What the duck is going on?

Well, we were down to three ducks yesterday. The garden gnome has clearly struck again, and I was greatly saddened to see another duck missing from the flock. Then last night, we heard a great commotion (that's what I'm calling it) and my husband rushed outside and discovered only one duck in the yard. ​

One.​

We were devastated, of course. We love our ducks and their crazy antics. We started with eight ducklings and after a minor mishap with a large dog paw, found ourselves with seven. And for months, we had seven happy, devious, plotting ducks wandering the yard quacking at their own jokes and making the farm a happy place. Then the damn psycho gnome moves in (or a fox as some unbelievers have suggested) and suddenly we had one sad, lonely duck.

A little later, another duck showed up, like he'd taken cover in the melee, (leaving the female to fend for herself like a typical male...duck) and now we have two. From eight ducks to two in less than a year. We clearly need more ducks. And probably a bigger gnome trap. I guess it's back to the drawing board and the ACME website to search for traps. I was really hoping we just had a wiley coyote in the area. Everyone knows they can't catch ANYTHING.​

Until the next time...I'll be getting a stronger electric charge for the fence.​

and then there were four

The garden gnome strikes again!​ We're officially down another duck. And now the four remaining ducks are hanging out in the yard. They absolutely refuse to wait like sitting du...errr...you know...they don't want to stay in their pen. But they're doing bizarre things out there. Strange for even them. We heard them quacking and moving into a circle (as best they can with only four of them) and I swear they're doing some kind of sacrificial ceremony. One of the chickens knocked on the back door until we opened it, and she came right inside. She must know the ducks are up to no good tonight.

The worst part of the whole thing is we're now down one layer. That means less eggs to eat. And to bake with. And there's no way I'm buying eggs from the store. Not after being spoiled by fresh eggs every day. That can only mean one thing.​ We need more ducks.

And we need to a trap big enough to catch a rogue garden gnome.

Time to head over to the Acme website to look for garden gnome traps. I may as well order a few mouse traps while I'm at it. You can never be too prepared.​

Until the next time...I'll be shopping for baby ducks.​

it's time for a break out

I'm just a few bars away from a prison cell. I feel like my mouth has been duct-taped shut. My hands are cuffed behind my back keeping my fingers far from the keyboard. Even my brain is on total lock down. I've been forced to eat beans and cabbage for dinner. But worse than that, I've been banned from discussing anything that goes on in my house...other than myself.

Crap. Not this again!

You send one tweet about someone who doesn't like attention and all hell breaks loose. It's not like I divulged bank account information...or intimate sex life details...though I suspect my readers would eat that stuff up. No, it was something I thought was totally innocuous, and yet, apparently I'd committed a fairly grievous crime. And as we all know, crime doesn't pay, but we all pay for crime.

So here I am, trying to come up with something exciting to write about, and drawing a great big blank. I haven't had a shower yet. I haven't left the house in days. Even the ducks are out of ear shot. I'm totally screwed.

And not in a good way. Not. At. All.

But for some strange reason, I find myself thinking about the Gettysburg address. And embarrassingly, I don't have it memorized. The balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet, yes. Lincoln's most famous speech...nope. That's a writer for ya. A writer with nothing to say. Or more specifically, nothing I'm allowed to say.

So, I've decided from today forward, I'm making up a new life.

And in this life, I'm several pounds lighter and at least a decade younger. Handsome men are falling at my feet and I can actually walk in a sexy pair of Jimmy Choo's. Oh yeah...things just got a whole lot more interesting around here. Who needs the nouveau Amish and their snooty ducks? Not me. I have Henry, the Earl of Catnip and Cooper Maxwell. I have my own damn theme music and I'm walking through life to the sassy beat!

Right after I take a shower and shave my legs. Even I can't imagine this stuff while sitting in a dirty Eddie Bauer sweatshirt with a good month's worth of stubble.

Until the next time...I'll be having fun for a change!

duck fight!

