Bunny Foo-Foo and Who Flung Poo

A lot of people have been asking about the possum problem. I’m pleased to report that it has been solved. There’s not an epic tale involved in this solution; he’s just not living under the porch anymore. This could be because possums, according to the National Humane Society, don’t stay the same place very long. But I like to think it’s due to my vigilant efforts of constantly spraying water into any crevice a possum could be hiding, shining light into said crevice and stomping around the porch in front of the backdoor like I was trying to break through.

This is the evil, unnamed squirrel leaning
over the fence, gauging when he can
make a run at the feeders.

But please don’t think that just because we didn’t have to fight the possum as much as I had originally feared that this spring has been free from fighting. We’ve had a shocking number of wildlife battles in the last month or so. First this is the first of these is very common: the squirrel Who has decided his life’s mission is to empty my birdfeeders as quickly as animally possible.

His newest trick is to climb up to the supposedly squirrel-proof suet feeder, hang on it upside down, grab suet chunks with his grubby little paws, and shove them in his grubby little mouth. My newest trick is to sneak out while he’s doing it, try to turn on the water without him seeing, then spray the hose in his general direction while shouting at the top of my lungs.

It hasn’t exactly been a success.

Even worse are the bunnies.

If you ever watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer, you might remember how Anya, the former vengeance demon, thought bunnies were terrifying and even dressed as a big white bunny for Halloween because it was the scariest thing she could think of.

And then you probably laughed at Anya.

Newsflash: ANYA WAS RIGHT.

Oh sure, they look cute with their fluffy tails, their floppy ears and twitchy little noses…but this is all a disguise to cover up their evil hearts.

Bunny Foo-Foo

It wasn’t so bad last year when we only had one of the demons living under the far side of the deck. 

We chuckled at its antics, carefully shooed it away before we let the dogs outside, and even named it Bunny Foo-Foo after the children’s song…and just like that, we were lured into Bunny Foo Foo’s evil web.

Because this year, there is a new Foo in town. In fact, there are two new Foo.

Little Foo

Mini Foo

This, if you’d like to see photographic evidence of their evil hearts, is Mini Foo having a chew.

Which, in a nutshell, encapsulates the problem with bunnies: they are EVIL EATERS OF ENVIRONMENTAL ORNAMENTS!

Or, in slightly clearer terms, they eat everything!

They nibble on my nasturtiums, lunch on my lilies, hunger for my hosta, snack on my snapdragons…they especially love the huge number of native plants I’ve put out, like coneflowers and blanket flowers, but that didn’t quite work from an alliterative standpoint.

In any case, I have tried everything with these ridiculous rabbits.

I put cayenne pepper on all the plants – please notice how red the hosta is in the picture above while Mini Foo blissfully has a chew.

I covered the little seedlings with planters every night and uncovered them every morning…the bunnies bravely brunched on the blooms and buds.

I attempted to bribe the bunnies with delicious carrots and lettuce left in an enticing pile far from the flower gardens. The bunnies treated this as an amuse bouche, chowing it down then heading back to 

the flowers to fill up.

I even resorted to reason, explaining to the Foo Family that they were perpetuating the worst kind of bunny stereotypes, giving a bad name to bunnies everywhere, and should consider how they ould improve bunnies’ standing in the gardening world.

But these are the most self-involved, socially irresponsible bunnies imaginable…proven by the fact that that very night they responded by eating EVERY SINGLE ONE of my Stargazer Lilies.

To say I didn’t handle this well is an understatement of EPIC proportions.

Let’s jump over the histrionics that occurred when I discovered the carnage and fast forward to my furious rant to Opie a little later when I vowed that I would get those bunnies to leave our yard if it was the last thing I ever did and that they didn’t know what they were in for because I was going to give them the “possum treatment!”

Opie allowed as how he had no idea what I was talking about but that it sounded impressive.

First, I bought this highly recommended (and environmentally friendly!) bunny repellent and doused the plants with it…which, honestly, smells so foul, it’s possible that it will also keep humans and dogs from spending too much time in the yard…not helped by the fact that I also added a thick layer of cayenne pepper and garlic to the perimeter of each garden as a double whammy of protection.

