One of my many favorite signs of spring is the very first time I hear the frogs start to sing. Their chorus started up two days ago – much to Gene’s annoyance. It’s not that he doesn’t like frogs, he just doesn’t like when I “scare the hell out of him” by banging on the bathroom door and telling him all about my latest discovery.

I’m supposed to wait until he’s had his first cup of coffee, but in my defense, this news couldn’t hold  – my Polly Rescue Project was a resounding success!!! If you’ll recall, Jennifer and I re-homed hundreds of tadpoles from their stock tank to a Tadpole Sanctuary that I created out of a huge bucket. It was well stocked with algae, aquatic plants, and tadpole pellets I got from the pet store. They literally wanted for nothing, except perhaps more positive affirmations from Gene (but he was adamant that only loonballs talk to tadpoles – proved him wrong!) When the weather started to turn in the fall, I released them into the pond where the plan was they’d hibernate over the winter by burrowing into the thick mud.

It worked impressively well – there are HUNDREDS of frogs now, and there were hardly any there last year. It’s a very Zen experience to watch them – they just hang out, waiting for a lady frog to fall under their melodic spell.

And that’s not the only place where romance is in the air. The last time Gene dragged me into WalMart, I noticed they had some Mystery Snails in what passes for their aquatic pet department. I figured they’d make a great addition to Yandu’s tank, and help out with the algae problem.

I had no idea snails were so magnificent. First off, they’re huge – especially the golden one, whom I’ve named Bentley. (Gucci and Ralph are both a pleasing shade of mahogany, which Gene insists on calling “brown”.) They’re surprisingly fast, and they LOVE to “snuggle”. Not that I stare at them, that’d be creepy. I’m just happy that they’re happy.

So signs of life, love, and spring are all over the place around here. For starters, I took the Christmas wreath down yesterday. I don’t care what Hallmark says – that’s the first Official Day Of Spring as far as I’m concerned.

Gene also brought out both the hose and the kiddie pool, which the geese were ecstatic about. Higgins took one look at what Gene was carrying and started to do a happy dance. They didn’t even wait until it was full to hop in and start splashing around.

And here’s incontrovertible proof winter is behind us – I saw 2019’s first butterfly. This year it was a Mourning Cloak, which is an absolutely terrible name for a butterfly. Whoever came up with that one should be fired. That’s like looking at a beautiful Monarch and being all, “hmmm… how about ‘Orange Death Shroud?’ That kinda fits…” Mourning Cloak indeed.

In other exciting news – I’m a legit logger now. What’s changed, you ask? I have now single handedly skidded a huge cedar tree out of the woods. Well, technically Alan cut it down, and Gene wrapped the line around it, but I’m the one that drove the tractor *and* pulled the string that made the winch reel it in. Ergo – legit logger.

I’ve skidded out over 10 trees now, and Gene only had to remind me once that real loggers don’t scream. Even when the tree gets hung up on other trees and the tractor gets yanked up onto one wheel, apparently. Personally I thought that if ever an occasion called for screaming, that was it. But thanks to my cat-like reflexes, I immediately disengaged the winch upon seeing what was transpiring. I know from a distance it probably looked like I quit pulling on the rope that runs the winch because I dropped it in sheer panic, but that totally wasn’t the case.

Besides, I didn’t scream today in a situation that would have made lesser loggers tremble in fear – a tree fell a mere 20 feet from my head. As I was preparing to pull the string, Gene was all – “Hey, look up to make sure a tree isn’t falling.” What he neglected to mention was what I should do if said tree falls toward me – since I’m perched on a tractor that’s attached to another tree. Like hitting the gas and zooming out of harm’s way is off the table, and let’s just say I’m not renown for my land speed. Sure enough, a tree fell and I calmly watched it come crashing down. That’s when I realized there’s a reason loggers wear helmets, and it’s not cuz they’re safety wusses. I’m kicking myself now – I can’t believe I missed a chance to accessorize. Gene needs to take me into town with a quickness, because I’m pretty sure helmets come in fluorescent pink.

Do you ever wake up in the morning and just *know* it’s going to be a bad day before you get out of bed? I actually never do, I’m optimistic AF. But that all changed within 5 minutes of stumbling toward the coffee machine in the kitchen, because on my way past the bathroom the toilet said good morning to me.

The last time the toilet started to sing the song of its people, things went to a very bad place, very quickly. I had nightmares for weeks. So you’d think when that wish-it-wasn’t-familiar glub glub noise started up this morning, I would have called the emergency pumper service right away. But no – optimist, remember?

