Fiddledeedee

When we last left our intrepid snake seeker (see previous post), Fiddledaddy, he was peering under the hood of the van.  Searching for the elusive snake.  Which at this point, had only been visible to me.

Finally, he could take no more of my hand wringing and heavy sighing, so he ordered me in the house to google “snakes” to determine what sort of snake had taken up residence in our engine.

A task.  Good thinking.

I planted myself before my computer screen and commenced with the googling.  There before me were LOTS OF GRAPHIC PICTURES OF SNAKES.  ALL MANNER OF SNAKES WERE RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF MY BLOODSHOT EYES.

I felt a little woozy.

I searched on brightly colored orange and brown snakes.  Most of the varieties began with the letter “C”.  Oh, why do they have to add all those long winded hoopty ploopty names after, just give me A SIMPLE SPECIES.

I took a mental picture and ran to the door.  “IT’S A COBRA!” I announced loudly, so I could be heard from the safety of the storm door.

Fiddledaddy appeared quickly from behind the hood.  “A COBRA?  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  A COBRA? AS IN COMES-OUT-OF-A-BASKET-COBRA WITH A BIG FLARED HEAD???”

“Um.  Maybe that wasn’t it.  I’ll be back.”  And with that I retreated to my computer screen for more searching.  Bingo.  I ran back to the door.

“IT’S A CORAL SNAKE!  MAYBE.  I’M NOT SURE.  I’LL BE BACK.”

At this point, I didn’t care what kind of snake it was.  I just wanted to sell the van.  Cheap.

And I have a sister-in-law who would back me up completely.

I’m certain that I’ve told the story about how soon after my brother-in-law got married, he came home from a business trip to find that his key no longer fit in the door.  It seems that his bride had discovered a snake in their apartment earlier, and had moved them entirely into a new apartment.

I would have done exactly the same thing.  Only with my luck, I would have packed the snake up in my toiletries, and moved it with us.

Then I happened upon a snake picture that seemed vaguely familiar.  A corn snake, common to Florida.  Not lethal.

Sure pal.  Unless you’re flying down the freeway and it should drop on you from the sun visor.

The description went on to say that the corn snake enjoys dining on frogs.  DINES ON FROGS???  I HAVE A REASON TO LIVE!

At last I went back to the door.  “NOT TO WORRY, I THINK IT’S JUST A CORN SNAKE.  COMPLETELY HARMLESS.”

So with that, Fiddledaddy parked the van across the front lawn, directly over the grass, as he was instructed to do by the snake keeper at the local pet store.  Note that this act is a clear violation of the by-laws of our homeowner’s association.  And the rebellious part of me wanted to quick put some cinder blocks underneath the tires. For added drama.

And then with my peashooter poised at my lips, wait for the “committee” to pay a visit.

Don’t you wish we were your neighbors?

The snake still remains elusive.  And I believe that Fiddledaddy is beginning to think that hallucinations may be part of my hormonal flux of late.

Whatever.

I feel certain I will be vindicated during the rainy season.  When there is a marked decrease in the amphibian population that seeks to destroy me.

My joy knows no bounds.

On Saturday morning, I was comfortably seated in the passenger side of the mommymobile, attending garage sales with my family.

When I’m alone on such an occasion, I stop at every single sale.  However, when Fiddledaddy is driving, I am able to employ a technique known as the “drive-by.”  In that I can crane my neck in the general direction of the sale, without fear of mowing down a hapless shopper, or hitting another vehicle.

There are actually people out there who throw a tarp on the front yard, then litter that tarp with various pieces of mismatched tupperware and toy remnants and call it a “yard sale.”

I call it a “drive-by.”  My husband uses considerably more colorful language.

We were happily in our own area, which was holding a community sale.  As we made our way down the narrow street, I noticed movement on the windshield of the passenger side.  Movement that included brightly colored scales.  And a flicking tongue.

My eyes widened as I swallowed my voice.  All I could squeak out was, “Snake, snake, snake.”  As calmly as I could.

Anyone who knows me well would know how much effort that took.  Because everything in me screamed, “SNAKE, SNAKE, SNAKE, for the love of all that is good, SNAKE!!!!!!”  But on occasion, I must put on the pretense of being an actual adult.

Fiddledaddy, while still driving, said, “Where?”

I pointed to the windshield, but he assumed I meant the street and so he kept driving, because a flat snake is preferred snake fare in these parts.

I finally was able to tell him that the snake was on the windshield (details), only by this time, I watched in horror as it slithered down into the engine hood.  Fiddledaddy stopped, and I jumped out to see it wriggle along, under the crack.

