quaint vignettes from my charming rural idyll

Oh, you know what? forget about that. I'm here.

My new furniture is here and it looks GOOD!
Behold the goodness of my new furniture:
this small living room comprises the original cabin-sized house, which was added on to over the years.

my squat...i always think of that old Marantz speaker ad when I sit here


The gladdest moment of my career as a housewife was saying sayo fucking nara to the old stuff. Is this pathetic? I do not care. I genuinely enjoyed watching those disgusting floral atrocities sail off the back of the truck. My only regret? The recycle center frowns on patrons setting things on fire once they are in the crusher.
Oh yes indeed. I am officially a grown woman. My furniture MATCHES!!!!!!!!!!!!
__________________________________________________


I recently pulled the washer and dryer out of my utility room (not nearly as well apointed as Ms. Betty's, I feel certain) and set to work spring cleaning. One job rapidly turned into about seven. Right off the bat the flexible dryer vent just fell apart into a pile of flakes and wires. No problem...I ran in to Lynden and bought a christian one from the hardware store.
Then I dusted and swept and washed down the walls and floor. Noticing I had some wear spots in the paint, I leaped happily like a big happy leaping thing to where I stash the interior paint, under the kitchen sink (I like to touch up the walls every so often. Yes I'm a little obsessed.)Yay! paint! I love paint! I love to paint! I have an excuse to paint!

It had frozen over the winter. Nothing but a gallon-sized chunk of white guck with a bunch of clear crap all floating around on the top of it.
Same story out in the garage. ALL the house paint had frozen over the winter.
I now have five damn gallons of what a few months back was perfectly good paint out waiting to go to the recycle. PLUS I had to trip on back into Lynden and buy a christian gallon from the Do-It center.
Fuckin' buzzkill.
_______________________________________________________

At the end of March the eagles are all laying eggs and hatching young destined to carry on the fine eagle tradition of standing around. Mr. and Ms. Mallard duck have vacated the back yard, and the seasonal lakefront we enjoy here at ranchoFirstNations has gradually receded, allowing the septic drainfield to function more or less normally again. The herons are no longer seen fishing behind the garage...and the swans have gone on to wherever swans go to when they aren't here. Now what we have in droves are starlings, house sparrows and robins.

Unlike their cute little British counterparts, the American robin is a thrush. They leave in the fall so fat and round and full of blueberries that they're just barely aerodynamic. They arrive in February slim from migration and ready to kick ass. The males pick a likely nesting range and suddenly whammo- they're stupid with testosterone.
If only a fraction of this aggression was spent in finding a mate or learning to read we'd be tit deep in robins with magazine subscriptions. But instead the male robin devotes his first week and a half back home to kicking other male robin ass. Any male robin. Including themselves.
It's true. They'll attack their own reflection in a glass window, not once or twice but until they flutter to the the ground and lie on their sides, panting with fatigue. If the neibors cats don't get them at that point, once rested they regain their origional determination to drive away the evil, evil reflection robin and start all over again. We have had them attacking the side mirrors on the truck, chrome car bumpers, and the shiny interior of a coffee can my husband had placed on it's side in the grass.

In comparison the male house sparrow is a mellow little guy. He'll chase another male rival off, but mainly he just perches on shit and chirps.
This sweet song consists of one note emitted with the aid of a battery powered police loud hailer:

CHIRP

about a hundred and fifty six times in succession.
Apparently the female house sparrow finds this impossible to resist. Once she has selected a mate the two of them will spend the rest of the season and on into the early part of the fall raising successive nests full of young, picking at invisible things, and rolling in a frenzied, feathered ball of orgiastic sparrow coitus on my front lawn.

Nature is beautiful.
__________________________________________
...this one's gross.
Last week a former workmate of the Bikers' showed up at the door , pale as a ghost. The police had just released him.
He had gone down to the plant to pick up something he'd left there by accident.
And found his boss-my husband's former boss-lying on the floor in a pool of blood and fluids feebly trying to pull a screwnail out of the top of his head.

Oh yes.

Suicide with a nailgun is a less than optimum method by which to effect ones' own demise, turns out. Particularly if at the last moment you lose the courage of your convictions and your hand wavers.
And particular if the loads are meant to drive a much smaller projectile.

This particular nailgun was loaded with framing gauge nails. Since it was used to assemble pallets out of dunnage, in order to avoid blowing the nails straight on through the wood the percussion strip was the one you're supposed to use with smaller fasteners.
His skull stopped the head from penetrating.
He was awake when they found him. With his hair full of brain matter. Obviously regretting his decision.

Now why this man, in a country that allows private gun ownership, chose to do himself in with a fucking nail gun is a mystery. Also a mystery is why he chose to do himself on the mill floor. That he was trying to do himself is beyond question. The nailgun was still in his other hand, still pointed up underneath his jaw.

On the other hand, the guy who found him is now the plant manager.
You have never seen a guy less enthused about getting a raise.