squirrel momma

Victory Gardening

The one thing that stops Martha Stewart and I from being identical twins is that I totally and utterly despise gardening. I'm pretty much only interested in growing things that I can eat, and as far as edible plants go I'm usually too lazy to tackle anything besides herbs.

This year, however, I broke down and bought some patio tomatoes to stick in the planters on my front steps. These planters have had a long succession of short-lived greenery in them, and that, combined with fact that the planters may have once been situated in a cemetery (don't ask) made me think I should replace the dirt in them with fresh potting soil before I used them to grow food in. So I bought a bag of this:

Luckily I was able to bribe Nut Boy into helping me empty out the old soil and dump in our new sparkling fresh organic dirt, which the bag promised would feed and nourish our plants for 2 months. But as we spread this glorious mixture out we noticed it was lumpy. And had half-composted mysterious things in it. And it smelled...well...organic.  

I had to read the fine print on the back of the bag, but I finally discovered the magic ingredient: poultry litter. Which I'm guessing is a euphemism for chicken poop. And I guess I could let the smell get to me, let it annoy me as I go to check on the progress of my little tomato plants, but I'm going to roll with the punches.  As I bend over those planters every morning I'm going to take a big whiff, smile, and say, "Ahhh. Organic!"

Then I'll gag slightly and go back inside to my odorless sewing machine.

House Guest

Is that a dust bunny under that old dressing table?

Nope! It's Maggie the chinchilla, who came home from school to spend spring break with us.

She may look all sweet and innocent in this picture, but we had to take the drawers out of that desk because she kept crawling up the back and trying to push them out from the inside. Other than that, and the fact we have to bribe her with Cheerios to get her back in her cage, she's awfully cute and snuggly. Like a warm ball of angora yarn. Well, maybe a squirmy, hyper-caffeinated warm ball of angora yarn, but definitely snuggly.

And as an added bonus, she's dusted under all my furniture.

Gangland Squirrels

For the last several weeks an enormously fat, cocky squirrel has laid claim to the tree house in our backyard.  He is continually parading up and down the ladders, grooming himself on the peak, and chattering obscenities at my husband if he dares set foot anywhere near it.

You probably can't see it in this photo, but I'm pretty sure he's sticking his tongue out, maybe even making some sort of obscene jesture with his paw.  And now it has come to my attention that in January, nurses in the UK were attacked by squirrels leaping onto their heads.  At the time an officer told reporters, "There were two of them, but they don't seem to hunt in gangs." 

Hunt in gangs?  Since when is squirrel gang activity something we have to worry about?  Well, you can bet I'm going to be watching that guy very closely for signs of suspicious tattoos and ...and... whatever it is squirrels do when they join a gang.

Brrr

Just wanted to let you know that at 9:45 this morning my desktop widget says that it's -1 degree Fahrenheit out.  That's -18 degrees Celsius, folks.  By the end of this winter I'm going to look like this:

Remind me again how that global warming thing works?

Midnight Marauder II

First, a little backstory:  on Saturday night Squirrel Man crashed while downhill skiing, and is currently taking a little "vacation" at our local hospital, recovering from the first of two surgeries he'll need to put his knee back together again.

So last night I was the lone defender of hearth and home. And woke up to hear a noise coming from our attic.

I knew what it was, but I really didn't want to get out of my warm bed and venture up into the freezing cold, dark and dusty attic to take of it. But it kept up, scribble scrabble. Scribble scrabble. Scribble scrabble scribble.

As ignoring the sound wasn't exactly working, I hauled myself out of bed, turned the attic lights on and ventured up the stairs, pausing to bash my head on a low hanging rafter. It took a moment to locate it, but eventually I found the live trap Squirrel Man had set (and forgot to tell me about) before his accident. And guess who was back?

 

After what this fellow has put me through I felt no remorse whatsoever about hauling his furry little butt downstairs and taking his picture in front of the Christmas tree (and hey, if anybody wants to help me get that tree out to the curb just give me a jingle, because my hubby can't put any weight on his leg for three months).  I don't think he was smiling in the picture, but he was definitely happy when I set him free this morning, in a park a mile from our house.

So long, bud.

 

My Adoring Fan

It's hard, really hard, being so famous that crazed fans follow you around, never giving you a moment's privacy. There are days when I can't stand it, when I feel like giving it all up, unable to bear the sight of their eyes peering through the windows of my house.

But it's when they break into my home, hoping to steal a glimpse, or perhaps a momento, of Squirrel Momma, that I feel it has really gone too far.