But that wasn’t the possum treatment…the possum treatment means making their little bunny abode under the deck as uncomfortable as possible. I spray water under the deck from all angles every night, shine bright lights under the deck to illuminate their hidey hole, and stomp back and forth like a toddler having a tantrum.

Then, in a disgusting show of desperation, I actually scooped up some of the “dog dirt” from the yard and tossed it under the far side of the deck into the bunnies’ abode.

It’s interesting to note that, when I told Opie this part the story, he stared at me in what I thought was a shocked silence for a long minute. Only to realize that he was instead relishing the chance to make a joke he may have been saving since the second grade.

“This finally answers the question.” he said in an almost reverent tone. “Who flung Poo? It was you. You flung Poo!”

I don’t like to think this was the happiest moment of his life but it wouldn’t exactly stun me to learn it was in the top 10.

In any case, that is what quarantine has reduced us to: poop jokes and animal abuse. Hope the rest of you are holding up better…but if you have any sure-fire rabbit repellent tips, let me know!

Homes, Humor and Hibiscus Rescue

As I've mentioned in earlier posts (but never really explained), Opie and I are getting ready to move.

You might think that buying a new house, moving, and getting our current house ready to sell while in the midst of skin cancer treatment & recovery is a little bit completely insane.

You would, in fact, be right.  It's nutty cakes...but it was one of those deals we just couldn't pass up.

It was Opie's cousin's house that I've been obsessed with for years...In fact, after the first time we went over there for dinner, when we were driving home, I told Opie "If they ever sell that house, we're buying it."

He laughed, like I was kidding.

I wasn't kidding.

So when the cousin and his wife decided to downsize and offered us a great deal on it, we knew we couldn't let a little thing like horrible facial scarring stand in out way.  I mean, if you're going to hide yourself away like a hermit, you might as well do it in a house you love!

In any case, the beauty of buying a house from family is that, even though we don't officially close until the end of May, we've been able to slowly start moving our stuff to the new house.

The only problem with this is that Opie and I have VERY different strategies when it comes to familial relocation.  He us under the impression that it is best to go through our closets and storage areas, take over the things we aren't currently using, and get them put away in a organized fashion. I am of the firm opinion that I love my freaking kitchen with a love that is more than love and I've had all my cool Mickey Mouse gadgets in storage for years, and I should spend a few hours every day arranging them in an aesthetically pleasing fashion.

Poor, deluded Opie also doesn't understand that some of the things we need to take with us are the plants and flowers that I have spent 8 years cultivating....like the hibiscus.

Which was the subject of the following blog back in 2015:

Well, after the unfortunate “NeighborsGet A Monster-Sized Dog” issue, we're biting the bullet and having a new fence installed.

And if you think this process has occurred without drama and brouhaha then you've never read this blog before.

It all started with the hibiscus. This beautiful, big hibiscus that is growing through the old chain link fence and dwarfing the plants around it. It flowers for months and months every summer and is absolutely gorgeous.

And kind of huge.

The original Hibiscus

“We can't really build around that.” The fence guys said. "And if you leave it there, it could warp the new fence."

“We'll have to rip it out," Opie said.

And I stared at him in abject horror. "We are not MURDERING that hibiscus!"

"I don't think it's really murder when it's a plant," he said.

But I wasn’t about to listen to that kind of nonsense. So I flat out refused to participate in his horrifying bushicide plot and began looking up ways to transplant it to the front yard.

"This is going to be a disaster," Opie predicted.

"Not for YOU," I assured him. "I'll take care of everything."

Everything except pruning the bush down to 1/3 of its original size (per Internet instructions) and cleaning up the subsequent debris.  He did that…convinced, I suspect, that I wouldn’t completely clean up the hibiscus detritus (even though I love the word detritus) and instead scatter it around the yard in hopes the lawn guy would be able to mulch it with the mower.

After that, though, the bush’s fate was in my hands. And one morning last week, after Opie left for work, I went out to save the poor hibiscus. 

“Easy-peasy,” I told the dogs. “Just dig around the bush in a circle, loosen the roots, and bam! Hibiscus saved!”

2 hours later, it was pretty clear the root-loosening wasn’t really working for us.

“Never fear,” I told the dogs.  “We just need to add a little water to the soil, saturate the roots so they slide right out of the ground.”

Which led to 3 more hours of digging in soggy mud.

