So you want to live in the country.

Every now and then I deviate from riding and general horsey posts to wax poetic spew gibberish about other things going on in my life. A sister-in-law intent on sharing the contents of her uterus? Thanksgiving "break"? Christmas Nazis? All in-depth topics that have been covered on PWS.

Today's rant is, I guess, not really a rant so much as a recap of what has been going on the past few days out in here in the sticks of Pennsylvania. Technically it's like a rant inside my head about how I'm slowly going fucking crazy.

Last weekend, Hubby had noticed that the top of his beehive was missing. It was ridiculously windy so he figured it had probably just blown off. This past Thursday, I was sitting on the porch typing my little fingers off in the sun when I heard a huge crack in the woods behind our house. The dogs, who usually ignore such things, went on high alert. Naturally I assumed that the bear that visited last summer had returned, so I did what any good redneck girl would do: I grabbed my gun and camera and went to explore.

Well, there was no bear to be seen, but what I did find was the beehive strewn about the yard.

Boxes and frames had been pulled into the woods, and most of the comb had been eaten. As it the sheer destruction wasn't enough of a clue as to who the culprit was, our little (at least I hope it's little) friend left a calling card:

"i eat your bees and shit in your lawn!"
way to be a dick, bear.

Despite setting out a game camera, the only evidence we've caught of this sneaky bastard is a sliver of a back leg. Oh, and the fact that frames keep getting pulled deeper and deeper into the woods. Way to be a greedy dick, bear. At least show your face!

The game camera leads us to the next part of my "If I don't move back to suburbia by the time I'm forty, I probably won't live much longer" saga.

although to be fair, the pair of nesting bald eagles down the road is pretty amazing.

The dogs were obviously out in the woods with us when we set the camera up Friday. When we got back into the house, I was like, "Someone's bleeding." Hubby and I both shrugged it off because, to be honest, someone is always bleeding in this house for one reason or another. The dogs ate their dinner and then passed out on their respective doggy beds (And by that I mean Pig went to sleep on the Lazy Boy and Darcy took the love seat. As if they would actually sleep on real dog beds. Please.).

When Hubby and I got ready to go upstairs to our own beds, Pig came limping over. She was clearly the source of blood this time, so I checked the pad of her foot assuming she'd cut it open somewhere in the woods. Nope. Further inspection found a pinky nail sized cut on the tip of her hock. It looked pretty deep, but it was barely bleeding so I threw a quick gauze and vet wrap bandage on it to keep it clean for the night and thought nothing more of it.

That is until I went to let the two of them out in the morning and noticed her hind end was covered in blood from where her constantly wagging tail had smeared it from the pool of blood leaking through the vet wrap. I cut the wrap off and found that the little wound had split open even more overnight and was looking pretty nasty.

Is the local vet open weekends? No. Could my old vet from before we moved get her in? No. I was forced to call Bobby's vet who costs approximately ten million dollars more to do anything than any other vet on the planet, and of course they were able to get her an appointment right away. Two stitches, a fresh bandage, and a big bottle of antibiotics later, Pig was good to go.

piglet does not do stall rest. 

Alright. We're on the lookout for rogue wildlife. The dog's profuse bleeding has been taken care of. The bank account has been drained until Friday thanks to the dog's profuse bleeding. Let's make some fucking dinner and call it a night.

Hubby shooed the blackbird out of the barbecue where it had been building a nest and fired up some hamburgers. I got the electric fryer out to make some homemade french fries. While the oil heated up, I hung out with Hubby on the porch enjoying the awesome weather. I quickly dropped the potatoes in before heading back out. When the cheese was ready to go on the burgers, I went back inside to set the table and check the fries only to find the fucking Valdez oil spill in our kitchen.

Someone (that'd be me) had forgotten to put the cap on the nozzle where the oil drains, so the seal didn't hold like it's supposed to causing a gallon of peanut oil to dribble down into the washer (because we have zero counter space in our massive kitchen) and all over the floor. We ate dinner and spent an hour wiping up oil and mopping the floor.

Messy, but doable, right? Well, maybe right except for the fact that I forget to get the oil out of the washer before throwing a load of laundry in this morning. The clothes came out smelly and greasy, and I was like, "Huh?" before remembering what had happened.

So I dumped a cup of bleach and another cap of laundry soap in the empty washer, and I set it to run while I went and rode my horse. When I got back, I threw the damp, slimy clothes in for round two. My ride wasn't great, and while I was beyond excited to get my box of chocolate in the mail from Lauren (thank you, Lauren!!), I'm still not sure my underwear doesn't smell like fried chicken.