We have a, um, situation with bunnies in our neck of the backwoods burbs.
There are TONS of them, and they breed like, well, like bunnies.
They aren’t shy about coming into yards, and they love a good planter for snacking.
They also eat grass. This made them the arch nemisis in the comic book-like tale of The Mr’s adventures in yard care.
It hasn’t been uncommon for him to drop off midsentance and go shooting out of whatever door is closest, waving his arms and shouting “GET OUT!! DAMN RABBITS!” when he spoted one of the furballs on the lawn.
His arsenal includes pepper spray (spray on plants, not at bun buns, we aren’t those people, ) and a vat of coyote pee the size of a pony keg, among other things.
He has been in the trenches against Bugs’ brethren like his life depended on defending every blade of grass.
Until last week. Then I got the picture above from him on my phone.
And another.
And another.
This is “Grayton” (according to The Mr,)
the little bunny who divides his time between our drain pipe and that infamous ugly bush in our front yard.
He is now my husband’s favorite topic.
First thing in the morning, The Mr goes to the front door an searches for the bunny.
Don’t know where my husband is? Try the front yard, he is probably watching Grayton snacking on the grass in the shade.
I caught him leaving a portion of carrot by the drain pipe.
😐
Stockholm syndrome much?
We are going to be running the G rated version of The Bunny Ranch by next year.
I need a lock for my produce drawer.
Happily Urban Me didn’t travel for work. She occasionally transported her VIP Boss to the airport while he took conference calls with the Sultan of Biggetty Bruhaha (or whatever, I MAY have that name wrong,) but other than that, hoofing it across campus to represent at the all staff council was my biggest work trip.
Reluctantly Suburban Me is also “Shockingly Corporate Me” who has to travel occasionally, and currently located 38000 ft in the air after 2 days at the main office (or Mothership as I like to call it – so I can say “They called me back to the Mothership for a few days,” because I am a super dork unique like that.)
It’s fine… it makes my Foursquare and Untappd check-ins more exciting, and I get to send pictures of ivy-covered brick buildings back to my parents with captions like “Look Ma, now you can say your daughter went to Harvard!” I can’t exactly say that sorting through email while lounging in a puffy hotel bed with a plate of room service fruit and cheese and a glass of wine super sucks or anything. That would be a pretty transparent lie.
But there are a few things that are less-than-awesomesauce about it both this time and in general:
(And The Mr…. and the world’s greatest puppy pants…. And my folks who tag team Jr. care with The Mr. while mommy “pahks the cah in Ha-vad yah-d” because it really DOES take a village to raise a Little Emperor Jr. Miss them all like crazy-crazy-cray.)
Until next time, Boston – Home again home again, jiggetty jig.
I don’t know if it really takes a village to raise a child, but it damn sure takes one to stain that child’s playset.
Just Sayin’.
Filed under Just Sayin'
Reluctantly Suburban 