My husband woke me up this morning to tell me he thinks we're going to need to "cull" two of our male ducks. Yep, you got it...he wants to off two of the boys. Of course, I was morally outraged. What have my duckies done to deserve a death sentence?

Apparently, they're fighting. Fighting? Our kids did far worse than that to each other when they were younger and no one was calling for their executions. Ok, so maybe that's a lie...executions were occasionally ordered, but never carried out. Honest...they're all still alive! But the poor duckies may not be so lucky.

So, despite my desire to stay cocooned within the warmth of my layers upon layers of blankets (and at least one very warm dog) I climbed out of bed, pulled on a coat and my slippers and stepped onto the back porch to see what he was bitching about.

I didn't get far when I heard the mad quacking coming from the middle of the yard. There in the center of a circle of ducks were the two males, violently bumping chests, beaks flapping and biting at each other. Surrounding them, the rest of the ducks were chanting, "Quack! Quack! Quack! Quack!"

After a quick translation, I decided they were yelling, "Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!" And that's when I decided ducks were not much different from children after all, and ordered (at least for now) a stay of execution. I mean...I haven't even had a chance to catch this shit on video yet!

Until the next time...I'll be carrying my camera around at all times!

this little piggy cried wee wee wee

I woke up this morning with an acute case of laryngitis. The funny thing is I don't know exactly when I discovered it, because I woke up completely alone. My husband had already headed into the yard to get the new piggies into their pen.

By the time I was up and around and ready to see the new little members of the family, they had escaped their bonds and wandered into the yard. It took several of us, and the dog, to wrangle them back to their own large section of the side pasture. 

The chickens and ducks were watching from the sidelines, trying to figure out who the naked fatties were, making grunting noises as they munched on acorns and apple cores. I could tell the ducks were concerned. They continued to watch the pigs, beaks tilted to the side in quiet contemplation. It was obvious they were plotting, as only ducks can do. The chickens, on the other hand, were more concerned with the food, and repeatedly risked electrocution to tuck under the fence to sneak a peek at what the pigs had in their feeders.

The pigs couldn't have cared less about the others in the farmyard. They were simply thrilled to be roaming free, noses buried in dry leaves, rooting out nuts and seeds and whatever else pigs eat.

Today was the first day since we moved here that my husband felt like a real farmer. Covered in pig slop and other assorted nastiness. Accidentally zapping himself on electrified wires. Having to chase down runaway piglets. Twice.

All in all, it was a pretty good day at the haunted farm. Even if I couldn't find my voice to say a single thing about it. In fact, my total silence may have made it a perfect day for my husband. And I guess I can let him have that just this once.

Until the next time...I'll be waiting for my voice to come back.

downpours, dead mice and demented ducks

I have come to the undeniable conclusion that I have a very odd existance. Not odd in a bad way…like, “Gee, did you eat a lot of paint chips as a child?” Or, “Wow, I don’t know what you’re on, but I’d like some of that.” No, odd in a different way. A sort of fun way, once I have a bit of distance from the day to look back on it. Like today. What a freaking weird day today turned out to be.

It started out normal…mundane really. My daughter was feeling sick, so after everyone else in the house had gone to work, she came storming into my room, fuzzy blanket in tow, and announced that she was sick, and bored, and would be watching TV in my room. This required a trip to the living room to swap out the only good batteries from the other Dish remote so we could actually watch TV in my room. Then, instead of getting a few hours of much needed sleep, I found myself watching Hairspray with my sick daughter…and the dog. Because the dog can’t have anyone in my bed unless he’s stretched out between us, making sure I’m completely safe from any sort of accidental arm brushing or nudging. So he slept on his back, head nestled in the pillow, snoring so loudly we had to crank up the sound to hear the musical. Right…this was the normal, mundane part of my day, remember?

I realized sometime after lunch that I hadn’t heard a peep (or a crow) out of our resident fugitive, the cocky rooster, Clooney, and I was worried my husband had secretly taken him out back and done away with him. He didn’t, but this is something I prepare myself for each day, even though I secretly think he’s starting to like him now that he’s getting so much attention on the web. So, yeah, keep up the pleas for Clooney, it might actually be sinking in.

