Saturday Night Serenade–Boondocks

You could say that Mr. R. and I live in the boondocks.  We bought our little Mediterranean-style house nearly five years ago in a community west of West Palm Beach known as the Acreage.  The community crosses into the city limits of about four different towns and it’s called the Acreage because every property has more than an acre of land.  Sometimes a lot more.

It’s a fresh alternative to living in town in overpriced planned communities with their zero lot lines and their HOAs.  I could never stand for some repressed little preppy committee to tell me what color I can or can’t paint my house and what I can or can’t park in my driveway.  We don’t pay for sewer or water because we have a septic system and our own well.  We’re not worried about lead in our drinking water.

We can keep livestock on our property if we want.  Our neighbors across the street, Tom-Tom, a gay couple (both named Tom) whose business is selling ballroom dance shoes, keep chickens and goats around their own much larger Mediterranean-style house.  The other day, Tom really tried to talk me into buying their new-born pedigreed pygmy goat.  I told him we weren’t quite ready to pull the trigger on the goat thing just yet.

Two doors down from Tom-Tom, the nice quiet family on the corner sold their house to a new family.  These folks enjoy creating a track for racing their ATVs around their giant lot.  Not so quiet.  They also enjoy playing their music LOUD.

It can be annoying.  But I’d still rather have them than an HOA.  Besides, just because their music is loud doesn’t mean it isn’t good.  They played this song yesterday.  I love this song.

Happy Saturday night from the boondocks!

He Cracks Me Up!

Out here in the country, it’s a sad but true fact that if you open the door in the summer, you get flies in the house.

My Timehop today reminded me of a conversation Mr. R. and I had about a year ago.  He’d been trying unsuccessfully to remove a tiny winged varmint.

Mr. R.: I almost killed that fly with my bare hand.

Me: I would have been impressed.

Mr. R: I once caught a fly with chopsticks.

Me: That was the Karate Kid.

Mr. R.: Oh.  I thought that sounded familiar.

To Kill An Insomniac Mockingbird

For the last four years, Mr. R. and I have lived in an ‘equestrian area’.  It’s not uncommon to see a cowboy come riding past on the sidewalk in front of the house.  It also happens to be a bird sanctuary.  We have tons of wild birds from egrets to blue herons to sandhill cranes.  Every lot out here is at least an acre and a half and many people keep critters of various sizes.  There are horses, obviously, plus chickens, peacocks, goats, and hoards of cats and dogs.

Our neighbor across the street keeps chickens and goats.  We currently have a landshark and two cats.  I’d like to have chickens and a giraffe, but that’s a post for another day.  The good thing about all these critters is that most of them have the common decency to quiet down at night.

Image from Google Images Accredited to Mike McClaughry

Enter an insomniac mockingbird.  Mr. R.’s work schedule has him returning to the old homestead after midnight every night.  Last night as I went out to meet him when he backed into the driveway after work I was astounded to hear a deliriously happy mockingbird just chirping his little head off.  It was a cheerful little song.

But it was headed toward one o’clock in the morning.  Even the roosters know when enough’s enough.  I laughed, knowing that I didn’t have to get up in the morning.  It did cross my mind, however.  Do you suppose Harper Lee is looking for her next new book?

Shout out to Mike for the photo!

Dead Fly Walking…Er, Flying

It’s my first full week of summer vacation, which meshes perfectly with Mr. R.’s new work schedule.  No longer rising at 5am, I’m able to wait up for him to return around midnight, sit around and chat about his day.  Imagine watching Jimmy Fallon in real time.  We’re enjoying sleeping late together every morning, luxuriating in the ability to tell our respective alarms to kiss us where the sun don’t shine.  It’s paradise, waking leisurely in the later morning to early afternoon…

Well, it was.  Enter one pesky housefly.  Um-hmm, the old Musca domestica.  And this one is no ordinary fly, oh no!  He apparently has radar and psychic abilities.  He knows things, man.  He recognizes that moment when we just fall asleep and chooses that exact moment to dive bomb our faces, zipping away as we fruitlessly swat at him.  And he can disappear.  We look around and he’s nowhere.  He waits and watches…

Suddenly, I feel like Walter White in that episode of Breaking Bad, madly swatting the air like a crazy person.  This morning I dozed with a fly swatter in my hand.  He’d buzz our heads and I’d use the blue plastic Excalibur to slice through the air, but to no avail.

But know this, my friends.  His tiny little ass is grass.  For we will not let some mutant spawn of Satan ruin our summer.

Puppy Paranoia

wpid-20140115_110626-1.jpgOne of our favorite times of the day is just after work.  On any given weekday, Mr. R. and I return home, pour something cold to drink, and sit out on the back patio chatting about our day.  Usually, he tosses a tennis ball for Jack, our 85-pound land shark, to chase in the yard.  Today, I left them outside for a moment.  As I returned I overheard Mr. R. talking to Jack.

“You’re my favorite puppy in this yard right now.  Yes, you are!  Of course, we have another puppy at another house.  There are two cats there, too.  In fact, that’s where Mommy and I go everyday, to visit our other family.  We like them better.”

Anybody know how much dog therapy costs?

What The?

wpid-20150426_115008.jpgThere I was, minding my own business, taking the land shark out to relieve himself, when I saw this. What the holy heck???

The photo doesn’t do it justice, really.  It’s about four inches long, not counting the antennae.

And I’m almost certain that after I snapped the picture it gave me the finger.  Or the segmented exoskeleton leg.  Or whatever biblical pestilences have.

Oh, and it growled at me, too.  I think.  I’m pretty sure.