Fiddledaddy took the kids away on Sunday so that I could tackle the garage. A daunting task, to be sure. But the thought of having the place to myself so that I could sort, organize, toss, and generally FILE ALL MY CRAP filled me with a little giddiness.’
The garage had become a catchall for everything we have been tripping over in the house. It is the holding area for all the things that either need to get thrown out, or given away to charity.
Since the garage was a chilly 145 degrees, I decided it best to work in my sports bra and shorts. And I defied any solicitor to come knocking at my door. I think they’ve learned their lesson, since the last time someone came calling trying to sell me something I don’t need, I answered the door while dying my hair. And giving myself a facial.
The local solicitors now give my property a rather wide berth when walking door to door.
I was about 4 minutes into the clean out, and had begun pulling things away from the one wall that I had been eying to place shelving.
I started with all the 4 foot white metal baby gates that use to make my house as secure as Fort Knox. Until Jensen learned that he could disassemble them and use them as a battering ram against an antagonistic sister.
One by one I drug them so that I could file them in an organized fashion. And I noticed something trailing behind one gate as I slid it along the floor.
Upon closer inspection, I discovered that the long trailing item had at one time housed a rather long snake.
I turned and ran into the house, slamming the garage door, then locking it. Until I remembered that I had left my phone and iced tea out in the garage.
Slowly, I reopened the door, and tiptoed out to retrieve the needed items, and again ran inside to call the real estate agent in order to put the house up for sale.
I called Fiddledaddy to tell him that all work had come to a full and complete halt. He said something to the affect that I needed to toughen up. After all, Sarah Palin can kill a wild boar.
I told HIM that Sarah Palin’s husband lets HER have a GUN.
And if you’re thinking, look Texas girl, just go out and get yourself a gun! I’d be forced to respond, “Have you ever seen me shoot?”
I’d likely blow my own foot off. And then what good would I be to these people? It’s the same argument that Fiddledaddy would use as to why I shouldn’t handle anything sharp.
At this point I just got mad. Mad at the stupid snake. Mad at the stupid snake that had invaded my space and likely laid her stupid eggs in my garage. Which I needed to organize.
So I put on my socks and combat boots. And reluctantly donned a t-shirt. In case the snake should seek me out and leave her venomous bite on my leg. I most certainly would hate to be found dead wearing only a sports bra and ratty shorts.
I began my work again, making as much noise as humanly possible. Banging gates around, and talking loudly. It’s totally okay. The neighbors already think I’m crazy.
I pulled out more gates. And what luck, I found that the snake was even longer than I first suspected! The tail end of the snake was attached to yet another gate. I kept pulling at gate pieces. OH FOR PETE’S SAKE, I found the head of the snake skin. How did I know? Because the snake skin was fully intact WITH THE MOUTH WIDE OPEN IN A SILENT SCREAM.
My scream wasn’t so silent.
When I regained consciousness, I kept on working. For hours, trying to rid my mind of that OPEN MOUTHED SNAKE SKIN. I parked the gates against a wall, neatly filed, with the snake skin pieces still attached.
For show and tell later.
I relayed the information to Fiddledaddy. WHAT? YOU LEFT THE SNAKE SKIN OUT THERE?
He must be new. Like I would get close enough to extricate the nasty thing from the gate slats. As if.
I must say that the discovery of the snake skin has curtailed my recurrent late night rendezvous with the garage freezer, to assess my snacking choices.
So that snake skin indeed has a silver lining.