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The Skunk in the Live Trap

This post is a bit overdue and therefore loses a bit of of it’s hilarity for me. But I’m sitting in the passenger seat on the final leg of a crazy boondoggle to take Charlie out to Wyoming for a 30-day backpacking trip. Dave is on the phone wheeling and dealing, and I just finished a book so good (When Breath Becomes Air) that I don’t want to ruin the afterglow by starting my next one (The Sandcastle Girls).

wheelinganddealing

What else is there to do but tell this tale of heartbreak and gruesome hardship of living on the rural prairie?

A couple months ago, I added a few chickens to keep Little Red company. I haven’t settled on names for them yet, but have been working my way toward that. They consist of:

  • A Barred Rock that started off bullying Little Red terribly and was almost dispatched when they suddenly became the best of friends.
  • An Araucana (blue egg layer) that has that trademark wild pheasant look to it
  • And a Blue Laced Wyandotte that is absolutely gorgeous, with the noted exception of her missing tail, pecked off by her previous coop-mates. This chicken is a nervous wreck and has not settled down at all. Additionally, she appears not to lay eggs. Which means I’m feeding 4 chickens but only 2 lay eggs. #pushover.

I have been lulled into complacency by the effectiveness of my electric wire around the chicken run against everything except the fatality that made Little Red an “only chicken” two years ago: the Golden Eagle. After the Golden Eagle massacre, I kept Little Red, locked up in the coop until I was sure the eagle had moved on. After giving it a lot of thought, I determined I could not prevent such an attack in the future and simply hoped it was an isolated incident because I was (and still am) unwilling to put wire over the top of the chicken run (I tried it several years ago) for several reasons:

  • I am unable to stand up under it
  • Snow collects on the wire and compromises the fence posts
  • It’s ugly
  • It requires a LOT of maintenance
  • I am lazy

Besides. I have not lost a chicken to anything other than an eagle (and my own dog) since installing the electric fence several years ago.

However, not too long ago, I began finding broken eggs outside the coop. I clearly had a predator eating the eggs that I needed to deal with and I set my trusty oversized live trap that very evening.

In the morning, completely forgetting about the trap, I went out there with Lola to bring the chickens some treats and had to do a stressful yet calm backwards shuffle while whispering frantically to Lola to “LEAVE IT” when we found ourselves only steps away from a caged skunk. I was not expecting a skunk because I can usually smell them when they are hanging around the area.

This is not "my" skunk, and though appearing much more laid back, approximates it closely enough.
This is not “my” skunk, and though appearing much more laid back, approximates it closely enough.

Regardless, I now had a caged and very angry skunk, in a trap, right next to my chickens who were pecking in the background, completely oblivious.

I had been in this situation several years ago and after googling what to do, I followed the steps — which, despite their illogical nature, worked perfectly. Basically, you just act calm and cover the cage with a tarp, watching carefully for signs of spraying (raised tail, agitated dancing). Apparently, once covered up, skunks are not apt to spray. And this is where I truly cannot believe what I did all those years ago: I waited until dark and I let it go. Dave had been out of town and I didn’t want to shoot it.

This time, however, my skunk was having none of Googles suggestions. Despite a lot of patience and several attempts, I didn’t get within 10 feet of the trap before he unleashed his fury. As he spun around and raised his tail, I screamed and threw the tarp as I ran away. I was fortunate to catch the edge of the tarp on the cage and after letting the ungodly stench dissipate for a while, I was able to crawl close enough out of his sight with a rake and finagle the tarp over the rest of the cage.

Then I gassed him with my car.

Google said it would take 20 minutes. I gave it 45 for good measure.

When I confidently strode up to the cage and peeled back the tarp, there he was, smoking a cigar in his personal sauna looking at me and wondering where his margarita was.

I screamed again and ran away before he could lumber up from his 105 degree mist and spray me again.

Then I went back into the house and googled “2013 Ford Focus CO2 emissions.” Mystery solved: my car apparently could not kill a mouse, much less an antagonized skunk.

