|Freckles, one of the evil, flying Muscovies.|
Good morning! Yes, it is TOTALLY true…every last friggin’ time I start getting all worked-up, freaked-out, bogged-down, or over-thinky about something, Life intervenes and reminds me of one, simple, solid fact; if I can’t find a way to laugh at myself, Life will find a way to let others do the pointing-and-laughing for me.
|Our yellow hen lookin' all|
laid-back in the sun.
Since we're overrun with water fowl on a piece of property lacking any water attractions, three times a day we fill random feed containers, two wading pools, and a handful of LARGE drinking buckets which the geese immediately kick over in their attempts to keep the ducks from sharing. *sigh*
|Roukia, our awesome|
I reached down to grab it, hips high in air, butt maybe-maybe-not swinging a teeny-tiny bit in time to the music, when the hairs on the back of my neck kinda stood on end like they do when something “isn’t quite right.” You know, that wonderful, left-over self-preservation instinct from our cave-dwelling Ancestors who needed it to alert them to unseen danger? Yeah, that.
I slowly stood up and began to turn around…just as a jacked-up, MONSTER 4X4 pick-up truck flew past. Maybe it was the broad smiles on the inhabitants’ faces or the way the face of the passenger was pressed up against the window. Or maybe it was the way said passenger was pointing. Whatever it was, something was definitely “off”.
As I wander off with my egg, contemplating the mysteries of passing motorists, I nonchalantly wiped the dirt from the egg-grab off my hand. Which would be about the time my under-used “light bulb” went off.
While I had been busy dumping MUDDY containers of water, emptying MUDDY wading pools and using a MUD-covered hose to refill all things wet and bird related, I had also been busy wiping the MUD and wet off my hands in the universal manner of “my-hands-are-dirty-so-I’ll-wipe-them-on-my-ass-because-it-is-SO-much-cleaner-than-my-hands-because-it-is-my-ASS”! (Did I happen to mention light-weight, WHITE pajama pants?) (And I refuse to comment on whether or not “commando” was in effect.) (I was doing laundry, OK? Don’t judge me!)
So all the while I was Zombie-shuffle-bouncing around, listening to age-inappropriate tuneage, feeling all sexy-like-Beyonce and stuff, in my one moment of doing something productive and picking up an egg, I ended up inadvertently quasi-mooning passing traffic with a twitching behind covered in skiddie-like mud smears.
And hubby wonders why I’m nervous about going in public without a “handler“ when I can embarrass myself this much at home? Yeah…
Yep. This IS the age-inappropriate song I was jammin' too. So whatdya think? Am I ready for So You Think You Can Dance?