For a long time now, my son, Jeff, has referred to our house in Pauma Valley as “Funny Farm.” Chevy Chase once played the role of a farmer in a movie with the same name where very strange things happened on his farm, but the antics that take place on Atosana Drive in Pauma Valley definitely deliver just as much a punch as the fictitious ones in the movie! Jeff was reminded of that movie on his first few visits to OUR funny farm; therefore, he dubbed it with the nickname. (I suppose that makes me the female version of Chevy Chase’s character!)

When James and I first bought the house, unusual things happened that caused us to scratch our heads in puzzlement. Since neither one of us knows which end of tools to use or even which tools to use, we throw ourselves at the mercy of skilled tradesmen for household maintenance projects. We consider terms such as rake, saw, hoe, screwdriver, shovel and other such words as vocabulary from a foreign language! Why bother learning them? We’re never gonna need them anyway!! Same goes for algebra, but THAT’s another story!!

A flower bed in front of the garage held several red, pink and white petunias that provided much needed color in contrast to the brown adobe bricks and dark wooden garage door. But it ALSO had one reed-type plant that was always in motion, swaying back and forth. Always. Even when there was no breeze, the reed kept dancing to and fro. There was no exhaust vent nearby that would cause it and a thorough examination of the ground on either side of the driveway confirmed the absence of gophers which could have possibly been nibbling on the reed’s roots. Our flower bed just had a very happy reed planted there that liked to sway! Rusty noticed it too! The first time the dancing reed caught his attention, he came racing through the side gate at lightening speed. He rounded the corner near the flower bed, saw the reed moving, then jumped back in fear! He crept toward the plant, very cautiously, gingerly placing one paw in front of the other, nose forward trying to get a scent on what he must have thought was an animal. He finally determined that there was no imminent danger presented by the reed, so he peed on it and continued on his merry way over to Doggie Club. Problem solved. If Rusty blessed it, it must be o.k.

Fruit bats adopted the roof of our covered patio as a pseudo-cave, but it took me awhile to even notice they were there! I’d open the sliding door every morning to a blanket of what I thought were rat and mouse droppings! Several trips up to Grangetto’s Agricultural Supply Store in Valley Center for rodent traps were in vain! The morning offering of pellets continued to cover the patio! No matter what bait I used in the traps, those pesky rodents were never tempted! In Elmer Fudd-type fashion, I screamed in frustration, head raised to emphasize my emotion, when, with my eyes wide open during mid-scream, I discovered the source of the pellet droppings!

“Aaaauuuuuugggghhh!!! Those Wascally Wats!” I cried, replacing the Rs with Ws, mimicking Elmer Fudd. But when I saw the number of bats hanging from the patio beams, my cry of lament turned into a shriek of horror!

“AAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” All I could think of was Transylvania, vampires, Lon Chaney and Barnabas Collins from the old soap opera, Dark Shadows! I bolted back inside the house, slammed the sliding door shut, locked it and pulled the drapes shut, heart racing at a life-threatening rate!

Duane, up at Grangetto’s was more than happy to sell me a sonar device that emitted high-pitched tones only detectible by bats to mount in the corner of my patio cover. (“Stupid is as stupid does,” I guess, because I either had a swarm of deaf bats roosting in my patio or I was sold a worthless piece machinery!). The bats weren’t the least bit phased by my high-tech repellant!! I resorted to hanging several bags of moth balls and mylar strips from the beams. Don’t ask if that worked. I don’t want to admit that I’m still sweeping up vampire droppings!!

And so it goes. I’ve dealt with a nest of rats living in a box of my mother’s Beanie Babies that I’d been saving for MY grandchildren. I tenderly wrapped a blanket around the inside of the box, creating a soft, protective casing for the stuffed animals and placed the box on top of the refrigerator in the garage. I should have known that something was wrong when Rusty stopped, extended his head, nose pointed upward toward the box and whimpered —- every time he went through the garage. I ignored him, just like I always do! It wasn’t until I had to move the box that I discovered that the Beanie Babies had company! I pulled the box forward, attempting to lift it from the top of the refrigerator, but as soon as I did, the bottom fell out, exposing shreds of Beanie Babies plush fabric, loose Beanie Babies stuffing and at least 18 naked baby rats, eyes still closed! Mama Rat fell to the floor and scurried behind the big plastic tubs of Christmas decorations! I, too, fell to the floor but did not scurry anywhere! I was experiencing heart failure!

Remind me at some point to tell you about the skunk, the owl box that was rigged with fiber-optic cable so we could watch the birth of little baby owls and the rattle snake that slithered through the hedge by the pool. It’s always an adventure down here, proving once again that “It’s Just Not Easy Being ME!!!”

I will close this longer-than-intended email with just two more quips . . . about names of a couple of the skilled tradesmen whom I have called. My old PC was acting up, demanding more technical knowledge than I have, care to have or will EVER have! A friend referred a “computer geek” to me saying that he is a veritible wizard. I phoned the front gate to notify Security to allow him access into the neighborhood.

“Good Morning, Officer Burges. This is Peggy West on Atosana Drive. I’m just calling to let you know that I’ve got a computer guy coming this morning and I need you to let him in.”

“O.K., Mrs. West. No problem. What’s his name?” asked Tim Burges.

“Johnny Fu,” I answered.

“Could you spell that for me?” he asked.

“(pausing) . . . . um . . . . F – U,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t be offended by the innuendo.

“Oh. O.K. Got it!” he said, a sheepish smile evident in his response.

(I’m amused at that story every time I think of it!)

And . . . as long as we’re talking about names, my last little story happened to me just yesterday . . . with my plumber. I called my same friend who referred Johnny Fu, asking if she had a good plumber I could contact. She texted me a phone number. I called immediately as I had turned off all water coming into the house and I was desperate! Lucky for me, he was available and could rescue me!

“O.K., GREAT!” I confirmed, “give me your name and I’ll call the front gate!”

“Jose Cuervo,” he answered.

<“He’s GOT to be kidding, but . . . O.K.,” I thought. I’m more interested in fixing the shower today!>

Once again, I called Tim Burges, “Hey Tim,” I began, “this is Peggy West and I’ve got a plumber coming.”

“O.K., Mrs. West, what’s his name?” he asked, pencil in hand, ready to make a note.

“Ready?” I asked, “His name is Jose CUERVO!” I said, emphasizing the surname for effect.

“(silence). . . . Isn’t that a tequila?” he asked.

“Yes!” I answered with a giggle, “I don’t know if I should have a tequila sunrise or just wait for him!”

Jose arrived right on time and worked for most of the day . . . making me wonder if he were charging me by the minute or by the job! I didn’t really care, though. My showers were being repaired and I was getting a big kick out of texting my friends about the REAL Jose Cuervo in my house! Ole!!