In honor of Slug Season (that’s a thing. A thing I just made up), I decided to revamp this post from a million years ago.
We have a large wooden deck on the back of our house. We also have a drainage problem. And a slug problem. I’m not positive these things are all related, because I’m not a fucking scientist, but I suspect they are.
A few days ago I went out and saw a big fat gross slug on the deck.
Me: Ewww! Did you see that thing?
Husband: No, what?
Me: THE GIANT SLUG RIGHT THERE!
Him: Shit, is that why my shoe is so sticky?
Him: *He heads back inside*
Me: Watch ou—
Yes, the big idiot stepped on it again. Then presumably tracked slime all over the house, I don’t know.
So this story is about four years old, right after we moved into this house.
I woke up early and first thing let the dogs out. I’m lazy, so instead of turning on a light or possibly paying attention to what I was doing, I just stuck my hand out in the dark to get the water bowl.
I didn’t look at it until I realized that my hand felt….slimy. My only defense is that I hadn’t had coffee yet. And that I am an idiot.
There. Were. Baby. Slugs. On. Me. MANY TINY SLUGS TOUCHING ME. TOUCHING ME!
This was when everything started to get a little blurry.
The dish was no longer in the house, so I can only assume I threw it.
My robe was in the hall floor. I vaguely remember ripping it off and sprinting into the kitchen while my ever-so-helpful husband just stared.
He says he thinks I was gagging. I really couldn’t say.
I do know that while I was in the kitchen scrubbing vigorously at my gooey hands (OMG, I might barf and this was like 4 years ago) he widened his stupid eyes and pointed at my back.
I very rapidly became naked and then equally rapidly became violent, once I realized he was a lying shit.
After I felt relatively clean, I calmed down to a state of shock, just staring blankly and mourning my lost innocence.
Him: *trying not to laugh, but not trying very fucking hard*
Husband: *snicker snort* So. What are you doing to do with your robe? *innocent face*
Him: You just going to leave your shit laying there in the floor so all those slugs can just wander off all over the house?”
Me: *glares the glare of a thousand deaths*
Husband: *does not die or even be mildly injured*
He was clearly not concerned about my safety, sanity, or aversion to animated slime.
Me: Obviously the only logical thing to do is burn the robe.
Him: I KNEW you would say that. It’s not a fucking vampire, Stephanie. You don’t have to cut its head off, burn it, and bury it wrapped in chains.
Hmmph. I guess it’s just as well I didn’t tell him my whole plan, which was to burn the robe and then the front porch.
This is war, motherfucker. My perimeter has been breached.