So I waited for Charlie to get home with the Suburban.

Then I gassed him again.

I confess that I felt pretty bad about it. And still do. But I’m not sorry. In fact, I coiled that rarely used pool hose back up and hung it right inside the greenhouse door where it is nice and handy. And vowed never to sell that 2011 emissions-laden, gas hog of a Suburban. With a skill like this in my back pocket, who know the places I’ll go.

#dontcrossme

 

The Good News Is: I Am Not Dead

And that’s about the only good news.

I’d love to rant and rave about all KINDS of blog posts that I have written in my head as I go from one crisis to another, always 7-19 minutes late for everything, but I don’t have time. Charlie has to ref in about 30 minutes, Morgan has to coach alone for the first time ever, more shingles just flew off the roof, I forgot to order net clips for the soccer goals, Dave just left for fishing (please don’t come and kill me), and the cat is sleeping on my keyboard making all of this a lot more difficult…

So here is a round up of the blog worthy things that I might have enjoyed writing about in the last month since the carnage:

I FOUND SOME MORELS!

OK, so I guess that was a good day.

THE ASPARAGUS:
…was a mess this year. Due to our crazy warm March things were greening up and my annual burning wasn’t done in a timely fashion. I did finally manage to get the dead stuff cut down, but the weeds are going nuts.

The asparagus doesn’t seem to mind. I’m giving it out by the armload once again. So, if you can think of a reason to visit me…

This year — yesterday, in fact — I made my first ever asparagus soup. It was the most vile looking gloop you’ve ever seen. But it tasted good…

I GOT A NEW STOVE!

(and need to sell my old one…) Here is a tribute to the cooktop that has taken me through 17 chaotic years. Goodbye old friend:

[Look for it on Craig’s List soon!]

HELLO NEW FRIEND:

(and pretty pictures of bread made for people other than my family. Very bitter children, have I)

It’s a 6-burner BlueStar. So far, so good. It’s HOT!

And for the Piece de Resistance (that makes no sense, I just wanted to say it):

MY GARDEN:

Or perhaps I should call it My NOT Garden.

Or my Garden Not YET.

And that is why I must go now.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, I am now all caught up on my blogging.

Murder at the Menke’s. A Cat-astrophe!

I needn’t belabor nature’s harsh pecking order. You know it, I know it. We can choose to close our eyes to the gore, to the unflinching honesty of it all. We can TURN THE CHANNEL. QUICK. TURN THE CHANNEL, dammit!

Why men love to linger, while surfing channels to utter distraction, on the bucolic scene of baby quail bobbing along behind their mother, is beyond me. YOU KNOW THEY ARE GOING TO DIE! TURN THE CHANNEL!

And yet.

They don’t.

So, we are forced to either watch or get up and leave.

Recently, I’ve noticed that Dave isn’t even accidentally watching nature shows – he is actively seeking them out on YouTube. He even laughs sometimes and says, “Here, you gotta watch this.” And I’m like, “No, I don’t. I don’t need to.”

“It’s funny. Watch it.”

And I proceed to watch a Rhino peacefully grazing alongside a couple of wild boars, suddenly scoop one of the boars up with his tusk, goring him. He flies high, high into the air and lands on flat his back from a height of about 15 feet. And the movie cuts out.

“What happened? Is he dead?”

“I don’t know. It’s that funny? Rhinos are tough.”

And I’m left to wonder: is he dead? Is he suffering? Why did the Rhino do that? Why did the movie cut out? That poor wild boar…

It affects the rest of my day. Or the rest of my night. I have thought of that wild boar often since then…

Until I had something new to consume that space in my brain. If there was ever a misguided thought that cats are adorable, cuddly pets to be simply loved and protected, think again. They are the domesticated animal equivalent of the homicidal sociopath. The killer no one ever suspects. “He was always our nicest neighbor. Always helpful and kind.” …while he quietly racked up heads in his basement.

