Living in the mountains is like being on vacation every day.

My feet hurt. My shoulders hurt. I have a sunburn. Me. The girl who avoids the sun like a vampire on spring break. I have a sunburn…on my skin. The skin that rarely sees the sun for more than fleeting moments on any given day. Yeah…about that.

I’m thinking I might be ready for a break from vacation. I’m almost looking forward to the weekend being over so I don’t have to have another bonfire. Or entertain Goonies…for at least a few day. Or build giant tents for the entire neighborhood to sleep in my back yard.

It would seem we’re the cool neighbors. Oh, I sort of knew it already. Eccentric Yankee writer and her engineer (farmer) husband move into the spooky old manor house with a wide assortment of animals, including a giant dog, an owl dueling ghetto cat, a bunch of newly hatched chickens, and after today, three full-size laying hens. Who wouldn’t be drawn to that?

Right…so I have a yard full of kids (the Goonies brought a little sister and a girlfriend today, plus Mike’s youngest is here for the weekend) a freshly lit bonfire, and a giant tent that took three of us to construct and can easily sleep ten juvenile sized humans. Thank goodness there are only five actually out there. And all this after getting pooped on by the new chickens while helping Mike build their coop. By the way, chickens poop way more than I ever realized.

Is it any wonder I’m ready for a shower then bed?

But I can hardly hit the hay (farm joke) until I get the kids settled into the tent (and plan some sort of scare for them, because what sort of cool neighbor would I be if I didn’t try to scare the shit out of a bunch of kids sleeping in my yard?)

Right…that would hardly be cool of me to skip such things. Too bad my daughter and her boyfriend went back to Atlanta. They would be perfect to both supervise and terrorize the teens and preteens out there. Me? I’m just too damn old for this crap. It’s a good thing I have a few vampire cardboard cut outs and a life-size skeleton in the closet for just such occasions.

Maybe after just a quick nap.

Until the next time…I’ll be looking forward to a day of rest.

Easter.

As a young girl I used to get so excited for the arrival of Easter. It always meant a new dress and a pretty bonnet for church. (And of course, a basket of candy from the “giant bunny”.) And when my kids were growing up, I was torn between that same nostalgic excitement, and something akin to horror as roamed the apocalyptic scene at the local Walmart on the night before Easter, fighting old ladies in wheelchairs for the last few chocolate bunnies and peanut butter eggs in the entire store. This because I’d either completely forgotten about Easter until then, or already eaten the previously purchased candy. And the scene was a cross between a Mad Max movie and the original Willie Wonka and the chocolate factory.

Mad Max and the chocolate apocalypse.

Of all the things I miss…that isn’t one of them. So as sad as I was to realize this would be the first year I failed to do Easter baskets for the kids (most of which are actually adults who don’t really care if I buy them candy) I was secretly delighted I would be spared a trip to Walmart on the Saturday before Easter.

Imagine my horror as I somehow managed to find myself exactly there…Walmart! At ten o’clock at night. On the night before Easter. With all the other zombies trolling for chocolate bunnies and peanut butter eggs.

But I wasn’t shopping for candy. I was shopping for a lightbulb.

Let’s rewind. Mike and I rolled out of bed (reluctantly) at seven this morning. It was garage sale day, and we were thrilled to be getting rid of our junk…I mean stuff…for some extra cash. It was a good morning…we sold a lot. We even met the neighbors.

This is how I know were are really and truly living in the country.

I actually witnessed…as in heard with my own ears…a grown man say the word do-dong. You might remember I wrote about a dongle some time back, and as funny as the word dongle sounded, it wasn’t what you thought it was. Well, this time it was exactly what I thought it was. The context is somewhat important. My husband was pulling a vine from under the porch when the neighbor (a man in his late fifties to early sixties) said (and I’ll write this out phonetically because it’s way funnier that way) “That thar is posen (not poison…posen) ahvy. You don’t want that. And ya best not touch yer do-dong before you wash yer hands.”

Yep, you heard (err…read) that right. “Ya best not touch yer do-dong…” Well, I agreed wholeheartedly. You do not want posen ahvy (or poison ivy for that matter) on your do-dong. I don’t have a do-dong myself, but if I did, I’m certain I wouldn’t want poison ivy on it.

Funny accents aside, he’s a sweet man, my neighbor. And oh so thoughtful, thinking about my husband’s do-dong like that. Not many men are secure enough in their manhood to mention such things outloud.

So, I guess you’re wondering what drove me to Walmart (and a twenty minute drive to reach said Walmart, by the way) for a lightbulb, on the night before Easter? Well…with our garage sale proceeds, we went to the local feed store and bought eight baby chickens. We needed a lightbulb to keep them warm at night. And they seem to be toasty warm, indeed. Oh, and in case you’re wondering…my husband’s errr do-dong seems to be just fine too.

Until the next time…I’ll be listening to the baby chickens peep all night long.