Today’s post was supposed to be all about Snarky Daughter’s first pie. A fabulous pie. The best pie I’ve ever had. And subsequently dropped on the floor. Instead, we’re going to talk about the Snake in the Kitchen.
Having just gone through a week of prep work followed by a two-hour job interview (no idea how it went, don’t ask), I came home with grandiose plans to tackle all the stuff that had been put on hold for the past week. You know, 3 months of filing that had fallen over in my closet/office, going through the last two boxes of my mom’s paperwork that have been sitting in my living room for a couple of years, and taking care of all the PTSO stuff I haven’t done for several weeks because I went into denial that I was president.
I was really enjoying denial. I was also really enjoying talking to a friend I live too far away from about kids, spouses, lack of spouses and writing. All while sorting receipts and filing insurance paperwork. Yes, I keep that stuff. So I’m steadfastly ignoring my family, when I hear a scream.
Being a good parent, I try to climb up off the floor, but hello, I’ve got the body of a 73 year-old so it takes some time. And by the time I get up, I haven’t heard anything else, so I assume this is a simple “Ack, spider, I need the vacuum cleaner” moment.
About then, there’s a knock on my bedroom door. Hey, with Marking Kitten, all bedrooms are closed all the time.
Snarky Daughter: Mom, Sarcastic Housemate found a snake in the kitchen, and um, I can’t remember what we do.
Me: You don’t remember what to do? Wait, Sarcastic Housemate is home?
Me, thinking: Finally, off to trivia night and a glass of wine, because today has beaten me senseless. After I deal with the snake.
Scout Son: …
Who are we kidding? The last time he saw a snake, he screamed more than me and the damned thing was climbing my leg at the time. He was nowhere to be seen.
Me: Snake? Really?
Sarcastic Housemate: Yeah. I thought it was a stick or something because it’s kinda dark in here. I just assumed one of the dogs brought something in. Then it raised up to get me.
I’m now fighting the kitchen light switch. Have I mentioned the ballast is going bad on the light? On. Off. On. Off. On. Wiggle, wiggle. Let there be light!
Yep, that’s a snake. About as thick as my ring finger and maybe 18 inches long. And moving. Into. Snarky. Daughter’s. Bedroom.
Some of you snake lovers are saying, What kind of snake was it? Answer: Suicidal Snake. Dark and light pattern.
Did it have a diamond shaped head? Answer: How the hell would I know? It’s head is the size of a pencil eraser. It’s kind of hard to tell. Especially since I have now grabbed the only thing nearby — the WetJet — to try and pin it while Scout Son gets a shovel.
Yes, snake lovers. A shovel. Outside, he can do what he wants. Inside, and not sure of what kind he is, sorry, he’s done. But to make you feel slightly better, here are some identifications:
He did not look like this, the gift the dogs brought me this morning.
It looked amazingly like this, but you know, with a head.
Having now done much snake research, it was a juvenile rat snake. Sorry. Enter my kid’s bedroom and I consider it an act of war.
Special thanks to Princess Cassie for realizing that I would need a photo and digging the snake out from under the deck (where it slipped while I was beating the heck out of it last night), and breaking it into several pieces and drying it on the deck so we could have snake jerky. Or so I could have to go get the shovel again and toss the bits into the woods on the other side of the electric fence for a proper burial. You know. Whichever. (Yes, she is now pacing from window to window trying to figure out how to get back to her tasties.)
So, kill the snake, go and have a glass of wine. Tune in Friday and see the Perfect Pie. That I destroyed. Because that’s the kind of mom I am. Snake and Pie Destroyer. I’ll just add that to my resume.