So, once I discovered the chickens were in hiding and not the freezer, I set off on the rest of my exceedingly boring day. I read. I swept the dog hair and teddy bear fluff from the floors. And I ordered pizza because I hate to cook. Boring.

Then the storm hit.

It was practically a typhoon. I don’t know where it came from, but suddenly I was watching out the window for a witch on a broom, or something. I know…wrong storm, but it was seriously whipping up debris out there. My husband came bounding through the backdoor as if he was shot out of a cannon…a water cannon…and we proceeded to watch things blow around the backyard by the light of the intermittent lightning flashes.

I was worried about the flock. The last thing I wanted to see was my stupid rooster…the one I’ve been trying to save for days, or even weeks…suddenly splat into the window like a bug on a windshield. I was worried the ducks would drown. I’d heard about turkeys drowning in the rain, but are ducks as stupid as turkeys? I had no idea. It was pitch black outside, and the sound of the rain hammering the house would surely drown out a duck’s plea for help, so I was frantic. Well…mildly concerned maybe.

Then I saw them.

The crazy juvenile ducks, all clearly suffering from some form of avian ADHD, were dancing around the baby pool as it was pounded by rain. I could only see them as the sky lit up from above, but it was like watching some sort of freakish cult, dancing circles around the baby pool as if they were planning to sacrifice a virgin or something.

Once I could tear my eyes away from the spectacle outside, I heard one of the girls yelling that the cat had snagged another mouse in the back hallway. I was secretly hoping they were dragging them in from the yard, as cats often do. I didn’t want to think they were doing their jobs and hunting mice inside the house, but there it was.

Proof.

I have freaking mice on top of everything else this house has to offer. The ghosts, the flies, the spiders, the horrible plumbing, the scary basement…not enough. No, I had to have mice too. Well, at least I have cats, right? And damn fine hunters too. They’ve bagged three of those suckers in the past week alone, and it’s only Wednesday. My third least favorite day of the week, by the way. And after the day I’ve had, I might have to upgrade it a few notches. At least temporarily.

Until the next time…I’ll be buying special treats for my kitties!

road trips, summer weddings, and duck sitters

I think my life may officially be a cliche.

My husband and I are leaving in the morning on a two day road trip to go to his brother’s wedding in Virginia. I’m not a fan of long road trips, or weddings for that matter. Especially when I don’t know the people getting married. Despite the technicality of the groom being family (I think I’ve met his brother once in passing, but we’ve never spoken) we’re essentially strangers. And I don’t know the bride at all. And other than my husband’s younger sister (the one who actually likes me) I’m not anyone’s favorite in-law. This should make for a very interesting two days.

That is if I survive eleven hours in the car with my husband…in July. With no internet.

But, oh…it gets worse.

While we’re gone, we’re having the “grown” children house sit. Or is that duck sit, since the baby ducks need almost constant round the clock attention like the demented band of toddlers they are? Not more than thirty minutes after cleaning them and their pen, they are once again covered in a layer of mud and poop. They’ve spilled their water into their food and have created a paste that they happily trample through with their little webbed feet as they run circles in the pen waiting for us to bring them new water, new food, and more dry bedding.

And this is less than an hour after breakfast.

I almost fear I will come home to find my house wrecked. My chickens missing. My kids hanging from the chandeliers. And my dogs dining on ducks roasted in orange sauce.

Is it any wonder I never leave town if I can avoid it? Especially when I have absolutely nothing to wear (pardon the cliche, but it’s true). This is why I hate weddings, road trips, and sitters. I have no clue how my husband convinced me to go. It may have involved wine coolers and large quanties of chocolate…both impair my thinking equally.

Well, if I’m going to live out the plot in a bad slapstick comedy, I guess I’d better get a few hours of sleep…and charge my Nook. It’s going to be a long trip!

Until the next time…I’ll be at the open bar!