We have a raccoon who visits nightly. And while he’s a cute, pudgy old fellow… he’s extremely destructive when it comes to our birds feeders. Every morning we wake up to one or two on the ground, often in pieces. A month ago I started taking them down at dusk and putting them in the garage overnight. When I went to bed early last week and forgot? The husband got lazy and left them on the kitchen porch.
Lord Dudley Mountcatten snuck out the not quite closed back door yesterday. It was his first taste of freedom since we adopted him back in January…. and he was positively drunk with joy.
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Instead of grabbing him and flinging his furry little butt inside, I let him enjoy the nice weather. At first he was calm, and jumped up on the table to lie in the sun. I petted and praised him and began to rethink my outdoor ban.
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Before I knew it he’d jumped off the deck and started wandering in and out of shrubs. I kept a close eye on where he was going, thinking he’d be satisfied to slowly explore his surroundings. But then?
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Bam! He took off running… across the lawn, past the garage and out towards the road. I called his name, he ignored me. I tried to catch him, he ran faster. When I finally herded him back to the deck, the little devil crawled under it… way out of reach. No amount of coaxing (or cursing) would bring him out. I spent half an hour waiting for his highness to tire of the stand off but no, he wasn’t moving. So I got a broom.
That managed to get him out from under… only to have him sprint directly to the woodshed.
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Where he climbed, jumped and writhed like a madman, knocking over bricks, plant pots and basically everything he touched. There’s only one entrance, so after 10 minutes of wild scrambling trying to get away from me?
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He gave up and perched on some wood…. which is when I grabbed his Royal highness, threw him over my shoulder and marched him into the house. The house he will probably never be allowed to leave again. Sorry Dudley, but you blew it.
Naturally his Lordship was quite put out with me. I got the stink eye, the cold shoulder and then the non stop howling and pestering for a repeated chance at the great outdoors.
The time of year Mainers go absolutely bat shit crazy over a tiny unfurled fern frond.
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The season is short and anxiously awaited. Foraging sites are secret and passed down from one generation to another.
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Cleaning methods are also hotly debated.
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Personally? I can’t stand the slimy little things… I don’t care how you cook them, they taste like swamp. But that’s okay, it just means there are more for you.
Our farming neighbors across the street are awesome people. Honest, hard working, nature loving, alternative lifestyle vegetarians who raise their kids the old fashioned way… no tv, no cell phones, just plenty of love and imagination. As witnessed by this letter and treasure map they mailed to the two little boys who live down the road.
I was looking forward to trying this particular scent as it’s one of the company’s best sellers.
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And as usual, the reviews/comments made me chuckle.
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But when I sprayed a little on my arm… I almost choked. The first undertones to hit my nose? A bizarre combination of moldy books, burnt plastic and powdered sugar. Imagine a bakery in an abandoned industrial warehouse. Donuts infused with hot welding shards and burnt rubber. Yes, it was that bad.
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It definitely smelled metallic, like a vanilla drive shaft.
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Mix in some dried grass (vetyver) and a touch of gum resin (opoponax) and the result was downright disgusting. I can honestly say I’ve never washed a perfume off my body before… but I couldn’t stand more than 10 minutes of this one before I attacked my arm with a soapy loofah.
If I didn’t know better I’d say this scent was meant as a gag gift. With the emphasis on gag. 🤢
Self respecting fat electricians around the globe should be insulted.
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Where there's only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous.
River's world..... 