Though, to be fair, part of that time frame was based on the fact that the ridciulousPrincess Snowflake Sassypants kept scampering through the mud in a very un-Princess like fashion.

In any case, I worked on that hibiscus for a shocking amount of time and it showed no signs of loosening by the time I had to get ready for work.

Which is when I came up with my brilliant plan:

Completely flood the roots and hibiscus hole, let it all soak in while I worked my shift online, then come back out and pop it out like a cork from champagne.

And still I think this might have actually worked…except it started to rain.

And when I say “rain” I don’t mean a gentle shower with rainbows peeking through. I mean the kind of torrential downpour that makes you start looking for the proper materials to build an ark.

The hole flooded, the area around the hole flooded, the fence-line flooded…

“This doesn’t look good.” I told the dogs. And they concurred but had no helpful suggestions other than to hint that a few treats and belly-rubs would make everyone feel better.

Seriously, these dogs are very self-involved.

Anyway, I don’t have any pictures of that because I couldn’t take my awesome new camera out in the rain.

I had no trouble taking myself out in the rain, though, because after I finally finished my online shift, I ran out into the storm, and started digging and wading through calf-deep mud, pulling that hibiscus as hard as I could.

To no avail.

It was around this point that I lost whatever tiny grip I had on my sanity and began screaming at the hibiscus in frustration.

"I am the only thing standing between you and CERTAIN DEATH!" I shouted at it. "Don't you understand that? You need to move or DIE."

I'm a little disturbed to report that none of the neighbors came out to investigate the screaming and death threats. Which means they are either completely callous and uncaring OR they have become completely inured to this type of behavior after nearly 4 years of living next to me.

Honestly, I don't know which is worse.

Anyway, there I was in the backyard in a torrential downpour, cursing the hibiscus, threatening the hibiscus, and trying to shake the hibiscus free when Opie got home from work.

"What did you do?" He demanded, looking at the swampland that had once been our backyard.

"EITHER SAY SOMETHING HELPFUL OR GO INSIDE!!" I shrieked.

And he went inside.

Which makes him sound like the biggest jerk in the world until you realize that he was just going in to change out of of his work clothes. He was back in a few minutes, in old clothes and shoes, with a shovel of his own.

And a mere hour and a half later, we got the damn bush out of its earthen prison!

Which left an unfortunate puddle large enough to drown a dog.

“I’ll drag the hibiscus around front,” Opie said.  “And then you can dig a new hole and plant it in the morning.”

“I have to plant it tonight,” I said. “All the guides said you have to get it re-planted as soon as possible or it won’t survive.  And,” I finished before he could even ask “I couldn’t dig the hole before-hand because I didn’t know how big the rootball was going to be and what size hole I would need.”

Opie stared at me for a really long time (especially considering we were standing outside in the rain) then began dragging the bush and muttering under his breath…muttering, I’m pretty sure, sweet nothings about how I am the light of his life.

“Go on inside!” I shouted after him. “I’ll dig the new hole!  I’LL TAKE CARE OF EVERYTHING!”

But he wasn’t falling for THAT again. He dug the hole, we pushed the hibiscus in, and bam! Opie was saved from the karmic consequences of hibiscus murder.

The 2019 problem, though, is that I love that stupid hibiscus...after the transplant trauma of 2015, it actually now blooms in two different colors and I think it's gorgeous but after my own transplant trauma I'm pretty sure I'm nt going to be able to move it without Opie's help. And every time I mention it to Opie he says "You already made that joke." like I'm kidding. 

So, friends help a flower lover out -- how do I convince Opie that we need to to start planning Operation Hibiscus Rescue 2.0?

Dogs and Daffodils

Well, we just hit the two week mark and do you know who is actually excited by the skin cancer and horrifying forehead flap?

The ridiculous dogs.

Well, to be fair, I don't know if they're excited about the skin cancer itself but they have found the recuperation process downright blissful.

See, while the "flap" is still attached like a horrible bridge across my face, there's a danger of infection and rejection. So, I'm not supposed to do anything. Not really walk around, go up and down the steps as seldom as possible, not even walk out into the kitchen and get myself something to drink because I'm not supposed to lift anything heavier than a jug of milk.

Which means I spend A LOT of time either lying on the couch or lying in bed.

