Here Snakey, Snakey

So today I was just about to take Mae out to play in the front yard, when our path was crossed by a very large black snake, glaring at us and giving us the forked tongue. (At this point, you may assume that a general chaotic panic ensued in my household. There was much scrambling about, raised voices, and more than a few curse words.)

I screamed. Shrilly, and with ample volume enough to bring the entire neighborhood running.

Okay, maybe not the entire neighborhood, just my husband. "It's a s-s-sn-snake!", I stammered out, clinging to his t-shirt. "Mmm-hmmm," he affirmed, nodding his head. So then I demanded to know what were going to do with it, I mean, after all, it was trespassing.

We decided that the best plan would be for me to stand inside our glass-front door, continue to emit small squeaks of fear and stare googley-eyed at the snake while Kev went to look for something with which to encourage it to leave.

Kev dashed off to the basement. I held my breath, watching the python slither through my hostas. (I'm sure it was a python. Anything over 1.5 feet is termed "a python", I think.)

The seconds ticked by, and finally I heard my darling, knight-on-white-horse racing back up the basement stairs. I knew he had armed himself for battle.

"All I could find was my wake board," he panted. I frowned. "I fail to see how beach equipment is going to do the trick. What are you going to do, surf it out of the yard?" I was less than impressed.

Kev decided to re-survey the situation. He stepped back out to have another look at the snake. He decided that because of the diamond shaped markings on the snake's back, that it was a "Copperhead" in nature. Now, of snake identification, I do not pretend to be an authority. Unless it is a pair of boots, or a nice wallet, I am decidedly uninterested in anything in a snakeskin. All I really needed to know was that it was indeed a snake, and it was indeed on my front stoop.
"Okay, so it has to die," he said, his face grim. "Fine by me!", I readily agreed. (*Let me state here that I love animals, and in general bear no ill will toward snakes. However, when a terrifying and poisonous reptile supplants himself in my yard, I have no qualms in having him whacked. And with great expedience, too.)

Kev dashed off again to find a real weapon. I continued to clutch my dog and tremble.

He came racing back, bearing heavy shovel,and burst out the front door with all the energy of a man defending his family from a vicious invader. He struck the snake one time with the shovel. (I was watching the battle through the safety of the glass door.) It turned around and coiled up, prepared to strike.

Kev shrieked (in a very manly way) and leapt back inside. That was when I noticed our hippy-ish next door neighbor out watering his yard. I got his attention, (ie. I screamed to the top of my lungs for help) and waved him over (ie. made frantic gestures). He trotted across the two yards, grinning. "What's up?", he asked. I pointed at the horror on the ground. His eyes lit up. "Oh wow. That's a beauty of a rat snake. They're great for catching the field mice in your yard. Oh, you hurt it. Can I have it anyway?" I looked askance at Kev. "Yeah, take it with our blessing", we told him. Our (slightly off) neighbor scooped up the still lethal-looking snake into the shovel and carried it toward his own yard, crooning and talking to it the whole way. When he reached his yard he tenderly lowered the shovel and dumped the snake into his grass.

I stared agape. His wife pulled into the drive, moments later. I scampered back inside, watching her reaction as he pointed out the newest inhabitant in their yard. I'm not entirely sure, because I couldn't hear the conversation, but judging by the look on her face (sheer terror) I think she would have preferred that we kept our snakes to ourselves, instead of being so neighborly.

Kitchen Devastation

Hubby made his first attempt at his own special hot sauce last night, using peppers from our own garden. I was upstairs, since Kev seemed to think that my presence in the kitchen would hinder his creative genius. The sounds of progress heralded his first attempts into the culinary arts...I was nervous, but hopeful.

Then.......silence.

A complete absence of noise from below-stairs.

As many of you with small children will attest, when your child goes very quiet in an area not within your immediate line of vision, it is not unreasonable to assume grave mischief.

The same is true of my husband in the kitchen.

I flew down the stairs, turned the corner, and raced into the kitchen.
A LAKE of hot sauce covered the counters, dripping in puddles on the floor. Red, oozing goo dripped from the cabinets and flowed across the stove. After a quick survey of the devastation, my began to smart. Tears welled up in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. My nose began to burn and run.

My tears were not due to the mess made of kitchen, oh no. Habaneros, Anaheims, Jalapenos and sweet peppers had all gone into Kev's secret, special, potent sauce.

He had, in effect, manufactured pepper spray. And it was all over my kitchen.