pool, all while getting rained on.

I’m sure you’re thinking, “Oooh, she shouldn’t have worn a white tank in the rain.” And you’re probably right, but that wasn’t my major catastrophe that morning. No, it would have been when the seat of my sweat pants got caught on the side of the duck pen. I mean caught. As in, I was afraid I would either have to ditch them, or stay trapped to the pen forever. And I wasn’t wearing underwear. And the spot my husband set up the duck pen is in direct view of the neighbors house…the only house on four sides of our property, and that’s exactly where I was stuck. My pants hooked on the pen in such a way that I couldn’t reach, and pulling was only making them tear.

So I struggled…getting further soaked in my white tank top. Seven stupid baby ducks laughing at me in their stupid quacking voices, as I debated climbing out of my sweats and making a mad dash across the yard to the kitchen door.

The ducks were daring me. The voice in my head was telling me I might be able to make it…and then it laughed, saying there was no way in hell I would make it without falling at least once, and the freaking lawnmower man had this new fetish for mowing in the rain. I was screwed.

And then the little rooster let loose with a cock-a-doodle-do from somewhere behind me, making me jump. My pants, the ones attached to the pen, jumped with me, causing the side wall of the pen to crash over, thus freeing me, but leaving me with a completely new problem to solve.

I suddenly had seven baby ducks running loose in the yard again…laughing at me as I propped up the side of the pen and proceeded to herd them inside again.

Crisis averted…message delivered. Always wear panties when feeding ducks.

Until the next time…I’ll be throwing the food over the side and running away!



Copyright © 2000-2018, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
Posted on July 22, 2012 .