FOUND: PUNK BUNNY

For the past three days, we've had an unexpected visitor. On Wednesday, Matt and I were standing on the deck looking down our driveway, and we notice an unfamiliar animal hanging out between the workshop and the garage. Look about halfway down the driveway on the right side of the pavement. Do you see it? I decided to investigate.

Lo and behold, I walk up on the cutest little punk rock rabbit I've ever seen:

She was back yesterday, hanging out in the woods on the other side of our garage, and this morning, back up by the workshop. She won't let me get close enough to touch her, but as you can see from the pics, she is pretty used to humans. I know it's been three days and I need to put up a sign at the bottom of our driveway that says FOUND: ESCAPED BUNNY, EARS RESEMBLE TERRI NUNN, but for today, I just love that we've been adopted by this little punk bunny. Black-tipped ears, lots of black eye makeup. She's soooo 80's. And that's not all, she's also sporting a mohawk stripe all the way up her back:

She reminds me of myself when I was fifteen. That summer, a group of us at camp all experimented with hair dye, and my style of choice was totally the Terri Nunn look; I dipped all of my hair in black dye so that the last two inches were all black. I LOVED IT. My mom, however, did not. On the last day of camp, she picked me up and drove me straight to the hair stylist.

I wonder, has punk bunny run away from home to avoid being driven to the stylist?

knuckles and knugget

So, we got a PUPPY!

What led to a puppy? A lot, I tell you.

When my husband and I first met, we both had our own dogs. Mine was a two year old rescue dog that I adopted four months before meeting my husband; his dog was Knuckles, an 11 year old lab mix he'd had since she was six weeks old. Not long after I adopted my dog, she began exhibiting some troubling behavior. Troubling, as in, she was an extreme alpha female who wanted to kill other animals. Cats, other dogs. She attacked other people's pets when small children were present. It was bad. And it kept escalating. After her third attempt to take out my husband's dog - and by take out I mean latching onto the jugular and requiring activities I won't mention here to get her to release - I decided to have her evaluated by an animal behavioral specialist. The prognosis wasn't good. The specialist said in no uncertain terms that my dog's dominant behavior was considered extreme, she needed constant conditioning to try and subdue her, and that she should never live in a home where she might encounter other animals or small children.

Well, that wasn't going to work. Just look at the types of people in my life:

Adorable, right??? My life was full of little ones and it was going to be full of little ones for many years to come. It was time to give my dog the chance to be homed with a person that would let her be top dog. It was a very hard thing to do.

So, flash forward a year and we were married, we still had Knuckles, and we both wanted a puppy. But for some reason that I can't remember right now, we put it off for a few months. Probably something like busy schedules, or wanting to wait for things to calm down a bit. But things never calm down. I lost my job; I got a job but my husband left his job; home renovations; vacations; a death in the family; a few health scares; throw in a couple more job transitions... you get the picture, right? The economy and life in general made it pretty easy to put off adding a a puppy to our family. Why we trick ourselves into believing that there is a "good time" to completely disrupt life and throw a baby anything into it, I don't know. You just have to take the plunge.

So, flash forward another year, and here we are in Dahlonega. Still no puppy, but talk of a puppy had definitely ramped up. There was only one thing still coming between us and a puppy, and that was a one-week period when I would be on vacation with my family and my husband would be on a business trip. As soon as we were back, we would begin our search for the perfect wiggly, waggly, lickety-stickety puppy.

And that week came and went and we came home to something we didn't quite expect: our dog, Knuckles, acting like she'd just had the wind taken out of her sails. It worried us. What would a puppy do to our sweet old dog? We did the easiest things we could think of doing, and that was 1) take Knuckles to the vet and 2) decide once again to put off getting a puppy. It was sad. We were both ready for some fresh life to be breathed into our family dynamic.

And then, two weeks later, Kuckles was on some new medication and doing much better, and we were on a trip to the grocery store, and what did we find but a litter of adorable 8-week old puppies - right out front and ready for adoption. And this little face was sitting in a crate with four of her litter mates:

My husband and I danced around the Knuckles issue for about two minutes, and then he said something that really resonated with me. He said that waiting to get a puppy felt like we were just waiting for Knuckles to die. Yuck. That is exactly what it felt like. Sweet Knuckles. She's old, but she's not so old that we needed to be on a death watch; and deep down inside, we both wanted our good old girl to have an influence on a puppy. We wanted Knuckles to take part in training a puppy, with grand hopes that some of her Knuckleheadedness will rub off. So, after all of the delay, we decided to stop putting off what we said we had wanted to do for YEARS, and we brought home Knugget.

