Why Did It Have To Be Snakes?

We have a problem in our yard. It slithers and is holding our front yard hostage. As in, every day for the past 5 days, it finds a spot to lie right in the middle of the front yard. Exactly whenever the bus lets Sweetgirl and company off.

And the first time we discovered this thing had taken up residence outside our abode, I was treated to the rare and delightful show of three screaming seven-year old girls each jumping two feet in the air. They proceeded to hop and scream for the 30 seconds it took them all to make their way to the back yard where the swing set is.

Because, surely, there are no snakes in the back yard!

And poor Sweetgirl has had nightmares about this dad gum thing every night since!

Not only is this creature terrorizing us in the daytime, it’s wreaking havoc at night, too.

I wish I were kidding.

Snakes. Why did it have to be snakes? I’ve watched my fair share of fish being gutted, bucks being skinned, and turkeys being plucked.

But snakes?

My palms are sweaty and shaky even as I type out the word!

I took to The Facebook today, to share my distress, with a picture, hoping someone would at least tell me it was a harmless kind. One neighbor jokingly informed me that this particular reptile is called a Scarus Wettus Pantsus. INDEED! My pantsus are wettus!!!

Snakes_Missindeedy

Thank you iPhone for zoom capability!

Today, in fact, I took a stroll through the front yard to the mail box. No sooner did I get halfway across than the blasted thing slithered right in front of me and stopped. As if to say, “Go around, or else!”

I went around.

Far FAr FAR around.

My nearest neighbor’s teenage daughter happened to come driving down the road at the same time as this catastrophe took place. She slowed as she came upon me hopping and screaming in my driveway.

I calmly walked over to HER yard and overstayed my welcome. I did, however, ask her to babysit for us. I’m pretty sure her answer will be no.

Here’s the thing, I come by my abhorrence of these scaly things by birth. The Nana… you have never seen someone as terrified of snakes as she is. Never. She’s been known to pass right out because one had the audacity to sneak up onscreen in the midst of some television show or movie.

So, back to my slithery misery… I braved Mr. Google and found that there are actually very few poisonous varieties of snakes up here in New England. Furthermore, I found that there are three distinct ways to determine whether a snake is a “pit viper”, AKA bad snake. (Although, are there any good snakes? I think not.)

  1. Does the thing’s head have a deep pit between the eye and the nostril? (I don’t know and I don’t intend to find out.)
  2. Is the pupil (the black part of its eye) vertically elliptical? (Again, I don’t know and I have no desire to get anywhere near that close. Also? If you can say vertically elliptical 5 times fast, you win the Internet!)
  3. (And this might be my favorite…) Do the scales on the underside of the tail go all the way across? (I can’t even. WHY WOULD I BE LOOKING UNDER THE TAIL? Why?)

Here’s another fun fact: If you are on a “snake watch” for an hour and a half to track its movements, that 2 minutes you have to visit tinkle town will be precisely when it chooses to slip away.

And then, YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE IT IS!!!!!!

So, in conclusion, I detest snakes.

 

I’m filing this one under Lessons. I’ve learned that I’d rather play “wettus pantsus” than “where’d the snake go?”

And, I might never leave my house again.

Bring Devil Dogs.

*Update since this post started! Another kind facebook friend said we should definitely find a way to “relocate” it (Can that be code for kill it, please?) or else it will raise a family in our yard.

And then, I died.*

Advertisements

They Want To Take Me Glamping

Sparkles wants me and the kids to join her when she takes the kids on her annual camping trip this summer.  I told her no.

Boy, that could be the shortest blog post ever.

But then, she recruited two of her friends that I think are the Awesome Sauce, to work on me, too.

I hemmed and hawed.  But, after a glass of wine, I said “Sure!”

The next morning, I regretted that decision.

Not the wine.

The agreeing to the camping.

You see, I am not a camper.  In fact, if anything, I think of myself as more of a glamper.

“What’s glamping?”, you ask?  Let me help you out here. According to Mr. Google,  glamping is “luxury camping.”

Like, this here.  Is this what you meant, Sparkles? Because if it is, then this is totally what I’m talkin’ about!

Glamping_ifitshipitshere

Right about now, Captain Ahab is spitting out his Dr. Pepper and exclaiming, “What the what?!  She is totally a camper!”

Nope.  I’m not.  I only pretended, Dad, because I loved spending time with you!  So there.  (Why, yes, I am 41.)

Anywho, Sparkles and Company convinced me that we would have So Much Fun because the kids would all entertain each other, and, nature! We’d only be a short walk to proper “facilities”, if you’re trackin’ me.  (I’ve determined that to be no more than 5 feet from my tent.) They also lured me with offers of hot coffee each morning and cold beverages each night.  One of these dears even promised that I wouldn’t have to set up my own tent. (And, for everyone involved’s sanity, I am totally holding her to that one.) And look, nature!

Throw in all the talk of smores, and you can easily see how I was sold.

Right?

So, sometime around the end of summer, I may or may not survive a camping trip that includes my two children, no husband, some friends, and a LOT of chocolate, marshmallows, and graham crackers. And adult beverages.

(Plus, I have three months to figure out how to rig a fan up without electricity, relearn how to fall asleep in a sleeping bag shaped like a cocoon, and develop a thing-a-ma-bob that emits a sound that only bears and coyotes and snakes and bugs and spiders can hear and not like, thus forcing them to go find another campsite to visit.  Easy peezy. I’ll keep you posted. )

Yes indeedy!