This might sound like a great gig but the first week I felt too sore and tired to really enjoy it and this week, now that I'm feeling worlds better, I'm bored out of my mind.

You know who ISN'T bored and thinks spending the day snuggled on the couch is a mini-version of heaven?

The ridiculous dogs.

In fact, I often wake up to this:

This might seem cute and loving but has caused a situation in which my belly has become the disputed holy grail of canine cuddling. See, Bubba thinks that he, too, is a lap dog. So I also often wake up to this:

at which time Bubba suggests that Sassy needs to take her turn at the end of the couch so he can be the one to perch lovingly on my stomach. I have tried to explain to him that this will result in my slow death by suffocation but he's really committed to his idea of fairness.

The other person who is NOT thrilled with the recuperation process is Opie. Not that he minds helping me--he's been great about that! It was easier when my mom was here but after she left, he worked out a whole system so that before he has to leave for work, I have everything I want/need for the day beside me and anything I might want to eat for lunch or snack on is just a few steps away. He's awesome.

But since I can't do anything around the house, he has to do EVERYTHING while I lie on the couch and call out helpful suggestions on the cooking, cleaning, animal care and, of course, the cutting of daffodils for a festive bouquet.

I'm not going to lie, that last one wasn't on his list of important tasks but I, in my sweet and docile way, explained how it was supposed to freeze and the daffodils were going to be ruined before I could even go outside and enjoy them and would it really kill him to go to the front yard, for the love of heaven, and snip a few stupid daffodils?

He was a pretty good sport about it but considering this was one of the flowers that made it into the vase:

I suspect his heart wasn't really in it.

Luckily, though, we only have to survive one more week. I went to the doctor yesterday and the horrible flap is healing nicely, looks like it's going to be a "100% take", and we're on schedule to have the separation surgery one week from today. After that, I  still won't be able to lift anything heavy for awhile and I'll need to rest for a couple of days but it won't be like this week in which I have to wait for Opie if I so much as drop a Q-Tip on the floor.

And, though he hasn't actually complained at all, I think Opie will be glad to give up his nursing duties...but I don't think he should give up his other day job because he definitely does NOT have a future in flower arrangement:

Thanks again for everyone's thoughts, prayers, and positive energy!

If you want to read more about my skin cancer journey, you can find that info below:

Sunscreen, Skin Cancer and Spiritual Support

Happy Birthday to Me

National Doctors Day

And if you want more information on skin cancer in general, check out these articles at the CDC:

https://www.cdc.gov/cancer/skin/basic_info/index.htm

Happy Birthday To Me

Yesterday was my birthday. Which, if you know me, is always a big deal because I have a love/hate relationship with birthdays.

(Wore my FANCY slippers to celebrate!)

I hate the thought of getting older (which is why I stay 28 year after endless year) but I love having a day that’s all mine. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas and Thanksgiving and Easter and all other days that bring the family together to celebrate…But, call me selfish, my birthday is all about me. We eat what I want, where I want, people send me cards to make me laugh and tell me they love me, and there’s ALWAYS chocolate cake involved.

Perfection.

Which might make you think that, since I’m recovering from the horrible skin cancer surgery this year, that it’s the worst birthday ever.

You would, in fact, be wrong.

First of all, friends of mine had an early party and gave me a crown to wear, the following weekend Opie and I went to the Melting Pot for brunch and bottomless mimosas, plus (more on this later!) he agreed to buy this house we’ve had our eye on for years!

So, if you think about it, I’m getting a new house to go with my new face this year – pretty hard to call that a bad birthday.

No, as a matter of fact, this isn't a picture of Jared with his first fish.
 It's not even a picture of Jared. It's me with my other brother, Tim,
 on a totally different fishing trip. Why would I reward Jared's blatant
thunder theft with even the smallest modicum of attention?!

Besides, the worst birthday ever was when I was about 8 and my birthday fell over Easter Break so the whole family went on a camping and fishing trip. And my brother Jared, who was 6 at the time, selfishly stole my thunder by catching his first fish ON MY BIRTHDAY! I’m sure I still got presents and cake and everything else but fishing was a big sport in my family and what I really remember was a lot of oohing and aahhing and picture taking over my brother’s accomplishment.