And of course, it's like our house has woken up. What a difference 20 pounds of puppy breath and puppy noises, puppy tails, puppy clumsiness and puppy eyes can make. No to mention puppy kisses, puppy discoveries, puppy toys. Even Knuckles has a renewed interest in Kong balls and tennis balls, and although Knuckles won't be enticed into wrestling matches, she does let Knugget kiss her face and sleep curled up in her belly.

And I know that Knuckles gets annoyed with Knugget's constant enthusiasm for all things, but, I'm pretty sure that's a smile I see on Knuckles's face.

Clean Bugs, Dirty Bugs

One of my good friends says that when it comes to killing bugs, there are clean bugs and dirty bugs. You don't kill clean bugs (i.e. june bugs, ladybugs, lightning bugs, or the lovely praying mantis), but you can feel free to smash, smack or open a can on any of the dirty bugs (i.e. roaches, flies, ants, mosquitoes and the like).

As for the list of what constitutes clean versus dirty bugs, for the most part, I agree with her. But there are two places we diverge: spiders and those speckled jumping monstrosities a.k.a. camel crickets. You know, those ugly things with the fat, freckled, round little bodies and the long, bent hind legs that can propel them straight at your face when you walk into the laudry room and flip on the light. Ugh. I hate those things.

When I come across one of those jumpy little beasts, I find the heaviest shoe in my house and fling it as hard as I can towards it. I don't try to step on  it. For one, they are too thick to step on (ick) and will make a nauseating pop-noise (ick again), and two, you can't get close enough to step on them anyway. They just jump all crazy 'round the room until they find a piece of furniture or an appliance to hide under. If you want to eliminate it, you have to stand back, and you have to fling something very heavy, very fast.

That is, unless you are my friend with the well-defined code of ethics regarding clean and dirty bugs. We'll call her Brave. According to her, those freckly, fat, round little beasts are clean bugs and should not be subjected to death by combat boot. In fact, just like she is dealing with a lightning bug, Miss Brave will walk right up to a camel cricket, reach down, pick it up, carry it through the house, and set it free outside. Even if it squirms in her hand.

Now, as I mentioned, when I walk up to a camel cricket, it flails and jumps and generally gives me the heebiejeebies. Yes, I'm sure it senses the death wish I have for it and wants to escape me at all costs. But not my friend, Miss Brave. She can walk right up to one of those suckers. She is like one of those horse whisperers, but with camel crickets.

Which leaves us with spiders.

I just can't live with spiders in my house. I know they help us out by catching and eating the dirty bugs. But I can't do it. I have a hard enough time living with the ones that are outside. Like this one. 

This is an orb-weaver, called so because of the giant round webs they weave. This one is so big it would not fit on a silver dollar with its legs splayed. It's black and yellow and white and HUGE and weaves a zipper into its web. It's not venomous, but it is HUGE. And it has made its web right outside of our living room window, hanging down from the eave. Here's the view from inside.

There, I've put my car next to it so you can see how HUGE it is. I know the picture is a little cloudy, but that is part of its web. Look closely, it's there, and those are its legs coming out from behind the cloud.

There have been many HUGE orb-weaving spiders on the eaves and the decks of our new house. And so far, I have allowed all but one to live in peace. THAT ONE had to pay the price for the sake of all of the others. I needed to make an example of it so that all of the other giant spiders around our house would understand where they stand with me. THAT ONE wove its web hanging down from the eave right beside door from our bedroom to the deck. And every day, it would inch its web a little closer to being directly in front of the bedroom door. I use that door a lot because it is faster to walk across our deck to get to the kitchen from our bedroom than it is to walk through the house. Sometimes very late at night or very early in the morning, I will sleepily cross the deck to get a glass of water from the kitchen.

And I know me. When I walk around my house, I walk looking down. I have walked into more open doors, low-hanging light fixtures and open cabinets than I care to remember. So, take a moment... picture it with me, people. I'll even illustrate with a true story. Once, while on a neighborhood walk about ten years ago, I walked smack into the middle of a giant orb-weaver's web, and a big, fat, juicy, waaaay too-big-to-step-on spider ended up on my stomach. And then I experienced a very brief but intense living nightmare in which I danced the fastest, craziest little jig you ever saw. 

