YOU KNOW HOW THEY SAY, “sometimes you’re the bird, and sometimes you’re the worm”? Or  “sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug.”?

Well today, I was this duck.

I mean, I had two legs just like the rest of them…but I just didn’t fit in.

I was a bird of a different color. A misfit. An outcast.

Plus my hair looked a bit, well, ruffled.

I can’t help it – there’s a lot going on in this crazy little head of mine and the chaos was bound to come spewing out when I least expected it. I shouldn’t bottle things in and try to deal with them on my own in the first place, but I do. Because I hate burdening others with my petty drama. Because I hate feeling like a failure. Because I’m scared to say things that may upset others. Because I’m a people pleaser. There are a thousand reasons why I didn’t share what I was thinking and had a bit of a breakdown today because of it.

So I did the first thing I could think of and told Ashley that she was hanging out with me tonight. Aspen was excited to see me, and that helped.

Ashley asked what we wanted to do  – our friend Megan was with us and the first thing I could think of was, “let’s go feed some ducks”.

Once we found out that only the carp wanted our food, Aspen started eating the cereal herself instead.

And I started trying to text/tweet/take photos on my phone.

As we were leaving, disappointed and craving food ourselves, Ashley spotted a group of rather hungry looking birds.

We fed them for a few minutes, Aspen chucking handfuls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch (or was it Fiber One?) out the window and eating a few in-between while I leaned half out the window and contemplated that duck. Was he really a loner? Did the other ducks notice his appearance? Did he notice his appearance?

For some stupid reason, I thought about that duck all night. I felt bad for the duck. I pitied him. I was mad that the other ducks alienated him and didn’t let him play in their ducky games. I was mad that they probably said mean things behind his back and didn’t like his hair-do.

As the night wound down, I did something I wouldn’t normally do. Ash was tired, Aspen was begging me to, and I was sore and stressed so I got into the tub with my niece. (Relax. She’s only two. She won’t remember.) As I was getting ready to get in she pointed at me and screamed “BOOBS!!!” at the top of her lungs, and I hesitated.

Not because I was embarrassed – although I was a bit – no. I hesitated because I felt like that damn duck again, singled out. Why couldn’t I stop thinking about the duck!?

“Come in Auwbrey!” She called. I spent the majority of twenty minutes wracking my brain for any songs that I remembered from my Child Care class, and I realized I was doing it again. There I sat…fully grown, in a tub, trying to impress someone. Trying to impress a two year old.

You wanna know what impressed her the most?

Cold water.

She just wanted me to pour a cup of cold water on her head. Nothing fancy, nothing complicated. She didn’t expect much from me, but she loved me just the same. And you know what I learned? Suddenly it’s not so bad being this duck. I am unique, I am my own color. I can fit in if I want to or stand out if I don’t.

As for the real duck? Well I named him Harold, and I think him and I are going to be just fine.

A PACKAGE WAS WAITING FOR ME ON MY PORCH TODAY WHEN I GOT HOME.

But I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t Ramen.

There were three little jars.

And a note.

It reads:

Aub –

Aftermath of an elk abortion : ) One is an antelope. Read on the lids.

Don’t want them back.

Best Gram

You read that right. In the jars, preserved and floating around in alcohol were three tiny animal babies. I know I blog about Grams a lot – the one that I live with. But my dad’s mom should also get some recognition. The conversations I have with her are hilarious and always worthy of their own separate posts. We butter each other up and tell each other that we’re the best and we’re each others’ favorites. (Which we pretty much are).

But the conversation we had last Saturday takes the cake. It was one of those rare moments when I wasn’t with Kevin – which means I was a lost puppy and wandered over to my moms house for comfort.

And to eat her food.

Which in turn makes Machelle mad and makes both Mom and Dad tell her how I’m a guest in their house and can eat all the Doritos I want.

And I do.

So I’m sitting there stuffing my face and gloating in Machelle’s general direction when “Grandma B” shows up. And I don’t know what got us talking about it, but she brought up the fact that she put in for a Moose tag this season.

“I didn’t know you hunt!!” I blabbed.

“Oh of course I hunt, I even have a baby elk that I preserved in alcohol from one of the first elks I shot.”

“Grandma, that’s gross. That’s blog worthy!! I’m going to come to your house and photograph it and post it on my blog. “

But she trumped me. “I’ll give it to you! I’ll leave it on your porch. So if you ever see a little freaky, dead thing in a jar on your steps just know it’s from me. Treasure it – I’ve spent many years freaking people out with that.”

And I can see why.

They have ribs.