Last night, at about 4 in the morning, Squirrel Man and I woke up to the sound of a large crash coming from downstairs. We both sat bolt upright in bed, and another, smaller crash soon followed. My husband grabbed a Maglite flashlight (the hefty steel favorite of patrol officers everywhere) and crept downstairs, me cowering close behind him.

We tiptoed from room to room, trying to figure out what had been knocked over while I secretly hoped that the intruder would escape outside before we actually found him. When Squirrel Man went down into the basement, the only place we hadn't searched, I slunk back into the living room, and that's when I stumbled upon our intruder.

He was fearless, cocky even. And, as he sat there watching me, I had to admit he was also kind of adorable. Everything from his soft chinchilla fur to his big black eyes said, "I just wanted to snuggle with you, Squirrel Momma!" 

Even though flying squirrels (yes, we don't get just ordinary squirrels in our living room, we get FLYING squirrels) are just about the cutest thing around, I knew I had to remain strong. If you show even the tiniest bit of friendliness to one of these critters, the next thing you know they and their 27 babies, uncles, and cousins have moved into your attic.

Out came the live trap. Out came the blanket. But after 15 minutes of following him from room to room (you know they're feeling no fear when they sit 5 feet from you, grooming their fur) it was a simple open door that sent him scurrying on his way, out into the night.

But he'll be back. They always come back.

(And no, I didn't take the photo. Taking pictures at 4 a.m. in near darkness is beyond my mental capabilities. This cutie comes courtesy of http://www.batguys.com/contact/NewHampshire.html.)

This Is How Much I Love My Children

This post comes with a warning.

WARNING:  Do not read if you are disgusted by insects.  Really.  If stories about bugs give you the creepy crawlies, put down your coffee, pick up the mouse and immediately head to one of the many other fine blogs out there (a tiny selection is in my sidebar--I actually read about 5 times that many, but I've been too lazy busy to add them all--apologies if you're not there!).

So.  Anybody still with me?  Okay.

I really am not afraid of insects, and like most of them.  I'll pick up spiders and carry them outside.  I'll buy praying mantis egg cases and hatch them for the kids (although there was that one summer I forgot I had one in a paper lunch sack in a corner of the kitchen and--oh, better not talk about that).  I'll hand feed our pet lizard his meal worms.

But even I have limits.  

We live in an old house, built in the 1920's, with a small tiled area right in front of our front door.  Unfortunately the foundation beneath the tile has a crack running through it, and if there is a heavy rain, and if the wind is blowing from the wrong direction, water can drip down through and onto my washing machine in the basement.  Nothing major, and easily prevented with a few towels thrown down until the rain stops.

So yesterday, cleaning up after a rainstorm the day before, I stepped out onto the tile in my bare feet and picked up the first soggy towel, shaking off stray leaves before bringing it inside.  But then I realized I was shaking these onto my bare feet.  DOZENS of them, scurrying around like little maniacs

So okay, I'll admit that I really, really wanted to shriek with horror, because all those roly-polies were, for some reason that made sense only to their tiny little bug brains, trying to swarm towards me and the house.  But at the same time several neighborhood kids were walking past our house on the sidewalk.  And I knew that if I screamed at the top of my lungs on my front steps while doing the chicken dance I would bring embarrassment upon my children that would last for years.  And take a lot of therapy to get over. 

So I sucked it up.  Stifling any urge to shriek and hyper-ventilating only slightly, I shook out the other two towels (yes, more roly-polies stampeding toward my defenseless toes), danced around to avoid stepping on them in my bare feet (ewww), and eventually went back inside.  Where I slammed the door.  And locked the deadbolt.

End of story.  Tomorrow I'll go back to good, clean, crafting fun.

Alfred

This morning Squirrel Man and Nut Boy discovered this guy in our back yard. He's an Eastern mole, and he appears to be not quite full grown yet--he's definitely been weaned, but looks much smaller than the moles I've seen around here before.

The hotel room he's in has seen plenty of visitors over the years--snails from a local lake, mice being relocated from our attic, praying mantises we hatched from an egg case to add to our garden.  Everybody is released back into the wild within 24 hours (except mammals, which have a 1 hour time limit, because I'm always afraid they're going to freak out and keel over).

We're pretty sure this guy was orphaned by a neighbor's quest for the perfect lawn.  He seemed happy enough, though, and gobbled up all of our pet lizard's extra mealworms.

After his breakfast it was time for him to be set free in a local park, where he'll have plenty of grass and woods to roam in.

Nut boy named him Alfred, a name which always reminds me of Batman's butler.  I guess right now little Alfred is tunneling down to the Batcave to see if Mr. Wayne needs the Batmobile waxed.

Swallow Tree

The red-rumped swallow tree has hatched!

And when the fledglings are ready to leave the nest, they'll look like this!