Chickens, Gypsy Wagons and Weapons of Mass Destruction

The sun is shining bright down on Frog Pond Holler today, but there's a slight nip in the air and a soft, gentle breeze rustling the tender spring leaves. Deep breaths, taking in the sweet aroma of new life, new beginnings and tender growth makes your toes tingle and your heart beat just a tiny bit faster.

It's that kind of morning.

I got some good news on Friday. I was at my desk here at the Cubicle Asylum, yelling across the wall to Lulu, who has an office.. with walls.. AND A DOOR.. biatch.. that I couldn't really do anything else with the dog lot until I found myself a chainsaw. When the creepy dirty old man pervert GM overhead me, he summoned me back to his office.

I figured he was either going to crack a joke about me wallering a chainsaw around up on the bank behind my house or reprimand me for yelling up and down the hall, but no. It was my lucky day. He has a small chainsaw he wants to sell. I was a little creeped out when I asked him how much he wanted for it and he said, "I'll sell it to you cheap, but it'll cost ya."

*wink wink*

He's such a perv.

I have to wait for Andy, Lulu's bubbahubby, to recover from back surgery. The GM is going to have Andy look at it because it's been sitting idle for a while.

With news of a new instrument of destruction on the horizon, my head was filled with dreams of hacking up bushes, trees and fallen lumber all over the property. After that, I can fence in more yard. I even started thinking about maybe building one of these:

Some of you already know, I have an irrational fear of chickens after being flogged by one of Granny's hens when I was just a small, round child. I was from the city, I didn't know it would piss the crotchedy old bird off if I chased one of her babies across the yard, scooping it up in my hand and rubbing the soft, yellow fuzz against my cheek.

But a chicken coup built to look like a Gypsy wagon? How can I resist?

Besides, I'm supposed to be growing as a person, facing my fears, taking life by the chin hairs and slinging it around.

Right?

Anywho...

Saturday, in between day dreams of fancy chickens with names like Miss Opal and Martha Gail, I printed out a flier to hang at the post office. I was going to put one up a the Pump N' Go too, but T.A. informed me that it would embarrass her to admit I was the person who'd hung it there.

Offspring. Go figure.

The flier said, "Do you have a tiller? Want to make some extra money? I have a small garden but no tiller. I'd like to hire someone for the job," followed by contact information, etc. Then? It was like Ma could hear my thoughts from the other end of the trailer and sent T.A. to tell me that Aunt Moses would be down on the following day to mow and she was bringing her tiller.

This was great news because our grass is up to my knees in spots. I need to clean out my tractor tire flower bed (you might be a redneck) but I'm afraid to walk through the yard to get to it. It's lookin' plumb snakey out there. Plus, I want to buy myself a new birdbath for Mother's Day, Wallyworld has one decorated with celtic symbols, a tiny one, just the right size. The makeshift leftover birdcage stand I've been using doesn't hold enough water.

But by this morning? The grass is still butthole deep and I've not seen hide nor hair of Aunt Moses or the tiller.

It's a good thing I saved that flier.

I reckon I should get it in gear. Bossman is in a decent mood for a change and I don't want to do anything to mess it up. We're gonna kick bootay this week ya'll.

Let's have a good one.

Later Taters!