Cats are like that. You lull yourself into thinking, “not my cat” only to walk into a scene like this:

A murder scene.

For, no other description fits.

This wasn’t a cat eating a bird.

This was a death scene. This blood spattered high on the wall, the victim clearly pleading for his life.

I ask you: What in the Sam Hill was going on here?

Terror. Carnage. A miniature CSI scene.

What poor little — or not so little — animal met it’s end on Dave’s beautiful new garage floor?!

I think this one know’s and he isn’t talking.

Surprise!

What do you give the guy that has everything? No, that’s not quite right…

What do you give the guy who doesn’t want anything?

…No, that’s not quite right either. He always wants a jacket. He has a jacket fetish. We actually have an entire closet in our laundry room to house his collection.

But even a huge walk-in closet isn’t enough for him.

No.

For, this fall, he constructed a new area for a different ‘class’ of jackets. Oh, you know, hunting jackets and waders and stuff. Cuz, you know, they don’t belong in the main closet. Plus, Charlie’s airsoft stuff is in the closet (and the cat box) and, it’s just such a hassle to get in there…

So I guess I was exaggerating, as I am prone to do at times, when I say that Dave is a guy who wants nothing. Because, you know, I could buy him another fricken’ jacket.

But I refuse to do that.

Here’s why.

One time, several years ago, I decided to purchase a nice, lightweight soft-shell jacket for him for Christmas. I researched and researched. I agonized over color, and in the end chose a red Cloudveil. He loved it. He still loves it. I am serious when I say he really loves jackets.

Fast forward a few years to a yucky day that was windy and drizzly. Dave was complaining bitterly that he really lacked an appropriate jacket for the elements. To say I was agog would be too mild. I sputtered out, “What about the Cloudveil?” You know, the 3 oz, waterproof, windproof, nicely tailored, cool colored, superbly comfortable, ridiculously expensive Cloudveil?!

To which he responded with equal aghast — and I swear his face lost color — “That jacket is for skiing!”

You see, Dave has a dedicated jacket for every conceivable activity. And he never uses, say, a waterproof soft-shell jacket that he has earmarked for skiing about 10 times a year for, say, a rainy and windy drizzly saturday to watch soccer– which, I might add, he does far more than skiing. No, that requires a nicely tailored, lightweight, waterproof ‘out-around-the-town‘ type jacket. Which, sadly, he does not currently own.

Well, I refuse to feed his addiction.

Instead, I wrack my brain and ferret away any feasible gift idea that comes to mind. No matter the hassle or cost. For I, my friends, am a thoughtful gift giver. I do not shop from lists. No! I go above and beyond.

[And dammit, you better love it. –right Bennett?]

So, for Dave’s birthday this year, I gave him a new garage floor.

It wasn’t easy.

But I did it.

That’s just the kinda gal I am.

It was two days of sanding and sealing and keeping my dog away from their dog.

And when Dave came home from out of town and couldn’t open his garage door because I had disabled the opener (I thought of everything). He came in to check out what was wrong and saw his new, beautiful floor.

 

Surprise!

I thought he was going to start crying. He loved it. [Because I forgot to mention that he also has a garage floor fetish.] And to him, it was a thing of utter beauty.

He still doesn’t have that ‘out and around town’ jacket. But I might cave. I’m running out of ideas.

And money.

 

 

Scenes from our worst New Year’s ever

It’s a catchy title, people. It wasn’t that bad.

But really, it was our worst showing ever, food-wise.

Lack-luster dishes and poor timing downgraded Chef Jennie and her line cooks from a coveted 3 star Michelin rating to two. In the aftermath of evening’s worst performance, the board was scrambling to make sweeping changes that included moving the Chef to a less prominent role and reducing the number of dishes offered to a more manageable amount.