Oh, my, and it would have been even more awful with a spider is as big as THAT ONE, especially since it had the potential to end up on my face. So, my apologies to Miss Brave and to THAT ONE. I am doing my best to respect the giant spiders around my house... I just had to pull a little Godfather routine to make sure they respect me, too.

It's Better to be a Smart Ass...

I once knew a guy who, despite being a father, thought he could justify not ever using his seatbelt. He lamely gave me the reason for why he didn't use it and I just shook my head and said, "The bottom line is this: you don't use your seatbelt because you're a dumbass."

That being said, it's day five of quitting smoking and today I have begun to see the light at the end of a very dark tunnel. I know everyone reacts differently to quitting an addiction or habit. Like most smokers, I have put down cigarettes several times in my life. During the first week of deprivation, everything in my life is tragic and everyone makes me mad. Even the cutest, most sugary videos of puppies and kittens sliding down rainbows onto toddlers will make me want to sever ties with everyone I know and move to some remote coastal fishing village in Canada. (And no, in this fantasy I can't move to a remote coastal fishing village in the Caribbean because I will just want to crack open a Corona Light and smoke a cigarette).

Now that this dark phase is nearing an end, I know I can look forward to beginning the self-righteous phase. There are lots of positive aspects to this phase. The pure sense of accomplishment, for one. The motivation to do other things that will help me become even healthier. And let us not forget the utter sense of superiority I'll feel over anyone who is still smoking - that is, once I let go of the driving, bitter jealousy I feel towards them for still allowing themselves a cigarette whenever they want one.

But, to be honest, the one aspect of quitting in which I am taking a full-on bubble bath right now is knowing that if I succeed in this endeavor, never again will I feel the shame of being caught smoking by one of my friends' young children, nor will I have to find a way to answer the inevitable questions that follow; for example, "Why do you smoke?" or "Don't you know that smoking kills you?"

There is only one adequate response you can give to the four-year old who asks you these questions and then schools you with the latest statistics from the American Lung Association (as you hide your cigarette behind your back and attempt to exhale into your stomach so he doesn't see the smoke) and that response is this:  I smoke because I am a dumbass.

Yes, I Like to Torture Myself Almost as Much as I Like to Torture Dogs

Well, I'm a little late with the update this week, but that is because I am once again on the cigarette wagon, and that means that most of my thoughts have been very grumpy. For those of you who thought I went on the wagon in March/April… well, I fell off.

Today is day four. I haven't killed anyone (yet) and I think I can get through writing this without bursting into tears. You know, giving up cigarettes is hard every time, and I have the same predictable reactions to stopping the habit every time (yes, this is where some of you will want to quote Einstein about the definition of insanity, and yes, you are right). It doesn't matter that I went over a month without smoking back in March and April; it is just as hard this time. My husband has learned my pattern, though, and knows not to take anything personally the first week of quitting, like when I burst into tears or just leave the room without saying anything. Or when I roll around on the floor hugging an empty box of cigarettes, reminiscing about the good ol’ days and asking why cigarettes aren’t made of vitamins and vegetables.

By next Monday or Tuesday, the fog will start to lift and I will start thinking happy thoughts again.

As part of the quit smoking, get in shape and feel better effort, we have begun walking the hill behind our house. The road behind our house climbs up, up, up for a little over a mile and it's steep. We figure it will be much cheaper than a gym, and it is definitely a workout. The kind of workout where you start making little noises as you exhale, like, "whew," and "mercy" and "holy crap this is hard, I’m going to sit down over here until I stop seeing spots."

Before I stopped the smoking (again), we made it down to Fayetteville, GA to visit our good friends Joe and Judy, who invited us to hang out at their pool. We love Joe and Judy, and not just because they have a sweet pool and will drink frozen margaritas in the middle of the day.

This is Shelby, Joe and Judy's grand-dog. We met Shelby during our visit to Joe and Judy's house in June.
 

Shelby is a big fan of chasing the automatic pool cleaner, but she is not a big fan of swimming. After an afternoon of Shelby keeping the pool cleaner in line - and let's be honest, after much encouragement from me - Joe decided it was time for Shelby to take a swim. Knuckles did her best to encourage Shelby to stop acting like a cat and swim for a while, but to no avail.

