Aug 30th, 2012 by Jennifer Lynn
Soon I’ll return to financial topics but first I need to share some of this weird shit that has been happening to me, which started last week when I took the garbage outside and walked back into the foyer to discover a bat hanging (upside down) and guarding our door. On the inside of our apartment complex in the city.
I am not a brave person.
Unknowingly I had walked right beneath this thing moments before while preoccupied with trash disposal. Right. beneath. it. And now the bat beckoned with dripping fangs.
Halting on the stairs of the corridor, I squealed for M.
I stood ready to engage in an epic battle, convinced that at any moment the imp would swoop down and shred apart my eyeballs. M. opened the door slowly to our apartment unit, then gently closed the door and glanced up to where I was pointing frantically.
He disappeared back inside for a moment, taking care not to rouse the bat or let it slip inside the doorway, and then returned, equipped with thick leather gloves. (That, and only his boxer shorts.)
“It’s getting ready to rend away my flesh!” I hopped around wildly in the hallway.
The bristly, mahogany bat calmly slept through this commotion, its snot nuzzled delicately into a wing fold.
M. snorted. “It’s not a vampire bat, you idiot.”
“It’s preparing to brutally end my life!”
M. reached up and quickly snatched the hellacious fiend around its torso while I scurried to watch the action from a reasonably safe distance.
Instantly the hellion awoke and struggled in vain, yelping in a way that I’m sure was meant to tip off its brethren hiding in ambush somewhere in the ceiling: squeak squeak squeak squeak!
I was screaming to M. about how we were about to get swooped by a whole colony of pissed off, vengeful bats while M.—still in his underwear—strutted down the stairs and out the front door with this writhing, panic-y, squeaking beast chomping down on his gloved finger. (With a hysterical-me trailing behind them.)
M. calmly tossed the bat onto the porch and away it flew.
A bulky, tattooed man was standing near the sidewalk, enjoying an ice cream cone with his daughter. “Did you just fling a bat out your front door?” He stared at us incredulously. “Don’t those things bite? Man, you crazy.”
M. held up his leather gloves and grinned.
Or so I thought.
For the weekend we went camping in the country and when Lexi was due her afternoon nap, I tucked her away in the tent and settled down on top of a sleeping bag to nurse her. In the process I kicked M.’s forest-green pack out of the way and shoved it a few inches to my right.
That’s when the snake popped up its head.
It slithered closer and stared at us, a demonically forked tongue smugly lapping up our bewilderment.
“S…ssnnnaaakke .. in the tent!”
M. burst into the tent, rolled his eyes and scooped up the snake with one of MY discarded socks. “Must’ve crawled into my bag when I left it under the tree,” he muttered, opening the flap and flinging the snake into the weeds.
“OMG, it was getting ready to probe my cavities!”
M: (not being at all supportive) “Will you calm yourself, woman. It was just a garter snake, perfectly harmless. Probably crawled into my pack when I laid it down beneath the maple while chopping wood. There’s a hole at the bottom of one of these pockets…”
As M. rattled on, my only thought was that I had placed that pack in the tent before dusk yesterday after M. had been chopping wood and if what he suspected were true, it meant that the fucker had been in the tent with us all night just waiting to crawl in bed with me.
Total heebie-jeebies. (Or as I call it, a-weebie-jeebies.)
M. — grateful he didn’t need to hack the slithering foe into a zillion scrappy slices with his axe.
Me — visibly shaken with the stench of snarling demons to contend with. Possibly scarred for life.
Lexi — totally unfazed.
Hope your week did not include unwanted bats or snakes.
(If you need me I will be cowering over here. —–> )