Chef Jennie was not available for comment, but sources have seen her mingling with other backers. It’s widely known that Jennie has long-lobbied the New Year’s board for a broader range of ethnicities on the menu, complaining bitterly that Betty Crocker’s 1981 Chinese Cooking with recipes by LeeAnn Chin, featuring crowd favorite Sesame Chicken, and this year’s bust, “Beef with Noodles,” are passé and should not be the starting point for the creative direction of New Year’s.

The Chef has been laying low in Watertown, likely recuperating from the ordeal. A close friend of the family said, “Jennie is hardly cooking at all these days. It’s clear from her blog that she loves to cook, but this has hit her hard.” A parent of the Chef’s daughter’s best friend’s little sister had this to say, “I don’t know what’s so great about Chef Jennie. She should stick to gardening.”

Time will tell the fate of New Year’s. With the graduation and departure of two key board members to college, one of whom reached the milestone age of 21, it’s anyone’s guess if this debacle will be the tipping point for the company. The board was keeping quiet on the subject, but at least one key analyst wonders if those two board members will even return unless the Chef turns control over to the board.

–Associated Press Syndication © January 2012

Clockwise from left: chinese ribs, fresh spring rolls, sesame chicken, Pho

 

annual cream cheese puff glutton-fest
the queen of sesame chicken

 

clockwise from left: Chicken with Cashew, Beef and Noodle, appetizer bar, butter lettuce for PF Chang Lettuce wraps
YouTube Advisor To The Chef
board members in happier times

 

Behind the Scenes: Hair and Makeup

 

clockwise from left: cheers!, one crabby and one happy board member, the sesame chicken queen, mascot to the board acts as pre-midnight pillow for board member who later claimed, "I wasn't sleeping."

Dear Patty: I had a Hair Affair

Watertown is a small place, so I assume Patty is well aware of my transgression by now. But apologizing is part of the twelve steps, so this is the public apology you, my frenetic stylist, deserve.

I have been unfaithful.

I have strayed from our ten year relationship. I had a delayed seven-year itch. It isn’t you. It’s me. I still love you. It didn’t mean anything.

Actually, I was seduced by the bright lights and big city. And the Keratin Smoothing Treatment.

[I seriously did not need to flat iron my roots! Can you believe it? Sorry, I’m sounding too enthusiastic, I know. I need to be contrite.]

And the idea that someone could lend me some new insight on the Bangs Dilemma.

How was it for me? It was fun! It was exciting! Just like an affair should be. [not that I would know about that.] I got to sit in a huge salon. I got to sit in a massage chair! Lisa was great!**

Here was her answer to the Bangs Dilemma.

She gave me a choice: Bangs or Botox. I picked bangs. So I have bangs again. Which is exactly what you’ve been saying to me for seven years. Well, that isn’t entirely true, is it? We both know you first counciled me to grow the suckers out. Then, when you saw what I looked like without bangs, you changed your mind. And I said, “I told you so.” and you said, “You were right.”

Just like an old married couple.

And you will forgive me. Because that’s the way you are. And we’ll go back to bickering about my bangs. And my moisturizer.

But I’m not sure I can give up the Keratin Smoothing Treatment… Which brings me to one more minor detail…

Morgan had a hair affair too.*

Sorry!

*Save yourself the time of telling my how beautiful Morgan’s hair is. I know it is. Her curls are gorgeous. But she has always wanted straight hair. So now, courtesy of Visa, she has it. For about 3 months. Should she ever want it again, she will need a Bachelor’s degree and a good job. And Morgan, save yourself the breath of complaining about that first pic. I included it to show our detractors why you want straight hair. This is what happens when curl meets brush. Thought you straight-hair-curl-wannabes should know that.

**[Lisa Kingrey Johnson at Salon Lili.] –but that’s only a plug for big city folk. Watertownians [and Sheilabird] should stick to Patty like glue. 🙂

 

How Pixi Mascara Saved My Life

You think I’m kidding?

I’m not. Pixi mascara doesn’t just look good, it is a time machine. It has opened doors I thought long closed. I, my friends, am a new person.