I rolled the dice and got away with my morning business, then started the day’s writing. I got so immersed that it only registered in the back of my mind that Gene had zombie shuffled past the office into the bathroom, shut the door, and had been in there for a good ten minutes. In retrospect, I believe he would have appreciated a little forewarning of what was 99% likely to happen next. Sure enough, a panicked, screeched “Noooooooooooo” emerged from the bathroom, accompanied by frantic plunging noises. Then Gene told me I wasn’t allowed to yell that loudly in an enclosed space, particularly when he was standing right next to me, and that busting in on him after the fact was too little, too late. Then he started eyeing the rising water level and advised me to back up because I wasn’t wearing shoes.

It was *so close*. Less than inch before flood waters commenced.

So then we spent way too long in the pouring rain digging test holes to figure out where the septic tank was, with me trying to explain that despite literally watching the pumper guy dig it up last time, my brain is too full of dating advice to remember minutiae like where the access hatch is buried.

Now we’re just waiting for the “local” service to return my call. In the meantime, Gene proudly showed off his Plan B, which he had put together in the pole barn (that should have been my first warning – it wasn’t in the house):

I let him know that while I appreciated his artistry from an aesthetic standpoint, he should still file it under “Not Gonna Happen AKA Oh Hell No”. My butt is allergic to buckets, and I’ll happily abstain from solid food until I hear the HoneyBucket truck in the driveway.

It’s finally Spring! It may be brown, but we can finally see some grass. And that’s saying something, because not even two weeks ago our yard looked like this:

Ceri would like it to be winter 24/7, but all the other critters are ecstatic. The guineas and chickens all have their favorite sun spots claimed, and there are plenty of puddles for the geese to splash around in. Except for Claire, anyway. She’s still determinedly broody, although I was able to sneak in while she took a rare break from hissing and candle all her eggs. None of them are fertile, which is good news. I really don’t know what we would have done with 11 goslings (besides give them an amazing life, obviously). On the downside, I’m pretty sure we’ll have to wait until they start to explode before she’ll give them up. Gene ranked out the entire kitchen the other day with a bad chicken egg… I can’t even imagine how bad a spoiled goose egg would be in the coop. That’ll be Gene’s job for sure.

I’m looking forward to the busy season – boiling sap for syrup, constructing the Monarch Sanctuary 2.0, building all the new raised beds my night-time pollinator garden and hummingbird sanctuary will require… but I’m also a little nervous about how to juggle everything. I’ve been full-time+ for almost a year now, but as my deadlines get tighter and the weather gets warmer all those pesky little housekeeping details are starting to slip.

We have a pretty fair division of labor… I handle most things animal related such as litter boxes and water fountain maintenance, and Gene handles the cooking and the vacuuming. Although he should definitely vacuum under the couch more often, as opposed to “never”. The guy installing the windows had to move it, and it was beyond. The vast accumulation of German Shepherd and 4 cat’s worth of fur wasn’t even the worst part – apparently Charlie uses that particular couch to cache all her “prey”. Pens and pen caps, those stupid knobs that sit at the base of the toilet, paper clips, binder clips, and about 25 of those dental floss/toothpick combo things. Those are her favorite to chase at 2 am, and she’ll fish them out if you leave the bathroom drawer even slightly open. So ya, now the Lowe’s installer thinks we just floss our teeth while watching TV and then chuck them under the couch. #Classy

When it comes to chores pretty much anything else is handled by whomever can’t stand it any longer. But there are a few strict rules – the trash gets taken out on a “he who tops it off, drops it off” basis, and if you remove the emergency roll of toilet paper from its special hiding spot, it’s on you to bring up a new package from the storage room in the basement. Guess who forgets that routinely?

Sigh. I did finally break down and clean up my desk area, though. It had gotten to the point where I couldn’t open the drawers fully, and it was driving me bonkers. Turns out a folder full of CD mixes circa 2004 was to blame. I headed down to my parents the next day, and brought it with me to see what I considered good enough to burn onto a mix tape 15 years ago.

Ahhhh ya, I totally forgot I went through a gangsta rap phase. The car was thumpin’ for that 5 hour trip, let me tell you. And I now officially represent the “218”, and let everyone know it. Or at least I would, if anyone who lived around here knew what ‘represent’ meant in that context. I also rekindled my love for Rammstein. If you haven’t heard a heavy metal rock band screech a love ballad in German, you’re missing out.

In other news that won’t make Gene cringe, we’ve been busily working on getting the crane business up and running. I even called our accountant to see if I could route all the construction expenses like diesel fuel and oil changes through my writing business, in order to offset the fact that a writing business really doesn’t incur any expenses. There was a long silence on the line, followed by a rather heavy sigh. Then he said, “only if you want a guaranteed audit.” Why does being ethical have to be so expensive???