P is for Petrified

Folks, we have a problem.

And his name is Tom.


Please.  Stop gushing over my super-awesome multi-colored chicken coop.  Quite frankly, its getting a tad embarrassing.

Tom sits in the doorway of the chicken coop and makes all sorts of noise if ever we try to come and gather eggs.  I don't speak "turkey," but I am pretty sure he is gobbling threats such as:

"I am going to peck out your eyes!"

"Take one more step and I will kill you!"

"I will poop on your toes if you try and open this door again!"

I don't like Tom.


I mean, really.  His head is blue.  What's up with that?

Well, I'll tell you one thing I know for sure.  I am not going near Tom.  I send the girls to do the egg gathering.  And, of course, they come back and whine:

"But, Mom!  That turkey is soooo scary!"

And I look calmly at them and LIE:

"No, he's just a turkey.  You will be just fine.  Now run along like good girls and get the eggs."

I know, I know.  Mother of the Year.

But there is NO WAY I am going near that turkey.  Did I mention he was ugly?  He's got like some long dangly thing from his beak.  I like him not.  We have him on The Craigslist, but I'm ready to pay someone to take him away.  Because, did I mention I loathe him?

In other news, we are still hard at work fencing our property and getting ready for a garden.  My body is so sore from all this manual labor.  It's hard work keeping up with David, you know?

Me:  Do you want me to get the 4-wheeler and and dump that trailer full of sticks?  I can get Daisy Mae to help me?

David:  No.  But how about you just help Daisy Mae.

Daisy Mae is a stud.  I cannot tell a lie.  I have no idea how to work that 4-wheeler machine and she knows all about it.

She starts it for me.

She reminds me where the brakes are.

She helps me figure out how to put it in reverse.

She's not scared to actually accelerate.

Daisy Mae:  Mom.  Will you just let me drive it?


It's for the best.

So, she drives the 4-wheeler and I stay close by.  We have to take trailers-full of sticks down to some big pile.  The sticks will sit in the pile until Jesus returns.  But they are being moved, nonetheless, because this is what my husband tells me to do and who knows what goes on in that head of his?


So we, and of course, by "we" I mean Daisy Mae, get the trailer to the dumping spot and then we have to unhitch the trailer.

I know, I know.  I can barely understand what's going on to even type this out.

\
Guess who has to unhitch the trailer?

Daisy Mae.

Guess who figure out the best way to tilt the trailer to dump this sticks?

Daisy Mae.

Guess who is able to back the 4-wheeler up to the hitch-thingie-ma-bob?

Daisy Mae.

Not me.

I decided it was time to do my fair share, so I told her that I would hitch the trailer back up.  And yes.  I just said "hitch."  Next time, I am totes wearing my flannel shirt.  It will make my husband swoon, I just know it.

So, I got the hitch all hitched up and told Daisy Mae to go ahead and pull the trailer back up the hill.

And the trailer promptly fell off the hitch.

Daisy Mae (*sighs patiently*):  Mom!  We've been through this.  You need to make the holes line up here.

Me:  Um . . . show me again?

Daisy Mae:  Oh, I'll just do it.  Step back.

And she did it.  And in about two months, I shall no longer have a purpose in this family.

But things are just so scary for me.

Driving 4-wheelers!

Sexing Rabbits! (that's not as naughty as it sounds)

Dealing with my arch-enemy, Tom!


I mean, I am really not cut out for this life.  There is a dead goldfish floating in a mason jar about ten feet from me right now.

And I am too scared to open it and flush it down the toilet.

It's been there for, oh, about two days.

Help!

In other exciting farm and ranch news, we are apparently getting an 8-week old kitten tonight.

Because that's exactly what we need.

More animals.