They have creepy caved-in heads. And the top of this jar said it was from ’89 – which means it’s been dead for as long as I’ve been alive.

And this baby elk has hooves and a mouth.

But the oddest of the bunch has to be the antelope.

It was just so developed. from the split hooves to the lungs, ribs, eyes right to the tiny little tail. Now before you think my Grandma B is some heartless baby mammal killer, you should know she had a permit to kill these animals, which means that the babies would have died regardless of if she’d have kept them or not. And you should also know that they used the meat for steaks and it didn’t go to waste.

But they’re still creepy.

After I took some photos I ran the box upstairs and showed Grams. Her reaction was along the lines of, “what the hell!?” and “there’s the garbage outside”.

But I’m not throwing them out. They are a family heirloom that will be scaring kids for generations to come.

Thank you Grandma B.

PS I claim your buffalo head you have hanging on your wall.

Just kidding.

I don’t think I could sleep with that in my house.

THIS IS CHIP, my two year old Fancy Russian Dwarf Hamster. He loves sunflower seeds, his hamster wheel and biting people. You see, Chip has Little Hamster syndrome, like Little Dog syndrome or Short Man syndrome, just on a smaller scale.

Chip thinks he can take on anyone, anything at anytime.

Wanna know what bugs Chip other than putting your hand in his cage? When you take out his wheel. He is exactly like me and has to always be in motion.

“AUBREY, DON’T BREED THAT RABBIT. I DON’T THINK YOU SHOULD BE RAISING RABBITS IN THE BACKYARD” click.

Grams, the one and only Grams, had went from being the first to say, “catch it and breed it” to something along the lines of  “I’ll take you off the will if you do”. There are ups and downs to living with someone that I believe to be bipolar my friends, ups and downs (did I just crack a joke? I think I did. . .)

I felt heartbroken with my desire for tiny, soft cuddly baby rabbits, also called “kits”, and I began to question my desire to even catch the female in the first place. Let the dang thing eat my tomatoes. I hope it goes back home, so I don’t have to chose between dumping it on mom, or the humane society. Either way, Nameless is my responsibility now.

One and a half tomato plants down, six more to go. I was running out of time and options. So far, Nameless had resisted arrest, defiled AubMo property, and stolen the heart of my main man – in rabbit form that is. She had to be dealt with. I found a fishing net at my parents house and set up my strategy. It might take a day or two, but Nameless was not going to win this one.My lucky break was after work, when I was able to sidle up close, corral her into a pen and drop the net on her. I was so excited that I almost let her get away.

On first glance, Nameless appeared to be a mottled black and gray Netherland Dwarf mix breed. A little on the thin side, but not unhealthy. First thing I did was a thorough inspection. (Random fact: Have you ever flipped a rabbit on it’s back? Did you know they go into a trance? Try it sometime. Just remember to cover their eyes first. Chickens do this same thing.) She was definitely a female, but it was hard to tell her true health from under all that fur. The children that had owned her before (using that term very loosely) had placed a tiny red cat collar around her neck. Pet Owning Mistake Number 1 – you never collar any pet that you let wander outside, especially a rabbit. They are children, so they are forgiven.

After taking that off, I started combing her. It was a slow process, because the brush was only getting little tufts here, a wisp of fur there. Not very effective. After a few good tussles with the comb I realize  – she’s not gray at all. She’s coal black. Black as pitch. Black as the night without the city lights and the stars. The gray was all the dead, clumped fur that she wasn’t able to reach and pull off, so I had to give her a hand. Want to know what “a lot of hair” off of a rabbit looks like?

That’s what a lot of fur looks like – of the fur I could manage to keep from sticking to my pant leg, my shirts and even my face anyway.

Here is the comb for a comparison. Still don’t believe how massive this pile of fur is?

That is my foot – size 8 1/2 and not at all dainty or little. Please don’t mind the absence of nail polish. I had the polish in my hand earlier, cap undone and ready to paint,  and I got lazy and changed my mind. It’s an Aubrey thing.

To recap, the before:

After a mani/pedi, wet hand bath, and serious plucking of the fur:

See? Black. Blackity black black black.

Shiny little blacky. As dark as the bottom of my heart. Okay, I think you get it. Seriously. Don’t listen to me.

And just for your amusement. . .I apparently own deamons. I honestly don’t know what that blob of light is. A ghost? An apparition? Wayward streetlight? Help me here. Apologies for the drab and dreariness of this photo – apparently the rabbit didn’t get the memo that she needed to be caught, cleaned and in her cage by curfew in order for me to get pictures in good lighting.

Rabbits. They never learn, do they?