Monday, July 5, 2010
The Definition of Blood Curdling
There we Ossis were rounding out the third hour of our cross country jaunt. We had stopped for lunch at a little park in Morgantown hard by whatever it is they named the body of water that flows through Morgantown. There were tunafish sandwiches all around and pretzels and juice boxes and a third diet coke. We were all fairly sated and still looking forward to the afternoon and the drive. The older kids were just starting to watch The Wubalous World of Dr. Seuss when we all first heard it. It didn't even start in low and then start to grow. It just wasn't there one second and then it was. Not a moan, not a whine, not a have-you-the-time; it was a full on, this goes to eleven, blood curdling scream. Just Chloe making sure we all knew she was there. And she continued to let us know four, five, six times in a row at fairly regular short intervals throughout the rest of the day.
Monday, June 21, 2010
So I own a snake
And his name is Snyder. I've had him for about 20 years or so. Most of the time this sedate corn snake doesn't cause much turmoil in our household. My wife tolerates him and my kids think he's cool.
Every once in a blue moon he'll escape his glass confines and find some cool, dark place to chill out. Knock on wood, that hasn't happened since I was in Baltimore when I managed to not put the top of Snyder's cage back on properly and he ended up in my roommate's bed. Shhh, don't tell Dan. He was petrified of Snyder.
Anywho, yesterday being Father's Day I decided it would be as good a day as any to get four mice for my snake. To be fair, I've been taking care of him longer than I think I've even taken care of myself. Now, for all you PETA kids out there, I don't relish the purchase and then requisite feeding of said mice. But I'm a firm believer in predator vs. prey and accept this necessary aspect of owning a snake. The grizzly purchase took place at roughly 3:30 PM on Sunday.
All proceeded as "normal" back at the ol' homestead. I dropped mouse #1 (no names allowed for fear of attachment to the cute little bastards) into Snyder's cage then turned to more important matters. My kids and I were about to embark on what can only be described as one of the most epic Stars Wars battles we'd ever designed. And when I say epic I mean frickin' epic!
As the preparation for the battle continued, I took a brief respite to drop mouse #2 into Snyder's cage. The timing of all this was going to be tight. I knew that pretty soon I was going to go from giving Snyder his dinner to preparing ours - grilled steaks, corn (still in the husk), asparagus, and home made freedom fries.
With the battle coming to an end, having defeated the likes of Darth Mal and Cad Bane, it was time to head upstairs and get to grillin'. Nothing says Father's Day like propane powered cooking. If you aren't burnt, you aren't committed. But before I headed outside, I gave Snyder mouse #3.
The grilling went smoothly. My father-in-law came over to join in the festivities. Food was eaten, beers consumed, gifts given. All in all, a really great Father's Day.
Fast forward to roughly 4:45 PM Monday - the Day After. My wife called me at work while I was slaving away and trying to fend off a wicked case of the Mondays. She was on her way to the store with the kids. As we were talking, I started to panic. My hands got clammy and cotton mouth set in. The fourth mouse! What did I do with the fourth mouse? Did I feed him to Snyder? No! Shit. I had to come clean with my wife, knowing that certainly I would come home to a severe beating about the head and shoulders.
I told her I forgot to feed the last mouse to Snyder. Had my children not been in the car I'm almost positive our conversation would have been rated NC-17. But my glorious, graceful, wonderful, kind, and loving wife kept it Christian and managed to somehow maintain her patience.
I left the office at 5:20 and came home as fast as I could. Without changing from my suit into more appropriate mouse hunting clothes I ran downstairs hoping by some miracle mouse #4 was still in his cheap cardboard box. Was he? No. What are you doing? Taking all the food upstairs. My wife was pissed. And my kids were wondering how the hell I managed to forget to feed Snyder mouse #4.
I began the search. I started with the scene of the crime. It didn't take long for one of my kids to say "Daddy! Daddy! I saw the mouse." I immediately questioned whether this might be a phantom sighting but the descriptive detail led me to believe this young sleuth was on to something. Needless to say, as I searched around, mouse #4 looked up at me from between the furnace and the water heater with those beady little eyes. The hunt was on.
