Thursday, October 31, 2013

Snakes. I don't like them.

If you don't live in the middle of nowhere, you may not be aware that deer and other wildlife have trails; certain paths that they follow, to water or possibly gatherings where they plot my demise.

I am beginning to think snakes also have trails, and that my house must sit right in their path.  Or the other animals elected snakes as their assassins.  I really don't know much about snakes.  I do know that I don't like them, and I REALLY don't like them in my house.

About 10 years ago I (briefly) rented the house that we bought last year.  At that time I was the single parent of two boys.  The baby woke me up and I stumbled into the kitchen for a bottle.  In my defense, it was dark, and I was mostly still asleep.  So I saw what my brain registered as a really stretched out ponytail holder on the floor, and I (stupidly) reached down to get it.  The fucker moved and I woke all the way up pretty quick.  It was about a 4 foot long black snake.  In my kitchen.  Luckily for me, its head was caught in a mousetrap, so it didn't really have a lot of options.  I called my mom and she appeared magically, as she is wont to do in my times of need, wearing boots and bearing a shovel.

Then I moved.  Like, fucking immediately.

Fast forward 10 years, and we (stupidly) bought this house.  Last fall we had approximately three unwelcome guests.  Baby copperheads.  In my fucking house. 

After I finished having a nervous breakdown, I liberally applied glue traps all over the house.  I made my husband pull up all the trim, even though we had remodeled before we moved in, and fill up every hole we could find.  I work from home, and for a time I sat at my desk inside a circle of glue boards so that nothing could get me. 

Now it is fall again, and apparently this is snake baby-time.  Two weeks ago I was laying on the couch when my four-year-old walked up and asked, "What is that?" pointing at a spot in the floor between us.  "That" was a snake stuck to a glue trap.  She may have learned a new word that day.  This snake was dead already and my husband wasn't home, so I called on my Super Mother Powers and somehow got the damn thing out to the porch.  Where I completely lost my shit and began beating the glue trap, sticky side and snake side down, on my porch.  I did this until I couldn't lift my arms anymore.  It's still there.  Glue traps are very sticky.

Last night it was raining and sometimes when it rains we have a leaky spot behind the T.V.  So right before bed I went to have a look, just in case.  This is what I saw:

                                                      Are you fucking kidding me?

So, I did what anyone would do.  I called my mom again.  This time the snake was still alive and, though well and thoroughly stuck, was trying to strike.  We managed to get it outside, which was really hard because I refused to let my feet touch the floor and had to climb on furniture all the way through the house. 

After we took care of that bastard, I convinced myself that there were no more because my glue trap defense is working perfectly.  Then I put out every glue board I had (about 12).  There are probably close to 50 glue boards hidden all over my house at this point.  Even I don't know where they all are.

I'm concerned.  Fall is just beginning, and we've already had two invaders.  I need more glue traps, and maybe some fire. 

I think there is an animal conspiracy.  I believe the squirrels started it, and they've coordinated the whole mess.  They want me gone.  This could get really ugly.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

I feel like I should warn you...

Not really.  My Grandma feels like I should warn you.  I am just not that kind of person.

Here's the deal.  I live waaaaay out in the woods.  My best friend, who's been coming here since second grade, still gets lost.  My husband draws maps for people we like. 

Anyway.  The road that goes by my house is marked at both ends with big signs that say things like, "TURN BACK" and "WE ARE HEAVILY ARMED AND SLIGHTLY INSANE."  Or maybe they just say "Private Drive."  Whatever.  So regardless of the implied threat and the lack of paved road, people are always cutting through my damn yard. 

Recently, the county came out and, in a really impressive amount of time, built a whole new road about 10 feet away from the old one.  This was good, because presumably people would use the new road and I could stop worrying about getting outside in time to yell and throw things at trespassers.

The "problem" is that they cut my driveway off.  (This is not a problem for me.  As I may have mentioned before, Private Drive.  Now it's super private - even I can't drive on it.) 

So, they cut my driveway off.  What used to be my driveway is now about a four foot drop off into an embankment which then turns into the new road.  Not a problem.  For me.  However, somehow the trespassers innocent people just driving along are MISSING the new road.  Just scootin' right on by it.  To my driveway.  Which no longer exists.