First, and most importantly, Pixi mascara allows me to stop manically curling my lashes. Before I discovered it, I would probably grab the eyelash curler 3 or 4 times a day, depending on how often I crossed paths with my make-up bag, and pop it over my stubborn lashes and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

Because, you see, my lashes would not stay curled. I tried what seemed like every mascara under the sun. Nothing worked for more than 15 or 20 minutes..

I have such straight lashes that tend to point downward, into my eyes. So I’m not just giving them a 45 degree bend, I’m trying to to achieve a 180 to 270 degree curve. Of course it never works. Here’s a pic using my previous brand of mascara after only a couple minutes. Not too impressive.

Now granted, I don’t spend a whole lot of time on this. I don’t really wear that much make-up. To my make-up-artist in training, I’m all but a blank slate: “Put some make-up on, Mom.”

“I AM wearing make-up!”

(and I really am.)

When I asked her to take these close-ups, she said “Pile it on. You can’t even see it!” Whereas when I actually saw the close-ups I was appalled at how much there appeared to be.

There were many other things I was appalled by, don’t get me wrong: the hooded lids, the crepe paper skin, the stray eyebrows, etc. etc. But whatever.

After about 15 years of using various mascaras that allowed my lashes to stay curled for about 10 minutes before pointing straight out, I picked up a tube of Pixi at target.

It’s not Target-cheap though; it was $18. I was aware of the Pixi brand (and their prices) after having switched from Benetint to Pixi cheek gel several years ago based on the simple virtue that Pixi’s clear red cheek gel looked like Benetint, but didn’t come as a liquid in that Godforsaken glass vial — which I had, on more than one occasion, broken all over my bathroom floor.

Not only did the Pixi cheek gel work just as good, it took up less space in my bag (always a plus) and never dripped on my boob when I applied it (don’t underestimate the importance of this). In short, I love it. I’m on my second tube and each lasts over a year. Well worth the price of $18 — yes, the same as the mascara.)

So, I’m sure you are wondering how Pixi mascara saved my life. Now that I’m knee deep into this story, it does seem a bit heavy-handed, “Saved my life…” How about “Changed my life?” Let’s go with that.

Anyway, I do a lot of standing around in the make-up aisles at Target, but not a lot of buying, because frankly, it all seems rather pointless at 46. Sort of a lost cause… Ironically, late last year, I was mailed a Pixi catalog. A tiny little booklet of marketing wonder promising the most amazing (and ludicrous) things. I read it cover to cover. I was absolutely absorbed by it. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the first person testimonial format they used. Maybe it was wishful thinking. But still.

I come from an advertising background. I’m jaded. And I’m old. I’ve been around the block a few times.

So, in the end, I believed none of it. Not. A. Single. Word.

Until the mascara.

Until.

The.

Mascara.

The catalogue said, and I quote: “lash-lifting,” and “With my straight lashes this is the ONLY mascara that holds the curl all day.”

I didn’t believe it. The fact that I still bought it had more to do with the fact that I had hemmed and hawed over the concealers and brightening creams I had read about in the catalogue for so long, couldn’t decide on any of them and grabbed a tube of mascara instead. I actually needed new mascara and I figured, “How bad could it be?”

Now, I could write the testimonial for the catalogue. I could be the spoke person.

The problem is… now… I am finding myself… wanting to believe everything I read! Covergirl Simply Ageless! Yes! Maybelline Highlighting Concealer! Yes! I’ll take two! …wait, isn’t that an oxymoron? Highlighting Concealer? never mind… Unibrows Worry Line Divot Remover! Yes! I mean, no, but I wish.

So you can see my dilemma, can you not? I’m a changed woman. But this is not necessarily a good thing.

 

[UPDATE TO POST ON 1/21/2012]

Well, now I know what interests you guys. Man, what a bunch of make-up grubbing lunatics you are.

Anyway, in my haste to get this ridiculous entry posted, I left out one teeny weeny detail:

If you haven’t yet run out to Target to pick up the Pixi, add this to your list.

You will need it.

Happy Shopping!