Jared tries to act like this was all happenstance, like his six-year-old self had no control over the fickle fancies of fish but I’d like to mention that even now, 20 some years later, he hasn’t really apologized.

I’m not going to say that I scheduled the forehead flap surgery for HIS birthday this year just to get back at him…but it’s interesting to note that karma has a long memory.

I should also note that my mom was here for my birthday this year and she and Opie didn’t let the actual day pass without some special attention. I had gifts and cards…Opie stopped on his way home from work to get some delicious cupcakes and, even though he has the whole “I bought you a HOUSE for the love of God” argument in his back pocket, he got me a Cancer Survivor charm for my charm bracelet.

So, in short, cancer can suck it. The healing is continuing, my face still looks REALLY bad but my spirits are pretty good, I’ve got the best friends and family in the world, and any day with chocolate cake is a good day.

Plus there’s really nothing like skin cancer to put that whole “first fish” thing in perspective.

Sunscreen, Skin Cancer, & Spiritual Support

Here’s the thing: I always wear sunscreen.

I mean, I ALWAYS wear sunscreen.

I wear sunscreen in the snow, I wear sunscreen on the go, I wear sunscreen in the rain, I wear so much sunscreen it’s insane!.

Sorry, that’s my Dr. Seuss version of the sunscreen saga…which probably shows that I’m losing it a little but seriously, This is a picture of me last July after 10 days in Hawaii:

 Do I look tan? No. You know why?

BECAUSE I ALWAYS WEAR SUNSCREEN!

In fact, I wear so much freaking sunscreen that I literally have a vitamin D deficiency and have to take a supplement every day.

Which is why I find the fact that I have skin cancer more than a little irritating. This is not noticeably helped by the fact that, since I’m not in a life or death melanoma struggle, many people act like I’m being overdramatic.

“It’s only basal cell,” they say. “I’ve had that. It’s no big deal.”

It’s really all I can do not to whip out my phone, call up a few pictures of the horrifying forehead flap procedure (seriously, do NOT Google it!), and scream “REALLY? You’ve had THIS? And you didn’t think it was a BIG DEAL? Because call me a drama queen but I think TURNING THE TOP OF MY FACE INSIDE OUT IS A BIG FREAKING DEAL.”

I think it’s safe to say I’ve been handling this entire skin cancer saga with my trademark stoicism.

Although here's a tip should you ever be diagnosed with the no big deal basal cell carcinoma…if, when you’re getting the original biopsy, before the dermatologist even has your test results confirming that you have the dreaded skin cancer, she suggests that you should not get treatment in your home city but should instead drive an hour and a half to a specialist, it is NOT a good sign.

Furthermore, if your husband offers to take off work and drive the hour and a half to the initial consult with the specialist, you should probably say to yourself, “Self,” you should say. “I suspect there's a reason the dermatologist wants me to go so far away. This is probably going to be a little more than your standard procedure.” And let him come with you.

Because when you get to the specialist and he explains to you that he's going to basically cut off your nose and then do this weird procedure in which he turns the top of your face inside out to fix the missing nose, it is rather disconcerting for your husband to get a call at work in which you are hyperventilating and unable to speak.

It is equally is disconcerting for your mother when, as you think you have yourself under control, you hang up and call her and have hysterics all over again.

Speaking of hysterics, you would think that a plastic surgeon who specializes in the whole face inside out technique mentioned above would be used to people freaking out in his office. I mean, I can’t imagine most people greet this news with jokes and laughter. However, my plastic surgeon seems to think I'm crazy. Apparently, when he—without warning--shoves a video of the inside out procedure into people’s faces, most do not respond by saying “Oh, F*** me!” and showing the iPad away. Most people, according to the young whippersnapper, fifteen year old Dougie Houser doctor,  feel better when they're educated about the procedure.

And, while I have always believed in the power of education, there are some instances when ignorance is, in fact, bliss.

In any case, hour doctor/patient relationship didn’t noticeably improve when he switched tactics and earnestly explained to me that I need to remember that his number one priority is to ensure my nose is reconstructed for maximum breathing potential. “Breathing is the most important thing. It’s number one,” he said. “Appearance is number two.”

When I allowed as how those were equally important issues in my mind, he interrupted me and said “No, no, no!” in a slightly irritated voice. “You have to understand this.  Breathing is one, appearance is two.”

