Good grief Charlie Brown, what gives?

I would imagine that somewhere Snoopy is wondering what the heck is up.

And I have no earthly (or universe-y for that matter) idea why I’m even writing about Charlie Brown and Snoopy.  That is SO 40 years ago.   Or something like that.  A long time anyway.  I remember having a small Woodstock and a stuffed Snoopy in my collection.  Maybe in grade school.  And we all know how long ago that was.  And we are SO not going there this morning.

I have woken up with a humdinger of a migraine.  It is beyond me then why I felt the absolute need to write a post, right here, right now.  With my head pounding and my stomach doing triple salchows.  The Excedrin (I love me some Excedrin first thing in the morning.  Yay stomach ulcers.) hasn’t quite kicked in.  The coffee isn’t helping any.  All I want to do is crawl back under the covers in the dark bedroom.

But.  That. Isn’t. Going. To. Happen.

Someone needs to be the teacher.  Someone needs to be the Business Manager.  Someone needs to be the Merry Maid who cleans the rental house.  Someone needs to go be a veterinary acupuncturist.  And someone needs to mop the damn floors.

And that someone is–wait for it, wait for it–me.  Yep.  You guessed it.  Little ol’ me.  Not that I’m complaining mind you.  It’s just that on some mornings it all seems a bit much.  Like someone added the one tiny little piece of straw that will ultimately crush me.

In other news, as I try to distract myself from the bass drums in my head beating out a disgusting rhythm, we are sort of “thawing out.”  I can see grass (a bit) and LOTS of mud.  The road is once again, once again, a Slip ‘n Slide.  Good ol’ Bessie (the super fast, not-so-brand-new anymore, red Subaru) makes it to the highway in one piece but with mud all the way up into her innards.  She doesn’t let it stop her.  She just keeps on motoring along. Good ol’ Bessie.

Speaking of motoring along.  My Grams.  Holy moses but that woman is one tough bird.  I told her that on her 98th birthday (January 1st this year) and she laughed.  So now she’s 98 years and almost 3 months young.  She’s into Westerns now.  I think she may have finally seen the light as regards FAUX NEWS and it’s doom and gloom reporting.  Plus, the Donald disgusts her.  She told me so.  And she’s 98, she should know by now who’s got what it takes and who doesn’t.

Also still motoring along–Buck.  Our wonder dog.  We adopted him in July 2009 and at that time were told he was either 9 or 10 years old.  Do the math.  (My head hurts too much right now.)  He’s old.  And still bugging me for treats.  All damn day long.

We have red-winged blackbirds now.  They have the prettiest songs.  The mountain chickadees are trying valiantly to eat from the feeders that are being taken over by the flock of crows.  The dark-eyed juncos have shown up (they take over the chickadees nests when the chickadees head up mountain in the summer).  And, most disturbing of all, I saw a golden-mantled ground squirrel pop up in the backyard.  Funniest thing ever.  He popped up in a 3 foot high snowbank (not drifted, just the snowpack in the back yard), sat there about 30 seconds looking around at the sea of white and promptly dived back down the hole.  Went back to sleep?  These guys are supposedly “protected.”  Whatever the heck that means.  All I know is that they are certainly not in short supply around here.  They breed like rabbits.  They eat all the birdseed.  And they are not scared of a crazy lady running out to the bird feeders, yelling and shouting and exhorting them to leave the premises.  They just continue to pack their cheeks full of as much seed as they can, looking at the crazy lady insouciantly, just daring her to do something more than rant and rave.  And they live in the walls.  And the attic.  And when they get stuck there and do the death-throes dance it is damn annoying.  And then the smell.  So basically, seeing one now is just the harbinger of things to come.  Gophers, moles, voles, holes in my yard, disappearing flowers, mounds of dirt.  Yay.

But.  But.  Also, too, that means green grass and blue skies and Columbine flowers and hummingbirds (my true loves) and sunshine and warm breezes (sort of…don’t think Greek island, Mediterranean warm breezes…more like not quite frigid breezes, as in just above cold–it’s all relative here).  Spring is coming.

First though, a few more days of skiing.  Massive snow over there and we’ve got two more weeks before they close for the season.  At some moments I think it went too fast and at others this winter seems to be dragging on and on.

Babble, babble, babble.  Time to stop stalling and get to the math lesson.  And after that, the rest of it.  Just not the floors.  I’m not mopping the floors ’til the mud is gone.  Because truly, what’s the point?

(See how I didn’t bring in politics?  Yay me!!)

Blessings be.

About madranchwife

Mother, Mad Ranchwife(as in--at times-- crazy, nutso, loco, off-my-rocker insane), Veterinarian, Physical Therapist, "Liberal, pinko, gay-loving, Subaru-driving Socialist" (as I've been called), proud to be a totally tree-huggin', climate change believin', granola girl environmentalist, ObamaGirl, Pro-Choice (don't even get me started here...), and in my younger days a feminist vegetarian as a result of time spent at CU Boulder (this lasted approximately 14 months, until all the Jimmy Buffett I was listening to caused me to crave a cheeseburger). Now I just get pleasure out of swimming against the stream and ruffling a few feathers here in the wild west state of Wyoming!
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Good grief Charlie Brown, what gives?

  1. Tony says:

    Yes, you are truly blessed!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s