My grandma wants me to put up signs.  I am thinking: 

1. Possibly the road people should've thought of that?

2. I don't need signs, because these idiots are only gonna have to go through here once before they figure it out, right? 

3. If they ignored my "VICIOUS ZOMBIE DOGS WILL EAT YOUR FACE OFF" signs, they probably just can't read.

I don't know.  I'm still debating.  I could build a fence, but at the rate these fuckers are going they'd just drive right through it.  What do you think?  Is it my responsibility to protect illiterate and possibly drunk trespassers from themselves?  Do I need a sign?  And if so, what is a compelling message?  Maybe it should just be a picture. 

Monday, October 28, 2013

The Speakeasy #133 - Trick or....treat?

I pulled the door shut behind me and repeated, "Remember!  Don't eat any candy until I check it out!”  The kids were too excited to talk back and skipped down the street ahead of me.  I followed more slowly, making sure I had the flashlight and my cell phone.  It was just starting to get dark as I caught up to them, my little ghouls and goblins.  The tiniest ghost immediately started tugging me towards a neighbor’s house.  "No porch light, no trick or treat, kiddo.  If they don't have the light on it means they don't have any candy." 
Undaunted, we continued walking.  By the time we had reached the end of the street, we'd not seen one house welcoming us, no warm yellow light, no doors opening with bowls full of treats.  And no other trick or treaters.  I wondered if we were out too early, but it was almost dark, and a school night at that. 
"Come on, guys, let's walk up to the square.  They're doing Trunk or Treat."  (Thinking to myself, if nothing else I'll get a coffee out of this deal.)
As we approached the town square, I was glad to see cars parked with the trunks open and what looked like Halloween decorations peeking out.  Good.  We could fill up our buckets here, and be back home in no time. 
We got closer, the kids chattering excitedly, me answering them distractedly.  Something was wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it.  Where....where were the people?  The other kids?  Who was giving out candy?  The only sound I could hear was a leaf, skittering across the parking lot.  Even my children had fallen silent and were holding hands.  Main Street was like a ghost town, except for one lit storefront.  The coffee shop.  Well, maybe everyone gathered there, I thought.  Maybe.  I reached for the small hand nearest me, and started walking.  As we passed the cars I noted how realistic the trunk decorations seemed I could even smell the iron tang of the blood and, now that we were closer, hear it drip steadily off a bumper.  How did they manage that, I mused? 

I was practically dragging the children along with me now, I was so anxious to get into the light, to see people and figure out what in the world was going on.  I pulled open the door to the coffee shop, greeted as always by the cheery ring of the hanging bells, but instead of the smell of coffee beans and cinnamon rolls, we were assaulted by the stench of death.  "Oh god!”  I cried, covering my nose and gagging, as the kids whimpered next to me.  My friends and neighbors had indeed gathered here.  But as they sat around in the comfortable chairs at the low tables, they had become the treats.  I watched horrified as tiny witches and princesses and super heroes gnawed hungrily on people I had known.  As the hollow eyes and blood-smeared faces of costumed children turned our way, I tried to push my kids out the door behind me, whispering to them to run, to get away.  That's when I screamed and looked down into the face of my tiniest ghost, just as his teeth pierced my flesh. 

****This is a submission for a short fiction contest.   In case you were wondering.  None of that actually happened. 
Anyway, I read some great stories here last week and decided to try my hand this time.  Because, prizes.  Thanks to for the link to the Speakeasy.



Sunday, October 27, 2013

If you need me, I'll be in my shell.

I feel like this turtle today.  Except some slightly drunk people in canoes helped this guy out, and so far today I'm not seeing any drunk people.  Or canoes.  Dammit.  Where is karma when you need that bitch?

Friday, October 25, 2013

What? It still kind of seems like a good idea.

Conversation with Gus about glue traps:

*It might be helpful to know that the glue trap in question here is stuck facedown on my porch with a dead snake presumably still stuck on the other side.  Long story.  Suffice to say, I don't like snakes in the house, and I make questionable decisions when under pressure.

