I live in the wilds of the Ozark Mountains. To get to my house you have to travel over five miles of pitted, rutted, washed-out, tire-slashing dirt road. That’s after you’ve made the 50 mile journey from the nearest town that boasts a stoplight.
I like the seclusion. I like the beauty of the woods and the mountains. I like the silence and the wide open sky at night. I like to hear the frogs in the pond and the coyotes in the woods.
I like to be able to wander around my yard dressed like a hobo or a hooker and not worry that people will see me. I like to be able to puke outside when I’m sick because I don’t approve of putting my face close to a toilet. I like to turn my music up really loud and sing even louder.
I even like watching the wildlife. From a distance.
I do not like any living creature to be in my house without my express invitation.
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Tolerable Inside The House:
1. My kids.
2. My husband.
3. My cat.
4. My ferret (although he’s pushing his luck).
Tolerable Outside The House:
5. Squirrels (although those sneaky bastards bear watching).
6. Anything else that doesn’t try to come in my house.
INTOLERABLE IN MY HOUSE:
1. Your kids.
2. Probably your husband.
3. Maybe you, depending.
6. Slimy things I can’t think of the name? Right, slugs.
That last list may actually be longer.
You probably think I’m overreacting.
I’m thinking that houses just aren’t built like they used to be.
Obviously, I’ve written about my horror upon encountering uninvited guests. I’m beginning to think this is some kind of hang-up of mine; like arachnophobia, only it’s all-living-thingophobia. Or something.
Anyway, yesterday I was getting ready to take a bath. My bathroom has a walk-in closet, so while the water was running, I was looking for something that might fit me.
I found a big plastic tub (sealed, mind you) labeled “summer clothes.” I was thrilled to find some shorts that looked like they would work, but I wanted to be sure before I washed them, so I tried them on and looked in the floor length mirror.
They were a little tight, but I was confident that with
hard work and a healthy diet luck they’d be fitting better in no time.
I was smiling at myself in the mirror when I saw it.
It crawled out of the waistband of the shorts and down the front as I stared, paralyzed in horror.
It had gone the length of the shorts and was headed toward my bare leg when I finally sprang into action.
By “sprang into action” I mean “threw my hands up in the air, screamed, jumped around frantically, and ripped the shorts off.”
I saw it scamper under the bathroom door and into my bedroom, which I COULD NOT ALLOW. I threw the door open, grabbed the first thing to hand (black Converse), and began tearing my room apart to find the dirty creep who sneaked into my pants.
I didn’t catch him insomuch as he caught himself. In his haste to escape the swift justice of my Chuck Taylor, he ran right onto a glue trap.
Which was when I stood up, triumphantly wielding my shoe of destruction, and realized that I was standing directly in front of the large, wide open windows in my bedroom. Completely naked.
Have you ever experienced anything sneaking into your pants? *she says with a completely straight face.*
Do you live in a bubble or wish you did? Are you like me or do you keep creepy-crawlies as pets? *shudders*