“No, no, no.” I responded in the exact same tone. “You have to understand this: I can already breathe through my mouth.”

Pretty sure neither of us left that conversation feeling really heard.

Anyway, I’ve largely avoided talking about the surgery on my blog but the procedures start Monday so it’s getting to be unavoidable. And I’ll be honest, the next 2 months are going to suck out loud…I have 2 surgeries this week, 1 in April, and, since they just found another spot of skin cancer on my chin, probably a 4^th in May.

I say again, it’s going to suck out loud. And I could definitely use some spiritual support to get through it all. In addition, Opie could use some spiritual support to deal with me as I have not exactly been a ray of sunshine.

So, Catholic friends, we would love it if you could join us in an appeal to St. Peregrine, the patron saint of cancer patients. Muslim, Protestant and Jewish friends, I concede that this could be seen as blasphemous idolatry so would appreciate it if you could look past that and join us in praying for swift healing. Atheist, agnostic, and pagan friends, when you’re done shaking your heads at our superstitious nature, we’d appreciate if you’d send positive thoughts and good energy to strengthen us in the weeks ahead. As I’ve said before, I don’t think we have any Satanist friends but if we do, even though I understand that this surgery could be a great blood sacrifice to your dark lord, maybe you could still sit this one out and, oh, I don’t know, send cookies instead. (I like macarons.)

Anyway, thanks everyone and I’ll keep you updated when I’m up on my feet again.

Holy Vermin, Batgirl!

Well, once again, we're dealing with a very disturbing VERMIN problem here in the wild wilderness of Oklahoma.

Which means a lot of you are thinking "Aww, geez, Kimberly is getting ridiculously worked up because there's a snake in the yard."

First of all, I don't think I like this attitude. Second, you're horribly wrong. There was no snake.

"Aha!" you’re saying to yourselves, "Selves," you all are saying, "Then it’s a mouse. There’s a mouse in the house."

Wrong again!

And now you’re just throwing out guesses in a wild, devil-may-care fashion: Disgusting camel cricket? Armadillo? Feral pig? ALLIGATOR?!

Don’t be ridiculous, people. We don't live in Florida.

What we dealt with is much, much worse: a dead bat!!

There was a dead bat on the patio!

Here's what happened: One day last week, I went out to lunch with a friend. As soon as I got home, I took the ridiculous mongrels outside, picked a few tomatoes, and then happened to glance over at the area where we keep the grill and some yard tools.

And I saw something brown and furry lying there... something that clearly had once been alive.

"What the heck is that?" I muttered (and the interest of keeping this PG rated let’s pretend I actually said heck)

So I did what any normal person would do in this situation: I poked the lump with the handle of the rake, which rolled the lump over and revealed a leathery wing.

I’m not even going to try to pretend that my subsequent yells were PG rated. They weren’t. I may owe neighbors an apology.

But I digress… I was going to tell you all about the mongrel hounds. Namely, the Bub who, once I began yelling, wandered over to see what all the fuss was about. And then somewhat indicated that he has heard that bat  is a great delicacy in some areas of the world and allowed as how he would like to have a little nibble.

I’m not gonna lie, I panicked. “Get back get back, get back, you ridiculous dog!" I shouted, brandishing the rake like a weapon. "Do you want rabies, Bub? Do you?!”

At which point, it occurred to me that I was holding the implement that had just touched the possibly rabies infested vermin and flung it to the ground -- terrifying Bub enough that I was able to drag him in the house, thus saving both of us from any bat related illnesses.

Unfortunately, that left Sassy chained up outside. And the minute she lost sight of me, she began barking like a maniac and desperately yanking at the chain and basically convincing anyone within earshot that she was being horribly abused. At which point the ridiculous dogs next door decided to come to her defense and began barking at the top of their stupid lungs...

It is interesting to note that running outside screaming at everyone to SHUT UP RIGHT NOW! SHUT UP BEFORE I FREAKING LOSE MY MIND! does little to calm hysterical hounds.

It was, in a word, complete mayhem.

In any case, I have since done research into bats and it is actually rather unlikely that it actually has rabies and even if it did, the virus would have died shortly after the bat did...but it still needed to be removed with gloves and extreme care.... and it wouldn't hurt to wipe the rake handle down with Clorox wipes.