Me:  It's rained so much, we might be able to get that glue trap up.  But there's still a snake under there, so...

Gus:  That thing is never coming up.  I suggest we just paint over it.

Me:  Hm. (Not thrilled.)

Gus:  We could just staple glue traps up, sticky side out, all over the outside of the house.  Paper the house in glue traps.

Me:  OH MY GOD! That would be good for spiders, snakes, ZOMBIES.....

Gus:  (laughing)  That was a joke. 

Me:   ....bees, Jehovah's Witnesses....this is brilliant.

Gus:  We're not doing that.  You know that, right?

Me:  Hm.  (Not making any promises, mister.)


Me:  I decided that you are right.  We shouldn't cover the outside of the house with glue.

Gus:  Uh, yeah, I thought we already decided that. 

Me: (closing the cabinet door so he can see the glue trap taped to the door, and the bowl stuck on it, hanging in the air.)  No, we didn't decide anything, but I'm a reasonable person.  I've thought about it, and it's a bad idea.  (bowl hanging next to my face.)

Gus:  Reasonable!?  It's not "reasonable" when you only agree with yourself!

Me:  Hm. 

Monday, October 21, 2013

It's a disinfectant kind of day.

It's not even noon and I've been covered in a small human's urine twice already.

This is motherhood, people.  Think on it.

I've got to go clean up after my cat, who has apparently decided that her litter box may only be used one time before she has to go in the floor to teach me a lesson.

If Cleanliness is next to Godliness, then I am currently living in the Devil's asshole. 

Saturday, October 19, 2013

I can give the bird left handed, so there.

Oh Chronic Pain, you evil, sneaking, rotten bitch, how I loathe you.  My dinner sits uneaten because I can't use my right hand.  What fresh hell is this? 

It's not enough that my bones hate me and plague me with random deep agonies Every. Single. Day? 

It's not enough that my skin burns for unknown reasons and requires me to put ice packs on my feet to fall asleep on those nights that I don't have to immerse the bitches in boiling water to make my skin stop crawling? 

It's not enough that I lose at least a week out of every month lying in a darkened room, hoping someone will just shoot me or that my head will finally spontaneously combust? 
Chronic Pain, you miserable slut, is it too much to ask for you to just pick one part of my body to torment? 

*Please note that I realize there are worse things I could be saddled with, I am sincerely grateful for all that I have, and none of this shit I've got is going to kill me.  So everybody just calm the fuck down.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

She got that class from her mother.

So my daughter is 4.  She occasionally does stuff and I'm like, What The Fuck?  Where did that come from? 

Because, although you couldn't tell it by my blog, we're actually pretty strict parents.  Anyway.

She's started doing this thing where she wiggles her butt and sings "shake it, baby."  It's a little disconcerting.  I could not think where she might have seen this.

Then I turned on my cleaning music today, and started shaking it.  Yep.

I think knowing all the words to California Love at just four years old shows great memorization and lyrical skills.  Not to mention all the exercise she gets "shakin it."

For anyone unfortunate enough to not be hip to the 90s rap, here you are, and you're welcome. 

Monday, October 14, 2013

Limit four.

It turns out that the number of humans I am capable of keeping in some semblance of order is four.  That's unfortunate, because after my three children and my husband, I make five. 

This means that while my daughter went to school freshly bathed and brushed and wearing matching clothes, I worked in my pjs until about 15 minutes before I had to leave the house. 

That was when I realized that although I had showered within the last week, I could not remember the last time I had attempted to brush my hair.  Which is long.  And thick.  And now partially in dreads.  Actually, that should be singular.  A dread.  I have one nappy snarled twisted mess right smack-ass in the middle of my hair. 

My husband is now referring to me as Marley.  I'm not sure what the next step should be here, other than maybe hiding all his socks.  (Oh, wait, I already did that.  Ha.) 

But seriously, I was under the impression that people cultivated dreadlocks, not that they just appeared if you maybe slacked off on personal hygiene for a few minutes months. 

Clearly it is time for a new goal.   Actually, goals, while I'm at it.

