First, let me start with saying we should not be getting a literal foot of snow in almost April. It’s just plain wrong. And it’s even more wrong to be shoveling it off the deck while wearing only a t-shirt, and feeling perfectly comfortable.

Although I must say, when Gene turned all the Christmas lights back on, it looked quite festive. And before you get all judgy, we’re not the only people who still have their wreaths up. Not by a long shot. (But we are probably the only ones with lights blazing #trendsetters).

It was enough snow that I had to go shovel a snacking path for the deer too. I figure the vast majority of them are pregnant by now, and rely on us to provide vital supplementation to their meager diets. At least that’s what they want me to believe – you wouldn’t believe how big their puppy dog eyes get when they’re lined up staring at the window, silently asking why they don’t have any corn yet.

Even the buck gets in on it, and he manages to look both starving and judgemental.

Despite the snow, the warm temperatures apparently coaxed Mr. Waddles out from underneath the chicken coop. I’m sure he was lured in by tasty tidbits of over-looked corn, because he was exploring the front yard when Gene let the puppies loose for their bedtime potty excursion.

Let’s just say Mr. Waddles did not wake up on the right side of the bed. I daresay he woke up hangry, although as Bess Bess sagely pointed out, you don’t have to be hangry to be hating on tiny yapper dogs with a Napoleon complex. But one things for sure – he did not appreciate being chased under the truck by Chupi. Thankfully, Ceri couldn’t fit under there and Gene was able to haul her back into the house, then go back to retrieve our incredibly stinky yet mightily ferocious skunk hunter.

On the plus side, an 8-pound Papillon can’t wreck the bathroom to the same extent a 100-pound German Shepherd can and will.

On the down side, I don’t know why I stored my Skunk Kit (complete with enough Dawn, hydrogen peroxide, and baking soda to deal with the aftermath of a skunk the size of Godzilla) under a pile of winter coats, boots, and other household detritus.

Note To Self: if it has a handwritten note that says “open in case of emergency”, don’t bury it in the closet.

At least I didn’t break the shower this time!

Today was a momentous occasion, and it’s not just because it’s the first day of Spring (Yay! Although not that you’d notice…). Vernal Equinox aside, Gene finally let me use the chainsaw.

I think it’s partly because of my incessant whining, partly because he realized I’m actually paying attention to all the logging advice he dispenses. Here’s a sampling:

• I always carry the ax with my hand up by the ax head, so if I fall I can chuck it and I won’t gut myself.
• I quit texting while the trees were actually falling, because Gene said that’s a self correcting error in judgment.
• I won’t ever set the toilet paper down, then wander off to an even better spot to pee again.
• Throwing the logs at the truck isn’t good enough. They have to actually land in the bed, and he can hear that telltale thunk when they bounce off the side from a mile away.
• Real loggers don’t shriek “Beast Mode” every time they swing the ax.

Of course I’ve learned a lot more, we’ve been going out almost every day to cut wood. (I’ll use that as a convenient excuse for not posting in almost a month!) At any rate, I was super excited, and not a little terrified, when Gene called me over to cut my first tree down.

Not gonna lie – I thought he’d let me start with a bigger one. It’s actually harder to not cut all the way through a 6″ trunk than it is to just rip right through it and hope for the best.

And apparently I messed up the “hinge cut”, because the tree started falling the wrong direction and Gene had to yank me out of the way by my sweatshirt. He then shouted something about it being my job to notice which way the tree’s falling. At least I assume that’s what he was yelling, I was wearing ear protection because I’m responsible like that.

I’m excited – he’s going down to my parent’s this weekend for a plumbing project, so I think I’ll cut a few down and surprise him with a cord or so.

And speaking of trips to my parents, I met Bess Bess down there last weekend and we made the mistake of going to Costco on a Sunday.

Don’t get me wrong – I love Costco. Anyone with multiple cats loves Costco because it’s hands down the cheapest place to buy cat litter, and I don’t care how many stares and whispered “Oh, my’s” I get from pushing a flat cart loaded down with 12 bags of it. I’m saving money, people.

If you ever want to see me Hulk out… follow me around Costco on a weekend. First you have to get through the parking lot, which is impossible to do without honking and flipping multiple birds, usually simultaneously.

Then you have to get in the door, which is generally blocked by people who forgot they have to flash a membership card and stop right in the entrance to dig it out. But that’s not even the worst of the offences. No, that’s saved for people who park their carts at the end of the aisles, making it impossible for anyone else to get out.

And god help you if your cart (or you, to be honest), gets between me and the cases of beer I’m about to stock up on because they’re $10 cheaper than up North. I’m not generally given to public displays of rudeness, but after an hour of fighting my way through the aisles, surrounded by delicious smelling samples I can’t eat because I’m allergic to all but 5 things on this planet, I found myself shoving someone’s cart out of the middle of the aisle while shrieking “Let me just move this for you!!!” I’d like to say I then gracefully brought my cat litter/beer cart to the register, but it took some pushing.

Sigh. Have I mentioned how much I love living in a place where it never gets crowded???