Week in Review

(Also, Alcoholism:  Hobby or Life Mission?)
The week has been challenging to say the least, but really so much pales in comparison to the grand finale of last night that I think that’s where I have to begin.  So, really, this blog could be titled Why the Holy Hell Is There a Snake In My Basement, and that would really explain a lot.  It would especially explain my newly acquired desire to take up drinking on a daily basis.
You see, it always begins innocently enough.  Marissa was dropped off at practice.  The boys and I had our usual attention-grabbing trip to Target, wherein Jadon fell face-first in the parking lot in front of an oncoming car and decided that he needed to take a 10-minute time-out right then and there to cry it out.  No need to move out of the way of oncoming traffic or anything—nope—just cry it out, son.  They’ll wait.  So, I scooped him up, pavement and all, and we ran toward Target and safety, and once I finally got his tears mopped up and the blood (Dat Blood!) wiped onto my own pants to prevent any psychological trauma on his part, we actually ventured into the store, where I proceeded to bribe both boys with Angry Birds dog tags if they would just for-the-love-of-all-that-is-holy be good in the store.  Yes, I bribe my kids.  We don’t judge here.  This is a judgement-free blog.
So we went to Target, where I’m not sure what I actually purchased, except for the Angry Birds dog tags…and Band-Aids for the life-threatening parking lot injuries that were previously sustained.
Then we went into some sort of mind-numbing zone where we waited for Marissa to be done with practice so that we could FINALLY go home.  Micaela was out of town at a meet.  Daddy was also out of town.  Just Mommy, the boys, and Marissa—and we were holding down the fort just fine, thank you very much.  UNTIL…
We all got home, and Micaela’s crazy cat—the one we all love so much and would NEVER-EVER threaten to send to the pound (wink-wink)—was having an absolute fit at the door to her room…the door that leads to the basement, her newly finished room.  I had already been down there twice to feed the cat and to baby the cat, but there was clearly something else bothering the cat.  By this time, I was thinking she was possibly in need of a much-needed trip to the kitty resort better known as chez-cat-pound, but I digress.
Trudging back downstairs AGAIN, because I had nothing better to do at 9:30 p.m., I decided that maybe the cat’s water had been overturned or maybe she just needed a swift kick belly rub.  But when I got to the basement, OH WHAT TO MY WONDERING EYES DID APPEAR…
But a holy-mother-of-God-Almighty-SNAKE.  In the MIDDLE. Of. My. FLOOR.  Which just so happens to be inside my house.  Let me just clarify that I did not, at any time, invite this little reptile inside my abode, and I wanted it out—immediately.
So at first, I thought maybe, just maybe it was a play snake, as in ha-ha the boys left it down here in the middle of the floor.  Cute.  But as I approached it, armed with a plastic hanger and gently prodded it to verify its plastic nature, it spazzed out on me like an electric eel on crack, and I immediately deduced—as I was flying across the room, screaming obscenities—that it was, indeed, alive.  Crap.
Ok.  Breathe.  I am a grown woman.  This is a little snake.  No problem.  Plan.  Need a plan.  What did I do?  I woke the 10-year-old and quickly deputized her as Junior Snake Wrangler and put her to work holding the plastic hanger.  I had a larger job to do.  I needed to place a plastic tote over the top of the crazy, man-eating snake.  I looked death in the eye as I approached the little f$%%#ker with the plastic tote, and just as I began to lower the tote, the little crap-turd snake spazzed on me again.  Every single time the shadow of the tote went over the stupid snake, it freaked.  And then I freaked.  And then Marissa freaked.  And then the whole world freaked.
So what did I do?  I called Jason.  In Charlotte.  Because you can do a lot of snake-wrangling from Charlotte.  I didn’t care.  It was his job as the man of the house to get the damned snake out.  From Charlotte.  So at 10:30 at night, I called him and demanded someone of the male persuasion in my house immediately, which might sound slightly inappropriate, but I’m sure that during the entire conversation, I sounded somewhat like a screeching lunatic, so he complied.
And a giant thanks to our friend Tony, who is WAY better at extracting snakes from houses than I am.

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