Fiddledeedee

I’ve blogged extensively about how I take issue with the fact that the majority of Disney films either kill off the mother within the first few minutes of the movie, or leave her out altogether before the first edit.

Well. A sweet reader, Maddie, wrote to me with important information. She went to see Princess and the Frog and guess what?  THE MOTHER IS ALIVE! The father is dead. BUT THE MOTHER IS ALIVE! And does not get killed off throughout the entire movie.

I may have to go and see this movie freak of Disney nature.

I just have to get around the issue of, you know, the frogs.

Yesterday I went for my monthly trip to the gym to work out.  Trips to the gym use to be considerably more frequent.  But back spasms, life, and general laziness has gotten in the way of my work out regiment.

When I considered my workout, I waffled between pushing around weights or simply sitting the steam room.  But since the steam room would have involved certain sweating, I opted for pushing around weights.  Not that I don’t work up a sweat while lifting 2.5 pounds, but I have more control over the sweating issue.

And I don’t have to wriggle into a sausage casing, also known as a bathing suit.

As I was standing at the reception desk, ready to ask a question of no importance, I overheard the following conversation between two employees.

Employee #1:  “Someone just found a frog in the ladies steam room.  A tree frog.  A really big tree frog.”

Employee #2:  “Weird, I wonder how it got there.”

I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, because I had already exited the building.  And was making a mad dash to cross the Florida border into another state.  Any other state.

Okay.  Just kidding about exiting the building.  As my children were still there in child care.  But I did get woozy and have to hang onto the counter.

Can you all just imagine what would have happened if I had been the gym patron that discovered the frog?  Especially considering my well documented relationship with amphibians.  I mean really.  I thoughts that one of my biggest fears was walking into that steam room, with zero visibility, and sitting on an old naked woman.  That is no longer my biggest fear.

I clearly would have vacillated between dropping dead right there on the moldy stream room floor, or screaming in such a manner as to cause the moomoo patrol planted around the jacuzzi to suffer a collective heart attack.

Photographic evidence would have been impossible since the gym staff frowns upon cameras in the ladies dressing room.  Cell phones have been banned in there for that very reason.

At any rate, the subsequent post that would have followed such an incident would have been my last.

Because there would be no way I could ever top that experience.

The end.

Please don’t get the idea that I’m going to use my blog as an opportunity to obsess about my phobias.  Ad nauseum.

Because that’s what husbands are for.

Fiddledaddy isn’t going anywhere.  If the blogosphere knew the extent of my neurosis, they would slowly back away, turn, then run like the wind.  Essentially,  an action known as UNFOLLOW!

That being said.  I do need to follow up on my recent blog post announcing the return of The Frog.  Because I have new information.

My friend Sonia (a real live friend, as opposed to an imaginary blogging friend) informed me that it was the dreaded Cuban Tree Frog that had invaded my family room picture window.  The Cuban Tree Frog is known by its bubble finger and toe tips.

And The Cuban Tree Frog is especially unlikeable around Armpit, Florida because evidently it has a cannibalistic tendency to eat the “good” frogs.

It is hard for me to admit that any frog is a good frog.  But, in this instance, the “good” frogs are the ones that eat the swarms of mosquitos that threaten our very lives this time of year.

I will concede this point.

My friend Sonia went on to tell me that the Cuban Tree Frogs should be eradicated in a humane manner.  And her suggestion is one that she herself uses.  Place them gently into a ziploc, and then stick them into the freezer.  Then dispose of them when they are good and hard.

After I regained consciousness, I quickly shot off an e-mail to her.  In essence calling her my hero for ability to kill the frogs.  But at the same time questioning her sanity because HOW CAN YOU EVER OPEN THE FREEZER DOOR AGAIN?  Even if there is a carton of chocolate mint ice cream with your name in magic marker on the side residing behind that freezer door.

And besides, I buy the generic freezer ziploc bags, and they don’t always hold their contents all that well.  So my mind immediately went to the dark side and imagined the frogs escaping within the confines of my freezer.

And that’s when the room went dark again.

Later, I got to thinking about the idea of killing the Cuban Tree Frog humanely.  Would a shotgun blast between the beady eyes be considered humane?

I pondered this question over the last couple of days.  And then this morning, I opened the Family Room curtain to see a rather large bulbous Cuban Tree Frog clinging to the glass.

Emme squinted at him, “Mom, what’s that sticking out of his mouth?”

I inspected through the safety of the storm glass.

“That would be a frog leg.  Evidently one of the good frogs.”

Not even kidding.  And no, I couldn’t bring myself to take a picture.  Your welcome.

And so, I have concluded that yes, a shotgun blast between the beady eyes is justified.

So if you should hear of a crazed housewife being arrested for shooting up the neighborhood, please don’t hang up on my one and only collect call from the county jail.

(Cue creepy music)

We’ve been getting our share of precipitation lately.  And what luck.  This is what greeted me when I opened the curtains this morning.

And there were 6 more just like him, hanging onto the family room picture window.  Waiting for me.

If you’re new here, you should know that I have a long and torturous relationship with the frog population here in Armpit, Florida.  So much so, that I’ve dedicated an entire category to my tales of amphibious woe.  These writings will serve as evidence when one day I mysteriously disappear.  And the frog population all carry with them a satisfied smirk.  As they hop off into the sunset.

I’m justifiably concerned about the size of the frogs this year.  If you’ll recall, after the 25 inches of rain we received last year over the span of two days, there beget a plague of miniature frogs.  As far as the eye could see.

Well.  As far as I could see from the safety of my house.  Which I did not leave for several weeks.

I suspect these are the same band of frogs.  Only they’ve mutated into some sort of freakishly large frogs.  Ready to pounce on me as soon as I open the door to retrieve the mail.

And I will not give them the pleasure.

Besides, that’s what children are for.

And btw, my neurosis was completely vindicated this week by this little news article.  I will never ever drink from a can of anything.  As long as I live.  Amen.

Have a great weekend.  I’ll be back for Saturday Stirrings.  Where my menu will not feature Frog legs.

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.

Or flammable.

Case in point.

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.