I scrambled around for positioning. I had met my intellectual equal as he artfully dodged my best efforts to apprehend him. I began disrobing, knowing that I would have to start crawling around on the floor in an effort to nab this nefarious nabob of negativism. My shoes and socks came off and I was about to unbuckle when mouse #4 decided to expose himself to an easy snag. The chase was up. Snyder was fed a fourth and final time.
And my wife? She's not angry at me anymore, which is cool, and decided not to call her lawyer. And my kids? They think Dad is the damn crocodile hunter. And dad? He thinks his kid who actually saw mouse #4 is a super hero. I love a happy ending. Except for mouse #4.
Every once in a blue moon he'll escape his glass confines and find some cool, dark place to chill out. Knock on wood, that hasn't happened since I was in Baltimore when I managed to not put the top of Snyder's cage back on properly and he ended up in my roommate's bed. Shhh, don't tell Dan. He was petrified of Snyder.
Anywho, yesterday being Father's Day I decided it would be as good a day as any to get four mice for my snake. To be fair, I've been taking care of him longer than I think I've even taken care of myself. Now, for all you PETA kids out there, I don't relish the purchase and then requisite feeding of said mice. But I'm a firm believer in predator vs. prey and accept this necessary aspect of owning a snake. The grizzly purchase took place at roughly 3:30 PM on Sunday.
All proceeded as "normal" back at the ol' homestead. I dropped mouse #1 (no names allowed for fear of attachment to the cute little bastards) into Snyder's cage then turned to more important matters. My kids and I were about to embark on what can only be described as one of the most epic Stars Wars battles we'd ever designed. And when I say epic I mean frickin' epic!
As the preparation for the battle continued, I took a brief respite to drop mouse #2 into Snyder's cage. The timing of all this was going to be tight. I knew that pretty soon I was going to go from giving Snyder his dinner to preparing ours - grilled steaks, corn (still in the husk), asparagus, and home made freedom fries.
With the battle coming to an end, having defeated the likes of Darth Mal and Cad Bane, it was time to head upstairs and get to grillin'. Nothing says Father's Day like propane powered cooking. If you aren't burnt, you aren't committed. But before I headed outside, I gave Snyder mouse #3.
The grilling went smoothly. My father-in-law came over to join in the festivities. Food was eaten, beers consumed, gifts given. All in all, a really great Father's Day.
Fast forward to roughly 4:45 PM Monday - the Day After. My wife called me at work while I was slaving away and trying to fend off a wicked case of the Mondays. She was on her way to the store with the kids. As we were talking, I started to panic. My hands got clammy and cotton mouth set in. The fourth mouse! What did I do with the fourth mouse? Did I feed him to Snyder? No! Shit. I had to come clean with my wife, knowing that certainly I would come home to a severe beating about the head and shoulders.
I told her I forgot to feed the last mouse to Snyder. Had my children not been in the car I'm almost positive our conversation would have been rated NC-17. But my glorious, graceful, wonderful, kind, and loving wife kept it Christian and managed to somehow maintain her patience.
I left the office at 5:20 and came home as fast as I could. Without changing from my suit into more appropriate mouse hunting clothes I ran downstairs hoping by some miracle mouse #4 was still in his cheap cardboard box. Was he? No. What are you doing? Taking all the food upstairs. My wife was pissed. And my kids were wondering how the hell I managed to forget to feed Snyder mouse #4.
I began the search. I started with the scene of the crime. It didn't take long for one of my kids to say "Daddy! Daddy! I saw the mouse." I immediately questioned whether this might be a phantom sighting but the descriptive detail led me to believe this young sleuth was on to something. Needless to say, as I searched around, mouse #4 looked up at me from between the furnace and the water heater with those beady little eyes. The hunt was on.
I scrambled around for positioning. I had met my intellectual equal as he artfully dodged my best efforts to apprehend him. I began disrobing, knowing that I would have to start crawling around on the floor in an effort to nab this nefarious nabob of negativism. My shoes and socks came off and I was about to unbuckle when mouse #4 decided to expose himself to an easy snag. The chase was up. Snyder was fed a fourth and final time.
And my wife? She's not angry at me anymore, which is cool, and decided not to call her lawyer. And my kids? They think Dad is the damn crocodile hunter. And dad? He thinks his kid who actually saw mouse #4 is a super hero. I love a happy ending. Except for mouse #4.
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