And let me pause to tell you this.  This snake was no ordinary garden variety grass snake.  It was bright orange and brown (which in my book spells VENOMOUS) and it was  NOT SMALL.

Fiddledaddy never saw it.  He popped open the hood while I stood a good distance back wringing my hands.

And the children?  They were all having a nervous breakdown in the back of the van.  Cailey and Emme had escaped from their seat belts and were clinging to the interior of the roof.  Like cats.

Jensen remained trapped in his 5-point harness, because had he been released, no doubt he would have ended up in the engine block with the snake.

Since nothing could be seen, and we were drawing a crowd, it was decided that we would climb back in and make our way back home.  For it was too far to walk.  Something I seriously considered.

I decided to sit in the back with the children, to, you know, um, comfort them.

I sat in Jensen’s car seat, with him, with my feet far off the ground.  The girls remained on the ceiling.  Screaming.

We arrived home and the children scurried indoors, grabbed comfortable seating, and planted themselves inside the safety of the storm door.

At some point, Fiddledaddy called the snake wrangler at the local pet shop, who told him just to shut the hood and park on the grass.  Because snakes are not fond of warm cars, and the grassy knoll underneath might coax the snake out of hiding.

My theory is far different.  The snake would most certainly find her way into the interior of the van, and gorge herself on petrified frog legs, moldy chicken nuggets, stale fries, and cracker crumbs, while sipping warm leftover iced tea.  Then she would settle in for the long haul and LAY HER EGGS.  Which would then hatch the next time I am hurtling down the freeway at 65 mph, with 3 high strung children strapped into the back.

To be continued.

There has been a lot of hype of late, about Barbie turning 50.  Barbie and I are awfully close in age.  I’m not sayin’ how close, but spittin’ distance.

But gravity has been much kinder to Barbie.

When I was just a little over 2, I sat on Santa’s knee and told him in no uncertain terms that I wanted a “Bawbie Dowl, a Ken Dowl, and a caw, too.”

My mother must have been leaning in to listen, because that’s just what I got.

The “caw” turned out to be a spiffy orange convertible.  With seating for two.

Barbie and Ken spent many countless hours in their groovy orange convertible.  Parked in front of the tv console, which was perched up on 4 spindly legs.  They had ample time to get to know one another, as it took a good 10 minutes for the television to warm up.

Ken was handsome.  He had real hair made from something you might find on the Velveteen rabbit.

And then my baby brother came along, and gnawed all of Ken’s hair off.  An offense that took me years to forgive him for.

More Barbies, Kens, Midges, Skippers, Alans, and Tuttis followed.  But I didn’t find true love until one Christmas, in 1970, when I opened this.

Malibu Ken.  What a dream boat.  Nearly bald Ken with the gnawed off hair was relegated to Grandpa status in my growing Barbie family.

When the time came to traverse the stepping stones of puberty, I packed my Barbie family away in the attic, which was to be their final resting place.  And many many years later, when I had given birth to two Barbie loving daughters, I entered that hot Texas attic in search of Barbie and friends.

Not all made it out in one piece.  Well.  A few of them were in one piece, melded together like forgotten candles.

Much to my happy surprise, Malibu Ken hadn’t aged a day.  He had survived so many near catastrophes in his day.  There were fatal car crashes when his orange convertible (void of wheels) careened over the cliff, also known as the stairwell.  He survived being spitefully mowed down by a certain unnamed brother’s G.I. Joe jeep.  He incurred Barbie’s wrath when he was spotted flirting with Midge.  (Notice that Midge is no longer on the scene.)  And then 30 summers in an attic.  In Texas.

A fiery furnace, not unlike hell.

And now for the last few years, Malibu Ken has been the preferred escort to my girl’s favorite princess Barbies.  What with his 6 pack abs, perfectly sculpted hair, and a tan that George Hamilton would envy.

But, after all the near death experiences that Malibu Ken has been subject to, he had yet to meet his match.

Jensen.

Jensen took a shine to the ruggedness of Malibu Ken, and would take him to childcare at the gym.  Much to the delight of the childcare workers.

Malibu Ken.  At the gym.  Made sense to me.

Malibu Ken and Jensen were inseparable.  Until today.  I heard a loud wail from another room, followed by, “OH NO, JENSEN, HOW COULD YOU?”

And then a little boy came up to me with tears in his eyes, Malibu Ken head in one hand, chiseled body in the other.

“Dude.  What happened?”

“I was twying to get him to wook down.”

“Well.  He can look down now.  In fact, he can see right down into his own neck.  I’ll see what I can do for him.”