So, obviously, my next step was to email Opie and let him know that as soon as he got home there was a dead bat on the patio that needed to be removed and a rake that needed to be cloroxed post haste because NO ONE was going back in the yard until those tasks were complete.

He seemed a little unsure if this was his job, but I was quick to advise him to refer to Section 4 Paragraph 3, Sub Point B in our marital contract which very clearly states that vermin removal is a husbandly obligation.

I did, however, get the Clorox wipes out for him.

I also let him know in advance that cracking any jokes in the “Holy rabies Bat Girl” family would absolutely not be tolerated and could well result in him spending the rest of the night in the yard with the corpse of the aforementioned vermin.

But here's the real problem, the thing that made me spend a lot of the day lying on the couch with a cold compress on my head, is the following question: WHAT KIND OF HORRIFYING CREATURE IS NOW LIVING IN THE YARD, KILLING BATS WITH RECKLESS ABANDON?

I have no idea...and I don't much like to think about it!

Shot In The Park

As many of you know, I love to take pictures. My parents got me my first camera as a Christmas gift when I was a junior in high school. And I took that thing EVERYWHERE. If you knew me back then, I’m sure you remember me snapping away at dances, in school, at parties etc.

Also, if you knew me back then, you’re probably now nervously wondering if I still have all the party shots I took at places like Phil’s Camp or Andy’s Farm. The answer is yes, of course I do. I’m waiting for one of you to become incredibly famous so I can sell them to the National Enquirer and make a fortune.

I continued this tradition in college and beyond—though I’d like to take this moment to breathe a sigh of relief that Facebook, Instagram, etc. weren’t available then as I’m pretty sure I would have made some poor posting choices. “It’s not inappropriate, it’s funny!” I would have said, completely oblivious to the fact that I was ruining my and my friends' future employment opportunities for the sake of a quick laugh.

Anyway, I finally got my first digital camera around the same time that my first niece was born. I—and her grandparents—took so many pictures of her as a baby that even now she can sense a lens pointed in her direction and can freeze, pose, then continue on without even noticing the interruption.

Seriously, this is her at 12 stopping to pose ON A WATERSLIDE.

A few years after this picture was taken, Opie got me an amazing camera for Christmas. And immediately became my trusty assistant, lugging my camera equipment around the park, up and down mountains, and into the woods while I learned how to get the best shots.

He has since refused to participate in what I call “encouraging the wildlife into activity” and he calls “running through the woods like a lunatic.” But that’s possibly because the one time I did convince him to run through a flock of seagulls on the beach (so I could get one of those cheesy vacation photos of him with birds in the air all around him), the seagulls thought they were in a Seinfeld episode and didn’t move out of his way – except to lunge at him in a threatening manner, hissing and making other angry noises.

I'm not going to lie, it's really put the kibosh on further bird-startling adventures.

Anyway, for years people have asked me “What do you do with all your pictures?”

In the early days, the answer was “Print them out and stick them in a drawer.”  After the digital age dawned, the answer changed to “Post them on Facebook then stick them in a file on my computer.”

But this year the answer is changing in a more interesting manner. For Christmas this year, my parents took some of my pictures and turned them into handmade photo greeting cards – to encourage me to take the initiative to make more of my pics into handmade photo greeting cards.

And, since they are so much smarter now than they were when I was seventeen (weird how that happens!), I have decided to take their advice and try my hand at the handmade greeting card business.  

If you've liked my pictures over the years and would like to check out my online shop, Shot In The Park, I've included the Etsy address below.  If there's a picture I've taken that you like that isn't currently on a card but you'd like on a card, shoot me an email at shotinthepark@gmail.com and I'll see what I can do.

Unless, of course, the picture in question is one of my nieces or nephews and you're not related to me because, let's be honest, that's creepy.

In all seriousness, I'd love it if you'd check out the shop, check out my Facebook page, and tell your friends. I promise I won't bombard you with constant emails and updates or beg you to buy my stuff!

FYI, if you're one of the people now nervously wondering just how crazy you were in the Phil's Camp photos over the years and just how much it would cost you to get those negatives destroyed, you can shoot me an email too and we'll talk. 😝

Etsy Shop:  Shot In The Park

Facebook Page: Shot in the Park on Facebook