If you put your ear to your computer screen, you will hear the four-letter expletives Shelby mutters as she swims back towards the stairs. Let's just say Shelby gave Joe (and the pool cleaner) a wide berth after this.

It's The Little Things, and Not So Little

Observation: It actually makes me stupid happy when I can get exactly the number of ice cubes I want out of the automatic ice dispenser and into my glass in one shot.

I think one of the earliest signs of settling into a new house is when you master the rhythm of your automatic ice maker. There are always those early days in a new house when, based on some ice maker from a previous life, you assume you know just how quickly and exactly how many ice cubes that sucker is going to spit into your glass. Until you get past that assumption and start paying attention, you're going to be picking up ice and tossing it into the dog's bowl or stepping your sock feet in cold puddles left by rogue ice cubes.


Oh, and check out the monster tires I saw on the highway recently.




Come on, just take it in for a minute how big those tires are... and don't think about how there are people out there who take pictures like this while maintaining 70mph on the highway.

I finally did it.

One week ago, I moved away from the town where I was born, and raised, and where I have lived my entire adult life. It is the first time I have ever packed up all of my belongings and moved away from home without some sort of loosely designed “plan B” for moving back home. The first time I moved away, it was for college - and I never really planned on doing anything other than finding work back at home after college. The second time I moved, I followed a guy I was dating about three hours west of home. That lasted a few weeks until just after I called my brother to find out whether he would scrap his weekend plans and come visit me in an empty moving truck.

Even though the majority of my friends and family have taken flight at some point to go and live in other parts of the state, country and world, I was content to make road trips or plan vacations to visit them while I stayed planted firmly in the town where I was born. However, over the years, it became more and more apparent that my home town would always lack something I truly longed for: mountains. And now, due to the quest for steady work, my home town also lacks something of even greater importance to me: my husband. Fortunately, there was a solution that included both mountains and my husband (which are not listed in order of importance in this story. I'm just sayin.) Having found work in his field in the great wilderness of the Chattahoochee National Forest, we now get to call North Georgia our home.

The culture of North Georgia is right up my alley. Hiking, camping, river recreation and acoustic music are the types of activities to which my husband and I naturally gravitate, and these activities are found in wild abandon here. With tourism being the predominant source of income for these mountain towns, the town squares and historic downtown areas are all beautifully kept and designed to entice people into their storefronts and restaurants. We settled on Dahlonega, a small town with a college, a dearth of good restaurants, and plenty of outdoor recreation outfitters.

When I tell people in Dahlonega’s shops and restaurants that I have just moved to their town, they are really nice. In fact, they light up. I don’t know if it is Hollywood or my own experience in some of Virginia’s small towns that made me want to duck right after saying I was new in town, but I was genuinely surprised by the sheer enthusiasm of some of the welcomes. Anyone from a small town or who has moved to a small town or had a loved one move to a small town knows that in SOME of those small towns, the people who call themselves locals can be extremely possessive over their local status and horribly suspicious of newcomers. People laugh, but deep down we all know that it can take years, generations even, for a town to stop thinking of transplants as foreigners! Everyone knows someone who still refers to the grandchildren of a man who moved down south in 1942 as “those northerners across the street.”

But not here! Here they just start telling you where to get the best plate of food, and who to call for this or that or something or other. I was even given a code word to use so the local businesses would know that I was local and then give me the local discount. So, while I am a foreigner in a new land, I have been delighted by the locals who gave me a warm welcome and a ready smile this first week. Now I just have to wait and see if the joke is on me, and whether the store owners all put another notch in their cash drawers when I walk in and announce “I am a nugget!” and expect some sort of discount for it.

For those of you who don’t know, my other half has been working in Tennessee since the beginning of the year and we have had a long distance marriage. We both essentially learned to live alone again, and visits took on the sheen of mini-vacations from our newly established solo routines. So, in addition to both of us adjusting to a new town and new job circumstances, we are learning how to integrate our lives again under a single roof. I’m pretty sure my husband had forgotten just how much I love to talk. To him. About. Everything. This is just a mini-glimpse of what happens to couples who’ve had their own daily routines for forty years and suddenly decide to experience the joys of retirement together. Ahh, what fun is marriage if you can’t occasionally chatter your husband to a slow, tortuous death?