Which is code for “the best I can do for him is give him a decent burial in the bottom of the kitchen trash.”  Because the 1960’s Barbies had interchangeable heads (which was kind of like being able to photoshop your Barbie), but after 1970, the heads came with some gizmo that wouldn’t allow you to reattach it.

No matter how much of your mom’s fingernail glue you used.

I bid farewell to you, Malibu Ken.  And your impossibly blue eyes.  May you rest in pieces.

Me:  “Honey, I just found out that P31 Ministries is offering a scholarship again this year to attend the She Speaks Conference coming up July 31st to August 2nd.  I need to write about why I want to go.”

Him (ripping into a bag of tortilla chips):  “Did you read the post that won last year?”

Me (getting him a bowl):  “Yes, Karla wrote it and it was wonderful.”

Him (ignoring the bowl):  “Well.  Just copy and paste that one.”

And with that, he left the room, trailing tortilla chip carnage in his wake.

He’ll be here all week, ladies and gentlemen.

I attended She Speaks last year.  On the writer’s track.  I was blessed by the speakers and attendees in ways that I’m still processing, a year later.

I desperately wish to attend again this year.  But not on the Writer’s track (although the readers of this blog are all sending up a collective prayer that I will rethink this position).

I really feel led to be placed on the Speaker’s Track.

In this last year, I have been asked to speak.  In public.  In front of people.  People with ears.

And I said yes.  Which is odd because I have a deep and abiding fear of speaking in public.  And interestingly, when I’m nervous, the most inappropriate stories seem to fall from my mouth.

I think that should I attend the She Speaks conference on the Speakers Track, I might learn a lesson like; “Always ask if you will be speaking from, say, a holy alter in the sanctuary of God’s house.”

And if so, you won’t plan a talk that includes factoids about yourself like how you were named after a stripper.

Or you might not feel compelled to relive the story about how you turned around in the library one day only to find your 3 year old son naked, from the waist down.

Things like that.

I believe that laughter is God’s medicine.  And this is why my blog rarely tackles the tough issues.  My blog is a respite for weary moms like myself, who just need to prop up their bunny slippered feet and laugh at their predicament.

I want to be able to do the same thing when I’m asked to speak to the moms in the trenches.  And yet, have my wits about me to tie in what God is whispering in my ear.

Oh Lord, let my words be a healing salve, even when sprinkled with bathroom humor.

To read more entries from many women who are such a blessing to the internet, head over to Lysa’s blog.

After what feels like 40 years of drought, I awoke to rain this morning.  Praise God from whom all blessings run down the rain gutter.

With Jensen suffering from Atopic Dermatitis, the dry conditions of late have been making him miserable.  And it was a wonderful relief to have him sleep through the night last night.

I feel almost human again.  A few more nights like that, and my sunny disposition might even make a guest appearance.

But, as my so-called-friends have reminded me, with the rain, so cometh the frogs.

I’m happy to report that I haven’t seen a single frog since January, when I inadvertently invited one into my home.

I know you miss my frog stories, so I’ll go ahead and share.

Some time around mid-January, I thought I’d take down my pretty red velveteen Christmas ribbons from the front of the house.  They would have been a lovely addition to the house for Valentines Day in February, but I didn’t want the neighbors to be envious of my decorating expertise.

I shook the ribbons out to rid them of dead bug carcass and came back into the house.  Jensen and I were enjoying some alone time.

When I got to the dining room, a frog leapt out of the ribbon, clung to my shirt, and then dropped onto the cheap linoleum.

I couldn’t even scream.  Or breathe.

Jensen just stood there watching me.

He is best entertained when I freak out.  And by the twinkle in his eye, I knew he was hoping for a full blown broadway style show.

I was determined NOT to give him the pleasure.

I crouched down and tried to steer the hapless frog toward the sliding glass door.  The frog jumped onto a kitchen chair.  And sat there, blinking at me.

Much to Jensen’s delight.

Fine.

I opened the back door and did what any reasonable woman would do.

I threw the chair with the frog still attached out into the backyard.  Then closed and bolted the door.  And drew the curtains. Good riddance.

When the rest of the family arrived back home, the inevitable question was posed, “Um, Mom, why is the kitchen chair out in the back yard?”

“It needed a little air.”

And that chair was not allowed back into the house until Fiddledaddy could inspect it thoroughly.  We really didn’t miss it for the first few days.

And with that, I would now like to share with you a little video that my bloggy compadre, Veronica, sent me a while back.

This absolutely made my day.  I hope it will yours.