1.  Stop eating so much damn pity pie.  Pity pie is NOT your friend.
2.  Brush your goddamn hair, you dirty hippie.
3.  Fuck it, that's enough.  Those are pretty lofty goals; I'm worn out and a little hungry already.

Friday, October 11, 2013

Voicemail blows and I just realized I'm not sure what century it is.

I am starting a movement, and I expect my readers to get behind me on this (all 12 of you). 

We are living in the 21st century (I think.  21st?  Does that sound right?  Whatever.)  Voicemails are old fucking news.  Effective immediately, we should all start completely ignoring them.  I'm a little ahead of the rest of you on this, but that's because I got a pretty good head start (about 5 years). 

Seriously.  No one ever leaves a chipper voicemail.  It's all cranky bullshit, like "Call me back.  Click." or "Please return my call."  Fuck that.  I don't need that kind of negativity in my life.   Occasionally my husband will just leave fart noises, but that's really as good as it gets. 

If you call me and I don't answer, I can pretty much guarantee that there is a reason.  Maybe I don't feel like talking.  Maybe I don't have cell service.  Maybe a purse monster ate my phone.  Maybe I'm in the bathroom.  Maybe I don't like you, or I'm having one of those days where I hate everyone, including myself.  The possibilities are endless, really. 

Anyway, leaving me 15 voicemails, each pissier (how can that not be a word?) than the last is NOT going to make me return your call. 

I have caller ID.  We all do. 

For fuck's sake, if it's that important send me a text.  Or a pigeon.  I would totally reply by messenger bird.

Okay, enough ranting.  Now planning. 

So, I hope you will all join me in my crusade to rid the world of this great evil, this guilt-inducing, joy-sucking government plot, this heinous OUTRAGE, The Voicemail.  (It even sounds bad.  Like blackmail.  Voicemail. Blackmail.  See?  I'm doing this for all of us.)

Monday, October 7, 2013

I need to borrow a mongoose. Immediately.

Initially, I thought honey badger, because as we all know, honey badgers don't give a fuck. 

But apparently they are illegal in the U.S. or some shit; although, whoever is in charge of stopping me from smuggling in non-fuck-giving animals is probably out of a job right now, so I bet I could pull it off. 

I'm kind of scared though.  After thinking about it (you're welcome, Gus) I decided that a honey badger in the house might be more scary than a snake.  Or snakes.  Which is what we currently have.

Goddammit!  I live in the country because I don't like people.  I did NOT issue an open invitation to anything poisonous, scaly, creepy, slithery, or slimy.  Basically, unless you are a dragon or a cat, you are not welcome here. 

And the cat is fast wearing out her welcome.  I'd like to know just what the FUCK she is doing when she's dashing all about the house like she's got super important shit to do, when I'm on the couch and a snake can just blatantly slither up to me.  Where was LeeLoo The Vicious Moth Killer and Protector of the Realm then, huh?  Sitting on her ASS.  Much like when a lizard got in my bedroom, and she PURPOSELY ignored my cries for help.

I don't know.  I'm being overrun by nature's most disgusting creatures right now.  I need some tips, or to borrow a mongoose.

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

There's an app for that....

As you know, assuming you've been reading this blog religiously, as you should be, I have been going through some dietary changes.  I'm going to refer to this as the Foodpocalypse.  Because it fucking sucks and, also, because I can.

Anyway.  I've been looking at apps on my phone to help me determine just what the fuck is in the food I eat, in an effort to stay alive and not be so damn hungry.

In my app search I have NOT found anything useful.  I have found some very disturbing apps which I am going to list here, because I am bored good at sharing.

1.  Massager.  By Hooha.  I don't think I need to explain this one.

2.  How To Get Pregnant (Here's a tip, if you're using your phone on your hooha, you're doing it wrong.)

3.  Am I Fat?  Seriously?  You need an app for that?

4.  App of Death "The test performed does not indicate that you'll's just a prediction....stay calm."  O-kay.

5.  How to Grow Taller  This one is by the same person who also knows How to French Kiss, How to be a Hipster, and also How to Call in Sick.  A certifiable very knowledgeable person, this one.

Gotta run.  App of Death just finished downloading, so I may or may not be back later.